A Different Path

Blood

Karna deposited his inebriated friend on the circular bed, right in the center of the room. Placing a quilt over Ashwathama's limp body, he instructed the servants to ensure that nobody disturbed the king in the morning. Courtly affairs could wait, he reasoned, and it was imperative that Ashwatthama had a good night's sleep. The dark circles that marred his friend's fair face were a clear evidence of how overworked Ashwatthama was. In this sense they were similar, for Karna too had a habit of engaging himself in other things whilst his mind battled thoughts that were less than pleasant.

He walked across the room and sat down on the wooden armchair next to the windowsill. Adjusting the cushions, he sneaked a glance outside at the stormy sky that had been finally silenced. The Moon and the stars shone brightly against the sheet of darkness, and the gentle wind caressing his face calmed him down as his mind ventured back to what Aswatthamma had said.

Duryodhana. He had never meant to hurt him, the only man from a family of nobles who had ever stood up for him, the only prince from the coterie of princes who dared to befriend a sutaputra. Intransigent and iconoclastic, he had refused to abandon him even as his loved ones erupted in a kerfuffle at his insubordination and his audacity to challenge their parochial views. And how had Karna repaid him? By forsaking him in the most important battle of their lifetime.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and shuddered. A year had passed and yet it felt like it had only been a mere hour since he had dropped his bow on the ground, refusing to take part in the killing of his greatest foe's son. Jumping off his chariot he had fought off Dushasana and Ashwatthama, pushed past a frenzied Drona and lurched forward to catch Abhimanyu in time as the wheel fell from the boy's hands. He remembered staring at the kid with bloodshot eyes, appalled at what they had done and what they were about to do. Abhimanyu's face was battered, bruised and cut in so many places that it took Karna a few moments to remember how he looked before. The handsome boy, a facsimile of his warrior father, perhaps exceeding him in valor and fortitude now reduced to a broken, bloody mess.

Abhimanyu's eyes shone with pain, hysteria and confusion and his breathing was ragged because one of Drona's arrows had lodged itself deep in his chest. He was more likely to die from the shock of what he had experienced than any of his innumerable injuries, courtesy of the greatest warriors on the Kauravas' side. Behind him Karna heard Duryodhana shouting, but for once his mind refused to hear a word of what his best friend had to say. He released his hand from where he was holding Abhimanyu and shivered at the amount of blood that now covered his arm. He raised his head and looked up to see Drona standing nearby, confusion etched upon his face as well as horror.

Karna tried to stand up, to call for help when Abhimanyu grabbed him with his bloodied hands, shaking his head violently, holding onto him as if he were his lifeline. The kid was in such extensive trauma that he could hardly speak and he continued to stare at him in mute horror, trying not to cry. No, Karna mentally screeched, he was so young. Dragged into a war he didn't fully comprehend. But perhaps in a way they had all been thrust into this war at the hands of their emotions and ego, their rage and resentments before they had a chance to perceive the ramifications of the calamitous war, until it was too late.

"Hold on, Son. You are going to be fine. Do you hear me?", Karna whispered. Abhimanyu's grip on his shoulder and arms tightened and Karna didn't dare imagine what kind of pain the kid was fighting off just to stay awake. He needed immediate medical attention.