A Different Path

Return

And he would kill and kill and kill and kill until the Sun God would bid them adieu only to return the next morning heralding another day of gruesome bloodshed.

Arjuna sighed and caressed his divine bow, wanting to feel something other than the numbness that had haunted him since the declaration of Mahabharata all those months ago.

"Nakula, why is your dhoti so dirty?", Bheema asked.

"Oh, there's this new horse that Prakjit brought from the north, a white stallion that went ballistic before we were to start the journey. It took a long time to calm it down and even then it continued to kick its feet at anyone who approached it. I had to sit with it for two hours before I could get it to journey with us.", Nakula answered, sounding tired. Bheema nodded at him and turned his gaze westwards but Arjuna noticed beneath his calm eyes, the question that he had not asked, the one he wanted to ask.

Nakula, YOUR dhoti is dirty. You, who used to spend hours looking the part of a prince even when we lived in the forest, you who used to berate the servants when they forgot to clean a mere inch of dirt, you who used to shout at us when we entered our childhood cottage without washing up, why do you not care that your dhoti is dirty? Why didn't you change it? What the hell is wrong with you?

But Bheema didn't ask those questions to Nakula for the same reason Arjuna didn't ask Abhimanyu. They were both afraid of the answer.

He was glad that his father had listened to his request and not showered rain upon them. The weather was cool and pleasant, reminding him of the Himalayas where he had undertaken a grueling penance to obtain the Pashupat. He wanted to go back there, the mountains with their cool winds, rocky terrain and unyielding wildlife. That was his problem, he couldn't stay at one place for a long time.

But this wasn't the only reason why he wanted to escape to the mountains. It was more because he couldn't bear to see all the dead faces around him, with their plastic smiles that even they knew didn't fool anyone. He was a stranger to his family, and they were to him.

Hearing the koyals singing their sweet melody from atop a vakula tree, Arjuna thought about his childhood spent in the forest and the subsequent exile. He wondered, though he would never dare admit it to anyone, if it would have been better if they had stayed in the forest. Sure his honor would have been lost but at least his son, his brothers, his loved ones would have been whole.

His throat strangled at the memory of his son lying in the medical tent, broken and bleeding, his arms and legs covered in bandages. He had fallen to the floor and Sahadeva had rushed to him, assuring him that his son would live and he, unable to speak words of gratitude, had held his hand as his eyes never left Abhimanyu's still form. Then it all hit him in one single blow- rage, confusion, shock, sorrow and he could hardly breathe as the crushing weight of what had happened knocked him down again. He cried then, tears streaming down his face as the pain of a thousand poisoned arrows flooded his system.

All his pride, his vanity, his ego abandoned him in that moment, leaving him empty and he just sat there howling and grieving as others came in, some crying with him, others standing frozen not knowing what else to do. All of them were there except Krishna, who had slipped away at some time. Was it too hard for him to see Abhimanyu, his beloved nephew, in such a state? Or was it something else?