part0027

The smell of blood lingered. The sounds of clanging swords and battle cries filled the air. Vikram, Rana and the Avanti army struggled to keep up with the innumerable Raktavijas who had formed an army of their own. With every drop of blood falling to the ground, the birth of a new, menacing Raktavija was guaranteed. The clones had outnumbered the asura army, and the Avanti soldiers were fast diminishing.

Raktavija was overjoyed; he knew his victory was certain. The burnt, mangled body of Ashwatthama lay motionless, and the golden bow of Lord Rama lay next to it. Raktavija would soon have the bow in his possession and gift it to his master. Nobody would be able to prevent my master’s resurrection , thought Raktavija. He scanned his surroundings. His clones had excelled in their job. Despite the slaying of many asuras, Raktavija’s clones had outsmarted their opponents. It would only be a matter of time before the remaining Avanti soldiers, along with the two warriors Vikram and Rana were vanquished. Raktavija could smell victory as he dismounted his horse and marched towards the bow.

He had barely taken a few steps, when he saw a faint glow emanating from the burnt flesh. The mangled body of Ashwatthama was emitting light. Everything came to a standstill and the warring parties stared at the mysterious glow. Slowly, the glow assumed human form and to everyone’s surprise, especially Raktavija’s horror, Ashwatthama’s burnt body began healing itself. Changing its colour and shape, the burnt flesh transformed. Gradually, skin patches started appearing, and tufts of hair emerged. A warrior’s armour adorned the newly-formed body of Ashwatthama. Euphoric, Vikram and Rana looked at each other. The asuras, on the other hand, felt a sense of dread.

Slowly, Ashwatthama’s fingers moved. His nostrils blew the dirt and dust away. He opened his eyes, tears wetting the ground. Ashwatthama was overwhelmed by the memory of his father. His only wish of meeting his mentor and guide had been miraculously fulfilled. It was dreamlike and Ashwatthama could have traded his life to unite with his father. He felt lighter, happier, and free of guilt, doubts, and confusion.

Rejuvenated, Ashwatthama placed both his palms on the ground, worked his knees up, and stood straight. He bent over and picked Lord Rama’s bow. The divine weapon felt light as a feather. Instantaneously, the bow shone golden. Only this time, the glow did not fade away. Ashwatthama’s demeanour matched the ferocity of a hungry tiger.

Next, Ashwatthama chanted a hymn. The arrowhead turned the colour of the sun. With a half-malicious glance, Ashwatthama hurled the arrow at Raktavija. The arrow flew and went through Raktavija’s heart. In a flash, before Raktavija could react, the arrow continued to fly high, leaving a trail, and pierced through all the other Raktavijas on the battlefield. As soon as all of them were tied to this glowing yellow rope that the arrow had turned into, the arrow changed its colour to orange, becoming a raging fire that started burning the Raktavijas. The heat was so unbearable that Raktavija writhed in pain, before letting out a loud cry. By now, the arrow-rope had illuminated the whole battlefield. The heat burnt all the Raktavijas from inside and evaporated their blood. Not a single drop fell on the ground! Soon, Raktavija was burnt like dry grass, and he collapsed. So did all his clones. They were reduced to ashes.

With their chief dead, the remaining asuras ran amok. While most of them, intimidated by Ashwatthama’s formidable avatar, started fleeing to the plains parallel to the Charmanvati River, a few valiant ones continued fighting, despite knowing that victory had slipped through their hands.

Ashwatthama looked around. His mind was working at an unimaginable speed. He was seeing too many things at once; the darkness of the night was no longer limiting his vision. He was hearing too many voices — of creatures of the jungle, the gurgling of the Charmanvati, and the footsteps of the frightened asuras scurrying hither and thither. He was unable to concentrate. He felt as if he could run faster than the wind.

Ashwatthama held the bow whose luminescence had surprised all. He calmed down and, slowly, the glow began to disappear. The parallel voices subsided, and he took stock of the surroundings. Vikram was standing next to him, concerned, and amused at the same time. He looked around and saw the Avanti soldiers scrambling to help their injured comrades. As he scanned further, he spotted Rana.

Ashwatthama felt sad for Rana. But, there was nothing he could do. Losing one’s loved ones was a bitter truth of wars, and it was heart-wrenching for anyone to realise it the first time. He could feel Rana’s pain, having gone through similar times himself. He kneeled alongside Vikram, looking at Valari with admiration.

‘Let us take him to Avanti,’ Ashwatthama said, solemnly. He wanted to give Rana more time with Valari, but it was also important to take the bow to Guru Apasmitra without any delay. They had no clue if there was another attack in the offing.

Vikram and Ashwatthama got up to fetch their horses. Rana sat for a moment longer with Valari, before getting up. He went ahead and brought forth Valari’s chariot. They then put his body on the chariot, and prepared for their return.

The asura army had been wiped out. Rana’s brave men had killed them all. The remaining soldiers tended to their wounded and dying friends. The sight of corpses devastated some, and others looked around helplessly, with moist eyes. As soldiers, they had not seen any casualties in their lifetime, and they mourned the death of their fellowmen.

Rana ordered his soldiers to burn the bodies of all the asuras to prevent them from rotting, and polluting the river. In a short while, they were done with the cleaning up. They carried the deceased Avanti soldiers back home to be cremated.