A Different Path

Garden

"Ashwatthama, please!"

"Go away, Prince. I am busy."

"Doing what exactly?"

"Staring at the horizon."

Duryodhana sighed. Ashwathamma sat cross-legged on the soft grass of the lawn that Kripi had nurtured devotedly, turning it from a barren patch of wasteland to a quaint, little garden. There was something indescribably charming about it and that combined with the moments when Aswhatthama would go on one of his philosophical rants made the place a sacrosanct destination for quiet contemplation. He really liked it here. Although now he wasn't sure if he was welcome.

Duryodhana sat down beside his friend. Ashwatthama wouldn't even look at him. He kept his gaze firmly on the setting sun and for a few moments, Duryodhana kept mum trying to decide on the best approach to get the reticent brahmin to talk to him.

Moments passed and Duryodhana felt dread crawl over his skin. Ashwatthama's stubborn refusal to grant him even one instance worth of acknowledgment was starting to make him feel restless.

"Ashwatthama-"

"Leave me alone. Isn't that what you had said?" Ashwatthama's eyes were cold.

"Please, hear me out.......I am sorry..."

"Of course, you are!" Ashwatthama snarled at him, then turned away. "Please Duryodhana, I am really not in the mood." He added.

"Damn it, Ashwatthama, I am really trying here!" Duryodhana yelled, his stomach churning with anxiety.

"Oh! Thank you so much. I am so deeply humbled that you came all the way to apologize for nothing!"

Duryodhana felt dizzy as if someone had struck him on the head with a wooden club. He wasn't sure what exactly he was supposed to do. Or how to make things right. Helpless. Yes, helpless. That's what he was feeling at the moment. Because........because he knew that Ashwatthama's anger was justified.

See, in the days following the end of Mahabharata, Duryodhana had been rocked by such a powerful squall of depression that he had completely fallen apart, deteriorating both physically and mentally even as his family begged him to seek help. Their relentless efforts were wasted on him. As had been the pattern for much of his life, he didn't listen.

Because he could see through their lies. It was all his fault. And they knew it too.

But Ashwatthama, that damn brahmin wouldn't stop. He just wouldn't let him be. Every day he would come to him with the knowledge enshrined in the Vedas, as if that would bring back his brothers. And what did Ashwatthama know anyway? He hadn't lost a loved one. His father, the man he worshipped second after Lord Shiva, remained steadfast on the battlefield, undefeated and unrivaled. Karna, who could annihilate entire battalions with the tempest of his arrows, did not require any prayers for his well-being. Duryodhana had crushed scores of enemies under the blows of his mace, eyes searching and waiting for a chance to defeat Bhima, once and for all. All three of them had survived the war. Who else did Ashwatthama care for anyways?