HELLO MAHABHARATA

66. War

war (noun)  /wɔːr/ US  /wɔːr/ an intense armed conflict between two groups.

SHE WAS RUNNING ON CLOUDS ever since she heard that she would see everything happening in Mahabharata war. Excited to see the sky burning with smoke and fire from celestial arrows, swords clashing in the sand festooned war field and chariots racing with the gallant warriors of time, bejewelled in the crimson land where elephants and horses, raged in war cries embarking the Mahabharata.

It was as if she got the eyes of Sanjay, witnessing everything and living it.

But she didn't know that it will shred her soul into millions of fragments. Every form of torturous pain she could imagine, it was there. When warm blood spluttered from the many cuts of a soldier, her veins froze. When blades tore flesh, her heart stopped in its beats. When war animals crushed men under their hooves and feet, she couldn't breath.

Every blasphemous action and horrendous death in the grounds of brave men, was as if happening in the very tent she sat in. Sprawled on the floor, resisting herself to not scream at the grotesque sight. What a mystical journey it was, where the kaal spun the coils and wheels in such a momentum that, dint of those differences between good and evil culminated like parched earth quenching its thirst. She screamed and cried, locking herself in the tent. She was drenched in sweat, stench of blood fresh on her skin and her life fluctuating like the last leaf of the tree in autumn. But then, days passed and it all became a part of her day. So much so, pain became her shadow.

For pain was an old friend of hers, and someone said that her forbearance and strength is unparalleled. So she'd get up after hours of lying on the dusty floor like a wailing corpse begging for life, clutching on the flute of her blue best friend, who might've shared her pangs. Krishna left his golden flute with her. "Keep it safe for me." he said. What he didn't say, was that this flute will keep her safe.

Men returned to their tents when the sky turned the shades of blood they kissed every day, losing some of their own and shedding some of others. They were wounded, all of them from the commander to the foot soldier. They dunked their rust stained bodies into the lake, diluting the waters with their curses and wishes for the war and their enemies. They had meat and ale, even though she asked the culinary tents to limit the supplies of inebriating liquid to keep the warriors in their senses. They had women to warm their beds and then with the dawn of eagle's cries they marched into the still wet of blood battlefield to fight for the land, they will leave behind when they knock the gates of Yama.

The Mahabharata war lasted for eighteen days, she knew it. But she didn't expect the days to go with the such hurry.

"Why are you angry with me? Where is my fault in this? Hmm?" Krishna sang, there was clearly no hint of remorse in his tone, all his attention was enjoyed by the war plans and miniature sand Kurukshetra on the mahogany table. "As if you care. Please focus on your plans" She scoffed pouring him a glass of milk and placing a saucer of walnuts beside the red flags of Kaurava marquee on the table. The flautist closed his lotus eyes and inhaled in his defeat at the anger of the woman, a girl who was now a woman whose humanity challenged the humanism of the god. He clutched her wrist quickly, and said this in his sole defence.

"It was his sacrifice for land of Bharatvarsha, you can see," his glazed eyes moved to look outside the makeshift window of their tent, an ivory flag stained in dry rusty blood waved high in the sky. "the flag of pride and success, in his blood. Men always die in the battlefield"

"He was not a man. He was a boy. He was Uttara's brother" she whispered, her tongue venomous and eyes red as the silk cladding her dry body, harmed by the winds of Phalguna. And then she rested her head on the armour coated chest of Krishna, smelling the sand and blood of the day's battle. "I can't. It's not possible for me to watch him on the. . . funeral pyre. He's my son. It is unbearable for me, I cannot see that happening to Abhimanyu, I beg you my lord."