THE GLORY OF ASHWATTHAMA

THE TALE OF ASHWATTHAMA

It was a biting cold evening in January, the peak of winter. The sun, a ball of orange fire, hovered near the horizon, painting the sky with hues of amber and crimson. The village was cloaked in a stillness that only winter evenings could bring. Amid this tranquil backdrop, four children roamed the narrow dirt lanes, their breaths forming misty clouds in the chilly air.

Shriya, the oldest of the group, was a knowledgeable girl with a sharp mind and an aesthetic sense that often made her the leader in their discussions.
Beside her was Veer, a plump boy with almond-shaped eyes, curly hair, and a hearty laugh that belied his hefty frame.
Aadi, with his quick wit and good humor, was the most balanced of the group.
while Parth, the youngest, was a curious and often spooky child who loved delving into mysteries buried deep in the sands of time.

The group trudged along, their chatter breaking the silence of the evening. Shriya, her voice thoughtful, posed a question that captured their collective imagination:

"Who do you think is the greatest hero of the Mahabharata?"

“I would say Arjuna,” she began confidently. “His unmatched archery skills, noble behavior, and his looks make him the ideal hero.”

Veer, while nodding partially in agreement, countered, “Arjuna is great, but Bheema is stronger. He had the strength of 10,000 elephants! Isn’t that more heroic?”

Aadi chuckled at their debate, his voice calm but amused. “You both make good points, but Yudhishthir is the true hero. He understood the purpose of life, was righteous, and always sought the greater good.”

As the three of them debated animatedly, they reached the old banyan tree—a towering sentinel surrounded by dense bushes and patches of grass. The tree's roots snaked out like the arms of a mythical beast, its ancient branches whispering secrets to the cold evening air. The children sat beneath it, their voices rising in an energetic argument.

Suddenly, Parth burst out, his voice piercing the quiet, “Ashwatthama!”

The name hung in the air like a specter. A cold breeze swept through the atmosphere, rustling the leaves and chilling them to their bones. Shriya looked visibly uneasy, her usual confidence faltering.

“Ashwatthama?” she echoed. “He wasn’t that powerful, was he?”

The others disagreed vehemently, but Parth leaned forward, his eyes wide with mystery. “He is still roaming around,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

As they exchanged uneasy glances, the horizon darkened further, and the cold grew sharper. Just then, an imposing figure emerged from the shadows—a tall old man, his height close to seven feet, wrapped in a thick blanket. His long beard and unkempt hair gave him an otherworldly presence. He leaned on a wooden staff as he approached the group, his piercing eyes gleaming in the fading light.

“What are you all talking about?” he asked, his voice deep and resonant.

The children froze for a moment. Shriya, though frightened, managed to answer, “The heroes of the Mahabharata.”

The old man’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Ah, the Mahabharata,” he said, lowering himself onto the ground with a grunt. “A tale as old as time. Do you wish to hear about it?”

The children exchanged glances. Shriya whispered to Veer, “Do you think he knows the story better than us?”

Veer shrugged. “He’s older. He must.”

The old man, overhearing them, chuckled. “I’ve lived long enough to know more than you can imagine,” he said. “Let’s begin. Tell me—who do you think is the hero?”