Pandavas and Kauravas, scions of princes of the Kuru Kingdom fight for what they think their birthright is and how that should be implemented while thin, oily and deep webs of ancestry and morality and plotting and righteousness weave around Aryavar...
It was raining heavily when The General entered the palace. There was this dull rhythm of the falling rain. Even with that the palace was eerily silent. It was supposed to. All the palace attendants and the guards were either being killed or loaded as slaves.
Ups! Gambar ini tidak mengikuti Pedoman Konten kami. Untuk melanjutkan publikasi, hapuslah gambar ini atau unggah gambar lain.
The General halted at the foot of the wooden stairs, his heart filled with trepidation and even grievances. Splashes of water formed strange patterns at his feet in curious shades of red, made more prominent by the flowery whiteness of the cold marble floors.
He adjusted his sash and uniform and winced as garish pain shot through him. He was bleeding from many wounds, yet he held his tall and powerful frame erect. A cold wind from the distant snow-covered peaks ruffled his long, dark beard and pierced his body as if with icy shards. He was chilled to the bone, unused to these rugged mountainous terrains and snow-laden passes. He was from the East, a son of the vast, dusty and hot Gangetic plains. The bloody sword he gripped in his right hand had slain scores of warriors in the past hour.
A few paces apart, his men stood reverently, almost identical stances. The rain had lost its fury and had become a drizzle. Rainwater dripped from the roof into the gutters, forming trickles of darkness before rushing down the mountainside to join the waters flowing through the distant and dusty plains to the sea, carrying with it human flesh and the blood of unknown and countless warriors who had guarded this mountain city of Gandhara just a few muhurtas* before.
*Muhurta - around 50 minutes; 49 to be exact.
The General stood stiff and unmoving, frowning at the faint sounds of sobbing coming from the floor below. They were of the women who have lost their husbands, sons and even fathers to this siege. Somewhere a cock crowed, followed by cries of vultures. Atleast someone was getting a feast today.
The General took a tentative step to climb the stairs but stopped again. Something had caught his eye. He bent down painfully and picked it up. It was a wooden princess with a broken hand - a little girl's toy. A smear of blood had dried on its broken side. With a sigh, the General started climbing up. The steps groaned in protest. As if on cue, the sobbing stopped.
The long verandah** ran a considerable distance, vanishing into shadow. It started snowing and the white flakes fell on the wooden benches placed along the corridor, forming strange shapes. The General walked slowly, careful not to step on the dead soldiers. He held the broken toy in his left hand and a talwar* in his right. He hated the snow and the bitter cold of the mountains and longed for the sunny, humid plains of his homeland. He wished only to finish this task and get back to the banks of the Ganga. He paused to listen. There was a rustling of clothing and he sensed somebody waiting for him within. His wounded body tensed. The toy in his hand had become a burden. 'Why did I even pick it up?' he wondered. But now he did not now wish to throw it away. With the tip of his khanda*, he slowly pushed at the half-open door.
* and * Talwar and Khanda - are exactly the same thing; an Indian curved sword.
**Verandah - A small place between the door and outside. Usually found in Indian Places.
