Smooth Kill-- 3

Continued from here

Krishna stands up and gives me a hand. I get up: my head is a little dizzy, my vision is strangely blurred. I put an arm around him, leaning on his shoulder, and he guides me back towards the house. As we walk back, memories flood my mind, in a sequence of pictures. It starts off with a dream—there is a woman who used to visit me often in my dreams, her face is veiled, but she wears clothes of the royalty, she is always crying and very silent. I ask her questions, she gives no answers, only continuing to cry more. As I grow older, the dreams are less frequent, maybe she doesn’t miss me anymore, maybe she is married and has children, maybe five other children.

Suddenly, we are at the Court, the atmosphere is tense; my eyes are red, red with rage and red with a haughtiness that I will regret for the rest of my life. Draupadi, a woman I respect as much as I respect Bhima as an archer, is crying; her hair is messy, her clothes even messier; she is appealing to the elders, to anyone, to restore sanity. My eyes are, however, on Yudhistra: he rarely flies into a rage and as I look at him, it is evident that this is one of those rare occasions. I am, honestly, terrified for I don’t know what to expect. He looks at me, with a loathing so deep, that it sends a chill down my spine, but I stare back, trying to be brave. And then I see his eyes trace the length of my body, down to my feet, and suddenly, he is calm, as calm as the mountains, as composed as a river in summer. Confused, my eyes follow his and I find myself staring at my own feet and I cannot understand. But now, I realize: they are not my feet he sees, but his mother’s. Our mother’s.
And then I hear a voice in my head and that fills me with pride and gives me strength. It is a voice from very long ago, the voice of my best friend—it is authoritative, filled with a conviction that no one around him seems to share: Can’t you see, can’t you see this man is not a suta? Can’t you see he has the gait of a lion? Can a deer ever hope to have such a walk?

“Lie down Radheya” Krishna is saying, abruptly bringing me to the present.
I look around. I am in my bedroom, by my bed, neatly made. I don’t know how I got there, but I manage a weak smile. I need sleep, need to forget. Things, though much clearer now, are jumbled. The pieces are all there, but the whole picture is too hard for my mind to grasp.
“Thanks Krishna” I say, tucking into my bed.
“Can’t say it’s my pleasure, but you’re welcome, I guess” he replies wryly.

In moments, I am asleep.

*****

I walk back from Radheya’s place much later than I initially intend to. My charioteer is sleeping; a couple of the horses are grazing, another is sleeping, the last one is staring at the sky and, in my opinion, contemplating existential questions. I tap my charioteer on the shoulder and he wakes up, a touch embarrassed. I smile easily and say:
“I suggest you continue your siesta on the chariot”
He gives me a quizzical look. I smile again and say:
“Go sleep on the chariot. I’ll do the riding” and take the whip and slap the ground exactly in the manner he does. The horses all come trundling back, each at its own pace.
“Its ok” he says, “I have finished sleeping”
“Oh, don’t think I am doing this for you” I say, “There is a war on our hands and I need practice”
“Oh” he says, comprehending.

As I tie up the horses and take my seat, my mind goes back to the events of the day: he is a fool, that Radheya—a very likeable one at that. He had and still has the power, if he ever changes his mind, to stop all that bloodshed and yet he doesn’t. Generations to come might see that as a selfless decision, but it is, in fact, very selfish. One cannot put loyalty and friendship over the lives of so many great warriors and thousands of nameless, brave soldiers.
Steering my horses down a steep incline, I ask my charioteer:
“Am I good?”
“Yes sir. I have never seen someone ride so easily” he says, and I see his voice has acquired a fresh tinge of deep reverence.
Unsurprisingly, of all my achievements, it is this one that impresses him the most.

No sooner do we travel a few hundred metres than we bump into Vrishala, the wife of Radheya, sitting contently on Radheya’s favourite chariot, evidently making her way home. I stop and get off and greet her. She falls at my feet. I bless her, a little embarrassed— my show at the court, earlier today, has obviously reached public ears. I ask:
“Where have you been? I am just returning from a visit to your house”
“Oh” she says, her face falling, ruing a missed opportunity, she asks, “Did Radheya look after you well? Did he give you something to eat? Did he quench your thirst?”
“Yes, yes” I lie automatically, “He is a great host”
She looks greatly relieved.
“I had actually gone to the temple” she explains, “Faith acquires a whole new meaning in these troubled times—I hear war is now inevitable?”
“Yes” I say, trying to put on my gravest expression, “Are you praying for Radheya?”
“Oh, I am not worried for him. Everyone knows he is invincible. And he has promised Duryodhana he will win it for him and Radheya never makes promises he can’t keep. My sons, however, are a little too eager. And like every mother, I am worried for them. Radheya, I know, will take care of them too. But, I still worry a lot”
“Yes, I know” I say in a voice that is not mine: her unshakeable faith in her husband’s abilities throws me off guard.
“But, Krishna” she says, suddenly, “I will have them all, won’t I? Even after the war?”
It is a question that leaves with little room: lie or stay silent. I choose neither.
“It has got really dark and I need to get going. You keep up the good work, Vrishala”

And I hop onto my chariot and crack my whip: the horses jump to life and we are away, in a swirl of dust, flying past mansions and houses, long-shut offices and markets that are closing down, empty parks and vacant streets; but nothing can distract me from the one thought that constantly plays in my mind, like a temple priest’s chant, except it is much darker: I am a murderer-- a clever, cunning, shameless murderer.