The Final Peace

PROLOGUE

He snuck into the velvet red tent. He couldn't help but admire the beauty, On the outside, it looked like a mere structure of cloth, but on the inside, it was fit for its residents. He crept near the identical beds adorned with a silky, golden sheet. On each of the beds lay two scarlet resting pads. At the back, near the end of the structure was a throne made entirely of gold. At the centre of the encampment was a beautifully carved table. Shame that it all had to be burnt. He picked up the dagger that had been carefully tucked away in the folds of his dhoti. He stabbed one of them. The victim screamed in shock and pain, but it was muffled by the pads that the stabber pushed onto his face. The others, however, heard the cries for help and tried to overcome their sleepy stupor in the dark. Ashwathama quickly stabbed another one. He evaded the meek hook from one of them and stabbed him right in the heart. The other two were choked to death. It was all over within a matter of minutes. And to think that they had struggled eighteen long days to do this, he allowed himself a little smile. After all, he, the Great Ashwathama, the Son Of Dronacharya and the King of Panchala had slain all five of the Pandavas. Duryodhana would be ecstatic. He quickly grabbed one of the lanterns that lit the passage and threw it onto the tent. He stood there and watched as the fire engulfed the velveteen cloth, inch by inch until it was all a flurry of smoke with dashes of orange and red. He could hear the commotion from the other tents. He quickly lit fire to one more tent and kicked the pin that held it down. The structure collapsed to the other side, eventually starting a chain. He ran until the sounds of wailing women and crying children were out of earshot. He ran back and settled at his own camp as sweat trickled down his temples. He couldn't tell whether it was because of the running or the heat from the fires. He sat there assimilating what he had done. He wanted to feel bad, he really did. But he just wanted to laugh. He had a sense of pride and triumph. He had killed those scoundrels. He had killed ‘the mighty’ Arjuna who his father always insisted on praising.” Best archer in the world”, Drona had said, all while cutting the thumb of the true prodigy. He had killed Bheema. The same Bheema who had the strength of a hundred thousand elephants. He had slain Nakula and Sahadeva, the greatest swordsmen and charioteers in the world. And he had slain that good-for-nothing scoundrel Yudhishthira. The lying cheat Yudhisthira. The con-man Yudishthira. That con-man had played with his father’s emotions, all while parading around the title, “Dharma- Putra”. He had marched around the world claiming to be truthful and fair and honest, and he had shown his true self when he didn’t think twice to lie to his guru and murder him! But Ashwathama had had the last laugh. The Kauravas had the last laugh. They had stolen the empire and gotten away with it. And now, after losing the battle, they had murdered the kings. It would be easy to shoo away the upapandavas. After all, both Ghatotkacha and Abhimanyu had died on the battlefield. Tomorrow, they would resume dominance as the eternal rulers of the empire.

For the first night since his father’s death, Ashwathama had a great sleep. Little did he know, that this would be the last time as well.