CHAPTER ZERO
DWANDA-YUDDHA: THE DUEL
The Himalayan
Mountains.
Five thousand
years ago.
Absolute darkness shrouded the Human Realm, and had for three
days and three nights. Some believed the occurrence was prophetic, like the
prolonged amavasya or new moon night that
had heralded the Great Kuru War two thousand years ago. The war had given birth
to the dark Age of Kali, the age of asura.
In contrast, hope was ripe that this event would trigger the Age of Light. But the
Bard wasn’t here to succumb to superstition.
The first day without the sun’s light had spread confusion and
chaos across the realm. The second day had brought desperation in the breasts
of humans and fear in the belly of Celestials. The third day—today—was a feast
for the asuras. Death lay everywhere.
The human world burned without its sun. How soon before the
Heavens went up in flames?
The Bard’s troubled eyes reread the last line. Then he deliberately
scratched it off, lifting his long, pointed talon from the parchment made of
dry palm leaf. With a sigh, he rested his aching hand on his trembling thigh.
He would spare a moment to ease his body, and his mind from the strain of
observation and due recordkeeping. If he didn’t, he’d forget his duty as
Witness of the Cosmos, and begin to question fate.
Despite the fire that crackled close to his right knee, and the
feathered form of his upper body, he was cold. An icy wind had settled around
the Pinnacle of Pinnacles, where he sat cross-legged on a seat made of rock and
snow. He’d chosen this perch because it gave him an impartial view of the
events happening in the world. He was the Bard, entrusted with keeping the
Canons of the Age of Kali, just as the Soul Warrior was entrusted with keeping
the Human Realm safe from asuras.
Would they both fail in their duty today?
The Bard shook off the heavy despair the darkness had brought
into the world. He mustn’t judge. He shouldn’t question. He would sharpen the
talon on his forefinger, dip it into the vessel of ink kept warm by the fire,
and write this tale. That was all he could do. Be the witness to history.
So he raised his feathered hand and began to write again while
his eyes, sparked with power, knowledge and magic, saw clearly events unfolding
from great distances. A thousand kilometers to his right, Indra, the God of War
and Thunder, fought the Dragon. Indra did not fare well. But that didn’t concern
the Bard as much as the clash between the Soul Warrior and the Stone Demon.
Over and over, his eagle eyes were drawn to the duel taking place in the heart
of the world, not only because it was a magnificent battle to behold, for it
was, but because its outcome would decide mankind’s destiny.
The Soul Warrior was more than a great warrior. Karna was a
great soul. Fair, honorable, brave and resilient, he was the perfect protector
of the Human Realm. Of course, there were other reasons he’d been chosen to
fill the office of Soul Warrior—there always were when Gods and demons were
involved. But Karna’s existence was a testament to righteous action and if
anyone could bring back the day, it would be him.
But how did one vanquish stone, the Bard wondered?
Avarice and cruelty, two nefarious desires, had made Vrtra and
Vala attack the Human Realm. Three days ago the Dragon had swallowed the Seven
Rivers in the north, and the Stone Demon had imprisoned the Sun God, his daughter,
and all the cattle of the region in his cave.
The Bard paused his writing as a thin vein of lightning winked
across the skies, but without the accompanying roar. Indra’s strength waned. His
thunderbolt hadn’t left Vrtra
screaming in pain this time. The Bard spared a moment’s attention on the duel,
just enough to note that the Maruts, the Celestial Storm-gods, waited in the
clouds to rescue their god-king in case of a calamity. Indra would survive even
in defeat. Of that, the Bard was sure.
But Karna had no one at his back. His might and god-powers had depleted
without the sun’s healing warmth and light. His divine astras, weapons, had not slowed the Stone Demon down, at all. Only
the conviction that he could not fail his godsire, his sister, and the
innocents under his protection drove him now. His birth family had once
abandoned him to his fate, but he would not abandon them to theirs—such was the
greatness of Karna.
The Bard crossed out the last observation. No questions. No
judgment. No praise, either. The canons would be free of all emotion. He wasn’t
here to embellish history or glorify the history-makers, as some bards were
wont to do.
It wasn’t embellishment to write that the foothills of Cedi were
drenched in the Soul Warrior’s blood. Or observe the gushing wounds on his body,
despite his armor, that would make the hardiest of warriors bellow in agony,
but not him. It wasn’t embellishment to write that the Heavens were empty for
the Celestials had come to Earth to watch the battle, firelight cupped in their
palms to light the warrior’s way.
The Naga, the Serpent People, also looked on, hissing from the
mouth of the portal that led to their underground realm beneath the hills. The
Serpent King will not choose a side. Vrtra and Vala were half Naga, after all. All
across the Human Realm, demons roamed free, taking advantage of the darkness
and preying on human flesh and human souls. It was a terrible moment in history.
The asuras had the upper hand in the
eponymous age of Demon Kali.
Vala did not have arms and half a leg, but still he came at
Karna. He had an ace up his sleeve. There were plenty of creatures about, an
entire mountain close at hand. He began to chant the spell of soul
transference. It was the darkest of all magic, the possession of another’s
soul. Soon, he would be whole again and stronger than before.
Battered and bleeding, the Soul Warrior veered away from the
Stone Demon. He leapt over boulders and charred vegetation. The onlookers called
him a coward. Had he forfeit the duel? Has he forsaken mankind?
Karna dove for Manav-astra,
the spear of mankind, he’d thrown aside yesterday after his bow, Vijaya, had shattered under repeated use.
In one smooth motion, he rolled, picked up the astra, coming up in the spear-thrower’s stretch. His tattered lower
garment billowed about him as a gust of wind shot through the air. His muscled torso
glistened with blood and sweat, tightened as he pulled the arm holding the
spear back.
He meant to throw Manav-astra
at Vala. A futile attempt, to be sure? As long as Vala was made of stone, broken
or not, his body was impregnable. Karna should have waited for Vala to transfer
his soul to an onlooker. Then Karna should have vanquished the possessed creature.
Taunting laughter reverberated through the foothills of Cedi.
Vala had reached the same conclusion. The Celestials looked at each other in angry
silence, unable to interfere. A dwanda-yuddha
duel was fought between two opponents of equal size and strength alone. The
humans hadn’t stopped screaming in three days, the din simply background noise
now.
The Bard scribbled the observations onto the parchment in no
particular order. He wished he was a painter, for surely this was a picture
worth a thousand words.
The demon hobbled toward the warrior, who stood still as stone
with his arm drawn taught behind him. Then finally, with a roaring chant the
Soul Warrior shifted his weight from his back leg to his front and let fly Manav-astra at the Stone Demon with all
his remaining might.
Karna didn’t wait to see the ramifications of his action. And there
were plenty to come. He ran into the mountain cave to free Vala’s hostages.
Within moments the rock face rent in half, and bright streams of light speared
through the terrible darkness. A new day had dawned on the Human Realm after
three days of perpetual night.
The sun’s power was too bright, too full of hope. Yet, the Bard
looked on pensively, wondering if the Soul Warrior knew this wasn’t a victory.
It was merely a reprieve.
© Falguni Kothari.
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