Bheem

  Jyotin Goel

  Bheem

  Destiny’s Warrior

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part 1: The Cave

  1

  2

  3

  4

  Part 2: The Four

  1

  2

  3

  Part 3: Saviour

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  BHEEM

  Jyotin Goel thinks of himself as six feet long instead of six feet tall. This is because one usually finds him stretched out on a couch, looking at the world from a horizontal point of view. When he manages to pull himself upright, Jyotin cranks out movies and television serials that try and steer a little west of Bollywood. His favourite is the animation feature Bird Idol, which he wrote and directed for Warner Bros in 2010. Jyotin is an alumnus of St Xavier’s College, University of Mumbai, and holds a bachelor’s degree in English literature. He has written three acclaimed books for children; Bheem is his first novel. He lives in an apartment in Pali Hill, Mumbai, which he shares with his wife, Marisa, and a pigeon that visits occasionally.

  To my lovely wife, Marisa, who is way out of my league but chooses to spend her life with me anyway

  Instinct is the voice of the Aatma;

  Above all, a warrior must trust it.

  —Dronacharya’s Yuddh Gyaan

  Prologue

  The First War

  In the end, it always came down to the women. Every battle. Every war. Walls were breached, towers collapsed, men were torn apart. But defeat wasn’t final until the victors came for the women.

  ‘It is time,’ Rani Mandodari said to the women huddled at the edge of the sacred Ashoka grove.

  Perhaps they would have been safe among the trees, having found sanctuary in the presence of the woman who was no longer their prisoner. But Mandodari had been unable to bear the triumph that glittered in Sita’s eyes when the last tower of the citadel had turned into a spire of flame and had commanded the women to follow her out of the protection of the trees. And anyway, Mandodari was not thinking of asylum—she had a duty to fulfil. Revenge.

  She had felt the venom build inside her as her sons fell, one by one. It coursed through her veins, acid, scalding, burning. And when her husband, the immortal Raavan, was consumed by fire, the venom had raged and boiled, surging forth from her nose and ears, gushing blood from her eyes. She trembled with the effort of holding it back. It was precious, the blood. It held the seeds of retribution, of justice. She would not let it drain uselessly into the dirt. The annihilation of her race would not go unavenged.

  The sound was different now. The din of battle was fading, overcome by the crackle of flames consuming the city and the crazed roar of an unopposed enemy. The smell was different too. The fragrance of the Ashoka trees had wilted like a lost memory, beaten back by the ash blowing in from the burning buildings. And there was something else: a foul stink billowing forward. Mandodari knew what that stench meant. It was terror, it was death, it was putrefaction—the vaanars were coming.

  Blood filled her mouth but Mandodari had to speak. She cupped her hands and carefully parted her lips. It was blood and yet not blood, the black-red liquid that oozed out into her hands. The sharp ferric odour stung her, clearing her mind of the defeat fatigue. Mandodari barely raised her voice but it sliced through the surrounding clamour.

  ‘It is time,’ she said. ‘The enemy is here and we have to receive him.’

  The women knew what they had to do: embrace death, become its instrument. Quietly, they stepped up to their rani and drank from the blood, first from her cupped hands and, when that ran out, from her mouth, licking the flow from her nose and ears, smearing their lips with the ooze from her eyes. The poison burnt their throats, their breath came in gasps of pain, their strength left them but they did not fall. Black-red tears trickled from their eyes but they dashed them away. They would not let the enemy know that there was anything out of the ordinary, that death awaited him.

  The wind changed. Black smoke from the fires blanketed the Ashoka grove, obliterating Mandodari’s view of her dying world, the world of the asuras. They had not been able to live together—humans and asuras. So the asuras had to die. Why? Who had so chosen? Mandodari had no answer. And she did not care. She was responding in the way that the asuras always did. They never forgot, never forgave. It would take time but the human race would die—horribly, inescapably. Alone in the swirling, ash-laden cloud, Mandodari smiled. The smoke had stifled the shrieks and stench of the approaching vaanars. Her women would not even know when death took them. It would be an easy death.

  Abruptly, the curtain of smoke was shredded by claw and fang and hate. Mandodari was right—she did not know when death took her. The vaanar wiped his hands, licked the black-red blood off his jaws. And the venom entered his body . . .

  ~

  The Pir Panjal Mountains

  A Thousand Years Later

  Yajika gasped. The pain had been wracking her lower body for more than a day, but this spasm was the worst yet. She lay outside the grotto in the pale shadow of the massive rock that guarded its mouth, drenched in perspiration despite the cold of the night.

  ‘Mother,’ she whimpered. ‘Mother . . .’

  She knew it wasn’t just one child that she was carrying in her womb. After all, litters were the norm for asuras. She didn’t feel like an asura, though; she didn’t look like one. But there was no denying her blood. She possessed the infallible asura memory—and forgot nothing. She even remembered her birth and the deep melancholy in her asura mother’s eyes as they gazed at her—a daughter so different from the son born moments before. Her human form inherited from her human father—it had been responsible for everything that had followed: her rejection by her people, her abandonment, even her name. Yajika. Sacrifice. The stark choice her mother had faced. Give up the human daughter so that the asura son may lead the tribe. The memories were ineradicable, distinct and bitter, Yajika’s lifelong companions.

  An odour assailed her nostrils. Sharp, feral. Yajika’s eyes swept the undergrowth—and found its source. Leopard eyes, glittering, deadly. Was this the moment? Would he show himself, the one who had been watching her struggle through the jungle and up the mountain face? She waited, and then understood. He would not come forward, would not help. She would have to face the predator alone. It meant death, of course, but she would fight so the unborn within her would have a chance. Yajika unsheathed her talons, her single asura feature, and braced herself against the massive rock.

  The attack, when it came, was a blur, too swift for thought. The creature leapt; Yajika slashed, her talons slicing opening the leopard’s belly. It crashed to the ground, spurting blood on Yajika and the rock in its death throes. Yajika sank to her knees—and realized that not all the blood that stained her belonged to the dying beast. A flailing claw had caught her and she was losing blood rapidly. Would she survive long enough?

  I must, she thought.

  The pains were upon her, overwhelming, numbing the claw wound. She convulsed again. It was time. She screamed; her body was being torn apart. Her mind sheered away, losing its moorings, scrambling for its eternal talisman: her mother. Her talons dug into the rock’s base, scarring it with deep gashes. A gush of blood, another scream—and a wail. A child, a girl. But it wasn’t over. The knife of childbirth continued to saw at Yajika. Her hands flailed—and found a rope, tufted, hanging down the face of the huge rock. Her fingers grabbed hold and hung on as yet another child—another girl—forced its way out. Unexpectedly, though, the p
ain was gone. Warmth and relief flooded Yajika’s tortured body. Her eyes closed; unconsciousness swaddled her; she drifted away even as the remaining two of the litter emerged. Yajika’s fingers lost their strength, let go of the rope and dropped, lifeless. She was dead. Her children kicked and bawled, bursting with rude life.

  The tufted rope moved and wrapped itself around a branch; it was a tail, astonishingly long, that allowed its owner to swing off the massive rock. He landed lightly on the ground next to the squealing newborns, his superb vaanar form sheathed in a silver-gold pelt that gleamed in the moonlight. Despite his apparent youth, his eyes radiated infinite wisdom as he looked at the defenceless creatures squirming in bloody placental matter next to their dead mother.

  ‘Sisters,’ he said in a surprisingly light voice. ‘And completely human. As I expected.’

  The vaanar looked around. Though the melt had begun, snow still whitened branches and blanketed the ground under the trees. The leopard’s tracks were clearly visible in the snow, dark patches marking lope and charge and leap. And near a fallen tree was the half-eaten carcass of a mountain goat. These were wild hills, infested with predators and prey. It was no place for unprotected, naked newborns. If the beasts didn’t get them first, the savage wind would. But that had nothing to do with the vaanar. He had already made up his mind—he would not get involved. The last time he had intervened in the affairs of other races—a thousand years ago—it had led to a holocaust and the decimation of the vaanars. He would not repeat that mistake.

  There was not the slightest sound but the vaanar stiffened. Someone—or something—was climbing the hill.

  Another predator, he thought.

  At this time of the night, what else could it be? The golden vaanar cast a last look at the helpless creatures that lay wriggling under the massive rock. And then he was gone—shimmering away like the very wind, of which, it was often claimed, he was the son.

  ~

  The Forest of Always Night, Central India

  One Year Later

  For some time now, Bheem had felt their presence. There was no sound, but then creatures never made a sound in this accursed jungle. Bheem smiled grimly. What had the tribesmen called it? The Forest of Always Night—it sounded like something from a children’s tale. Bheem had laughed when he had heard the name. Prematurely, he realized now. Tribal lore was built on a bedrock of truth. Trees and bushes and leaves—they felt like walls, layer upon layer, great green cliffs pressing down, squeezing out light and air. Bheem bulled his way through the gnarled web of root and vine and utter darkness. The enemy had chosen well. Ashvatthama and his companions had been just a few hours ahead, but now . . .

  The mace glowed steadily, fighting the dense blackness, casting a pale light on the snapped branches, the day-old flattened grass. Bheem couldn’t afford to fall behind. Not when he had a price to exact, vengeance for the massacre of those he loved—cousins, nephews, comrades, victims of Ashvatthama’s pitiless sword, murdered while they slept. Bheem’s vision darkened.

  Sutasom, Sarvaang . . . my sons, my sons. Singled out for defilement by Ashvatthama . . . mutilated, disfigured, dishonoured . . .

  A memory of Sarvaang’s urchin grin stole in and Bheem’s eyes glistened with tears. Red hate welled up, angry veins slashing across the tattooed sun that covered half his face. Grimly embracing his fury, Bheem pressed on in the dark, seeking out the unnaturally twisted branch, the patch of crushed grass that had not yet been covered by fallen leaves.

  It was the thinning of the air that alerted Bheem to their presence. It was so gradual that Bheem had almost missed it. He glanced at the gem in the mace’s hilt—Ashvatthama’s jewel, the one that Lord Krishna had ripped out of his forehead. It glowed yellow. Unknown. Whoever was out there was not the enemy. Warily, Bheem moved on. The noxious exhalations of the jungle thickened, the air drained further. Bheem’s eyes drooped; he stumbled and dropped his mace. And the light went out.

  Instantly, his eyes snapped open.

  He scrabbled in the dank vegetation around his feet, groping for the mace. He could not lose it, not now, not when he knew there were others here, drawing in the limited air. He tore blindly at the bushes, ripping out roots and leaves. The jungle fought back. Vines whipped out, barbed tendrils snaked around the warrior. The air grew thinner, and thinner still; blood pounded in Bheem’s head, his lungs laboured for breath. Stupid! he thought. It was the dearth of air—he wasn’t thinking clearly. Bheem stopped. His iron arms froze, breath ceased; he shut his useless eyes and concentrated. The mace tore itself from the grasp of the jungle, flew through the fetid air and slapped into his hand. His fist clenched around the iron. His life force shot into the mace. It pulsed, glowed. At once, the jungle retreated, the vines falling away. Bheem opened his eyes. There they were, on the trees and ground, encircling him—powerful, hairy bodies, bulging jawbones, long, prehensile tails. The vaanars.

  Bheem had seen the creatures before but never in the wild. A thousand years ago, they had great cities of their own and had fought in the Lanka War as allies of the noble Ram. But something had gone wrong for the vaanars; victory had turned to ash. An unknown plague had swept their lands, decimating their race. They had only managed to save themselves by abandoning their cities and returning to their ancestral home: the jungle. And interaction between humans and vaanars had ceased. Fear and hate took over, accidental contacts always bloody. Vaanars taken alive by humans were subjugated, reduced to exhibits in the zoos of the aristocracy. The fate of humans captured by vaanars was unknown—none returned.

  Bheem gripped his mace, looking at the vaanars surrounding him. They did not move. His warrior’s instinct told him that an attack was not imminent. He grimaced and lowered his mace. Peaceful intentions . . . should be clear enough, he thought. Nothing changed. The creatures continued to look at him stolidly, not friendly, not hostile. They were waiting for something. Or someone.

  It was the sudden reek that caused Bheem to spin around.

  A vaanar with grey-streaked fur, older than the rest, stood just a few feet away, his face twisted in disgust. Instinctively, Bheem raised his mace. The vaanar did not move.

  Still looking revolted, the vaanar rumbled, ‘You stink!’

  Bheem was surprised into laughter. The creature had spoken! It was the Old Tongue and the accent had a savage tone but Bheem understood it. And the vaanar had voiced just what Bheem was thinking. So he stank, did he? Elephant turds had nothing on the creature’s stench; the faeces-clogged drains of Hastinapur were as roses compared to it! Bheem laughed again. He stole a look at the jewel in the mace’s hilt. Pale yellow. Undetermined. Not allied with the enemy though. And the new arrival didn’t seem actively hostile.

  Bheem lowered the mace. ‘So do you,’ he said.

  The vaanar’s prominent jaws parted; vicious fangs sprang out. For a moment, the creature didn’t move; then he rumbled, boomed, shook. The vaanars around picked up on the cue, chittering and roaring.

  So that’s vaanar laughter, Bheem thought.

  The old vaanar stopped laughing and looked at Bheem appraisingly. Abruptly, he exhaled and thumped his chest. His tail curled around and lightly touched Bheem’s shoulder.

  ‘Need to talk,’ the vaanar said.

  ~

  A Kilometre Ahead

  ‘He is dead,’ said Ashvatthama.

  The rishi’s naked body lay cold and unmoving. There was no sign of decay though. The immaculate body—and the unmarked face—was clearly visible in the glow of the fierce flame that burnt behind the waterfall. Kritavarma sank to his knees beside the body. The lack of obvious rot gave him hope. After all, this was Shukra, son of Bhrigu, one of the maharishis—perhaps this was not death but an advanced form of shavasana, the death trance. If Shukra were alive, the war could yet be salvaged. Desperately, he searched for a pulse, a wisp of breath. Nothing.

  ‘He has taken samadhi,’ Krupacharya said. ‘Journeyed into his next life.’

  Ashvatthama wearily brushed a han
d against his forehead, rubbing futilely at the oily pus that never ceased oozing from the wound that Lord Krishna had inflicted when he had ripped out the jewel of immortality. He placed a hand on Krita’s shoulder. ‘We are too late.’

  They were the only survivors, the last three of hundreds of thousands who had fought for the Kauravs against the Pandavs in the War of Annihilation, the eighteen-day catastrophic battle on the Kurukshetra plains. The Kauravs had even allied with the remaining asura tribes, promising them the world that had been lost in the war in Lanka a thousand years ago. They had failed. Now they were on the run, with Bheem, the most implacable of their adversaries, in pursuit.

  The roar of falling water filled the enormous cavern. The flame behind the water shot a thousand diamonds on to the walls, dancing off line upon line of writing etched from floor to distant ceiling, so dense that not an inch of stone was left uncovered. Krupacharya gazed deep into the dancing flame and turned to look at the lifeless body on the cavern floor.

  ‘Mrityu Gyaan,’ he said. ‘It is our only hope.’

  Ashvatthama looked hard at the acharya. ‘You would seek answers from the dead. But that would mean . . .’

  Krupacharya nodded. ‘My life is unimportant.’ He gestured at the writing on the wall. ‘The Bhrigushastra. The complete record of all that is to come. Without Shukra, we cannot interpret it. We have to know what he knew. As long as humans live, the asuras’ war is not ended and Shukra was guru to the asuras . . .’

  ‘You are our guru!’ Kritavarma protested. ‘We cannot harm you! It is not permitted . . .’

  ‘It is defeat that is not permitted.’ Krupa’s eyes were implacable. ‘We are dead already. The Kauravs have ceased to exist. So must the Pandavs. The asuras have long waited for vengeance. Their revenge must also be ours. Every descendant of the accursed Pandu must be exterminated, even if the entire human race is erased from the face of the earth.’