Ashwatthama Today - Chapter 3: The Midnight Murder and the Immortal Regret
The voice from the radio said it softly, as if quieter would make it less true.
“...five-year-old boy found beside his mother. A kitchen worker. Both incinerated in the second blast. No group has claimed responsibility.”
Ashwatthama sat hunched beneath the bridge, spine curved like a hook, eyes vacant. Smoke from a small fire curled up from an empty can of kerosene beside him. The wind tasted like iron.
He blinked once.
And in that blink, it came.
Not like a wave.
Like a blade.
It was night again.
Kurukshetra.
The battlefield lay in ruin. Horses long dead. Arrows broken. Bones picked clean. The earth itself seemed too exhausted to weep anymore.
But Ashwatthama found him.
Near the lake.
Half-submerged in reeds.
Duryodhana.
Still breathing. Barely.
His thigh—shattered. His body—rotting. His crown—gone.
Flies sang where soldiers once knelt.
Ashwatthama approached silently.
He could smell the wound before he saw it.
“Guruputra,” Duryodhana rasped, one eye half-swollen shut, “they... shamed us.”
Ashwatthama knelt.
“They broke the rules,” he said. “Bhishma was unarmed. Drona was meditating. Karna—gods, Karna was pulling his chariot wheel from the mud.”
He swallowed something bitter.
“And they laughed.”
Duryodhana coughed blood. It glistened black in the moonlight.
“Make it right,” he whispered. “Take the war to where they sleep.”
Ashwatthama said nothing.
Then Duryodhana raised one trembling finger—cracked, trembling, black with rot—and dipped it into the pulsing wound on his thigh. The flesh hissed, peeled back like wet bark. Thick blood mixed with pus clung to his nail.
He reached out.
And with that dying hand, he smeared it across Ashwatthama’s forehead.
A line. A mark.
Right over the mani—the jewel that had glowed in his brow since the hour of his birth.
“I name you Senapati,” Duryodhana whispered, his voice already halfway to the grave.
The blood burned. Not like fire—like infection. Like something alive crawling into him.
Ashwatthama did not flinch.
He bowed his head - as surrender to his King, his friend - BUT
In that moment—the light of the gem dimmed.
It did not fade gently. It shuddered, as if resisting, before going dull under the weight of rotting blood.
As if Duryodhana’s wound had not just marked him, but poisoned the divine.
The jewel—his birthright, his soul’s shield—was no longer clean.
And deep inside Ashwatthama, something ancient recoiled.
But something else… something darker… opened its eyes.
The rot of Duryodhana’s wound had found a way in.
The tilak was not a blessing.
It was a burial.
And the man who rose from that kneel was not the man who had once sought truth in mantras, or dreamed of his father’s approval.
That man had been sealed beneath a festering crown.
This one—was made for vengeance.
The tilak on his forehead was not a symbol now.
It was a blight.
A festering sign that something sacred had been overrun. Infected. Twisted.
And the one who rose from that kneel was no longer the son of Drona.
He was something else.
No longer a man of mantras.
But a monster with memory.
And he would bring the war to them once more.
How—he did not know.
He understood he could never stand against the Pandavas, nor against Krishna.
He was no Karna.
Still, though the way was shrouded in darkness,
he knew—deep in his bones—that he wanted to kill the Pandavas—once and for all.
As the sun edged toward sundown, with only a few hours of light left, Ashwatthama set out on a slow walk. The weight of the title Senapati pressed on him like a stone in his chest, growing heavier with every step. He sought to clear his mind—and to gather food—though the burden gnawed at his thoughts, dark and relentless.
Wandering through the fading light, he came upon a cruel scene: a lone owl, cornered and harassed by a swarm of crows. They screamed and clawed, tearing at its wings, dragging it through the dirt. Ashwatthama paused, watching from the shadows. A flicker of sympathy stirred—but he said to himself, If fate wills it, what can I do to stop?
He turned away, leaving the owl to its torment, and pressed deeper into the forest in search of fruit—any morsel to still the gnawing hunger.
He had always been one to skip meals without complaint—going days without food or water, unlike the Pandavas or Kauravas. He could fight and train for hours on end, utterly unfazed by thirst or hunger. Often forgetting what hunger even meant—something Bhima could never do, for he was always ravenous.
But today felt different. His stomach growled again and again—whether it was hunger for food or hunger for vengeance, he could not tell.
The sun slipped below the horizon, bleeding its last light into the bruised sky. Hours passed, slow and heavy, as twilight deepened into night. The forest exhaled a long, restless breath—the fading warmth retreating into shadows, replaced by the cool, watchful presence of the moon.
Ashwatthama moved steadily through the underbrush, the weight of darkness pressing closer with each step. The air grew thick and still, the usual chorus of the forest falling into uneasy silence. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, and the distant calls of night creatures faded to ghostly echoes.
Then—without warning—the silence shattered.
A sudden, violent eruption tore through the quiet: wings beating furiously, sharp cries cleaving the darkness, and the harsh, desperate sounds of a battle fought not with swords, but with talons and beaks.
The owl had returned.
No longer hunted, it moved with the deadly grace of vengeance made flesh.
It struck with precision born of suffering:
Ripping through the roosts, cutting beaks from skulls, tearing flesh and snapping bones, claws shredding nests from branches, fledglings wailing as they were torn from helpless mothers.
The crows—proud and cruel just hours before—were now broken, scattered, and bloodied.
Ashwatthama watched, breath caught, a dark smile curling his lips.
In that violent silence, the truth settled inside him like cold fire:
Vengeance is not granted to the weak or the unwilling.
It is given only to those who will it—and have the strength to see it done.
And the answer to the Senapati of Duryodhana had come.
He would strike where they slept.
The Kuru Commander, last of his name, entered the Pandava camp at the hour of deepest sleep.
Kripacharya and Kritavarma remained at the edge of the trees. Neither asked for his plan.
They already knew.
but what they didnt know was how quickly and silently he could move.
He crossed into the main tent—standard of Arjuna at the top.
Five forms.
Five shadows in sleep.
He did not hesitate.
The first throat opened under his blade like a fruit.
The second gave only a gasp.
The third whimpered, “Mata...” before the silence took him.
The fourth tried to sit up—Ashwatthama drove his knee into the ribs and heard them collapse.
The fifth turned. Reached.
Too late.
Ashwatthama beheaded him with one perfect stroke.
He stepped outside.
The stars hadn’t moved.
And the silence was absolute.
Dhrishtadyumna slept in a tent near the prayer stones.
Son of Drona entered like a shadow. No sword. No challenge.
He stood over the Pandava commander, staring down at the man who had killed his father.
He thought of Drona, meditating, eyes closed, whispering mantras.
And the sword that sliced through his neck.
And Dhrishtadyumna—raising the severed head high, roaring like a demon, hurling insults over the corpse to demoralize the Kauravas.
Guruputra's jaw clenched.
He reached forward.
And with the precision of a snake, he struck—grabbing Dhrishtadyumna’s throat and tightening.
The commander gasped awake, flailing.
“Face me!” he choked. “At least... a blade... let me die a warrior’s—”
Ashwatthama leaned in.
“No,” he hissed. “My father died unarmed. So will you.”
He squeezed.
Slow. Cruel. Deliberate.
Dhrishtadyumna thrashed—then fell still.
Ashwatthama dropped the body into the dirt and walked out.
When the sun rose—
He learned the truth.
He had killed not the Pandavas.
But their sons.
The Upapandavas.
Children.
Blood still warm.
He staggered.
Then he ran—because he knew the Pandavas, with their divine protector, would come hunting for him.
-----------------------------
And come for him they did.
Arjuna. Bhima. Nakula. Sahadeva. Draupadi. Krishna.
At the edge of Vyasa’s ashram, they closed in—an unyielding circle of fury, grief, and divine authority.
The Kuru Senapati met their eyes.
The fire of rage blazing in Arjuna’s.
The heavy sorrow shadowing Draupadi’s gaze.
The quiet, resolute disappointment etched deep in Krishna’s.
He was the Kuru Senapati—bereft of bow, arrow, or sword. A general without arms. But weapons were never what made him dangerous.
So what if his hands were empty?
He was the son of Dronacharya. Trained in the sacred mantras. Forged in the same fire that had birthed Arjuna’s brilliance.
With a swift, fluid motion, he reached down, plucked a single blade of grass—and whispered the incantation so fast, so fiercely, the air itself flinched.
The Pandavas hadn’t yet moved.
And the sky shattered.
The Brahmashira Astra screamed into existence—its fury splitting the heavens, its heat waking the dead.
The earth convulsed.
Animals bolted in panic.
Flames rose in twisting, sentient spirals—hungry, divine.
Across from him, Arjuna’s face turned still as stone.
And then, without hesitation, the Pandava raised his hands and summoned his own.
The second Brahmashira surged forth.
Two serpents of fire, coiling through the sky, hurtling toward each other—
The end of all things - the apocalypse poised on a razor’s edge. born of a blade of grass.
Then, like a force beyond time, Ved Vyasa appeared—radiant, grave, and commanding as the final hour.
Krishna had given a subtle nod to Vyasa.
The god stepped forward, beginning to reason gently but firmly with the Kuru Senapati—Duryodhana’s last hope, now twisted by the poison of bitter vengeance.
“Do you not see?” Vyasa’s voice was thunder and balm. “This weapon is no tool for vengeance. Its destruction is total—endless. It is not yours to wield lightly.”
Krishna moved beside Arjuna, speaking softly but with power.
He had always known how to reach the warrior’s heart.
Arjuna bowed his head, the fire of his wrath tempered by Krishna’s words.
But the Kuru Senapati—he clenched his fists in silent fury.
He could not deny the truth of Vyasa’s counsel.
Yet even if he wished to call back the Brahmashira, he could not.
He had never truly mastered it.
Only Arjuna had been taught fully—Drona’s clear favorite.
The sting of that favoritism burned in the Kuru Senapati’s heart like poison.
He forgot—or chose to forget—the love his father bore for him.
How Drona’s soul shattered, how he lost his will to live...
When he took samadhi, broken by the cruel trick of Yudhishthira’s announcement—
Believing the son he cherished was lost.
Buried beneath rage and the dark legacy he now carried.
Vyasa implored again, “Redirect the weapon, Kuru Senapati! Spare the world this ruin.”
With a grim nod, the Kuru Senapati obeyed.
If he could not kill the Pandavas here with the Brahmashira,
Then he would end their bloodline.
The dark poison of Duryodhana’s hatred consumed him.
The loss of his brothers, the betrayal of his friend—rage swelled until all else drowned.
His curse was not only upon their lives, but upon the future they carried.
Eyes dead, he remembered—vengeance is given only to those who will it and have the strength to wield it.
Let the Pandava line end here.
He gathered every last drop of strength, every ounce of burning will—so that his aim would not falter, so that his vengeance would not miss.
And he moved his hand—
Toward Uttara.
The pregnant widow of Abhimanyu.
The last flicker of the Pandava flame.
Unborn blood.
Arjuna’s grandson.
The final thread of their legacy.
He reached—slow, deliberate, merciless—
Not toward her face, nor her heart.
But toward her womb.
Let it end before it begins.
But within a moment - Krishna had disappeared in a flash of a light! but no one seemed to have noticed his absence
Arjuna seized the Kuru Senapati by the hair and dragged him through the camp.
At the center, Draupadi stood waiting—silent, regal, like death cloaked in silk.
Arjuna bowed slightly and obeyed her command, bringing the fallen warrior to her feet.
She looked down at him, her eyes burning with the weight of all she had lost.
“For the revenge of my sons, you deserve death,” she began, voice cold but steady.
“But even you, son of Drona, have a mother who will mourn your fall.”
Her gaze hardened.
“Life has been cruel to me—ripping away all my sons—Abhimanyu, my last hope. But still, I have my husbands.”
She took a breath, voice rising like thunder.
“I cannot snatch from a mother her husband, nor from a wife the son of another woman.”
“But oh, Ashwatthama,” she hissed, “you will be punished—harshly—for your unrighteousness. For the evil you have sown.”
She turned abruptly toward Bhima.. His name uttered echoed like a war cry.
In that moment - the Kuru Senapati thought he would be torn apart—limb by limb, crushed underfoot, rolled in the dust like a broken leaf.
Draupadi's voice was as sharp as a blade.
“The Mani. the jewel on his head.”
Her husband—
The one who once climbed the heights of Gandhamādana,
chasing the wind-born scent of a single Saugandhika flower,
just to see her smile in exile.
Bhīma.
Who faced lions and rakshasas,
who stood before Hanuman himself,
for a blossom that pleased his wife.
Now stood before her again—
Not to offer a flower,
but to answer a call.
Arjuna, still gripping the last Kuru Senapati by his hair, pulled him upright.
Then, with a guttural roar, Bhima seized him.
The earth seemed to tremble under Bhima’s fury.
Muscles bulging, veins coursing with relentless strength, Bhima lifted the Kuru Senapati as if he weighed no more than a feather.
And then—
He crushed him.
The camp seemed to hold its breath as Bhima’s rage unfolded—a force impossible to resist, relentless as a storm.
Dragged before them all, the Kuru Senapati—Duryodhana’s last hope—lay broken, disarmed, defeated.
And for a fleeting moment, Ashwatthama wished Bhima would end it.
Smash his skull with a mace. Shatter his bones. Let the mani be pried from a corpse. Dharma, adharma—let them all be swept away. Let death be the final kindness.
But that mercy did not come.
Bhima’s strength was unmatched—but even he struggled with the task. His great fingers, wide as tree roots, pressed against the embedded gem. The mani resisted. It was not simply worn—it was part of him. Fused with pride, cursed with grief. A relic of war, rage, and what remained of legacy.
It began to loosen—just barely—blood rising in thin rivulets.
And then—
A memory.
A voice.
A presence.
Karna.
His dearest friend. His shadow and his light. His reflection across time.
The one born with divinity stitched into his very skin. The one who, like Ashwatthama, had lived in the long ache of being almost chosen—overshadowed by Arjuna, beloved disciple of Drona.
Karna, who had never wavered. Never demanded. Who had given his Kavach, his Kundals, his very protection to the gods—with no cry, no plea, no curse.
Ashwatthama saw him again—standing before Indra, offering himself in perfect daan.
A gift. Without pride. Without fear. With only truth.
And then a voice—felt more than heard—rose in him, like a wind from the other side.
“Pain means nothing, if the gift is just.”
Ashwatthama breathed.
And with the force of surrender—that could only have come from Karna—he reached up with his own bloodied fingers.
Pain like he had never known.
No sword had ever cut so deep.
No flame had ever burned so hot.
It felt like his soul was being unshelled.
The wound started to open
And it wasn't closing
Blood poured down his face in thick rivers.
He collapsed.
And in that moment, as the world fell away—
No scream escaped his lips. No howl of agony shattered the sky.
But his eyes bled tears—thick with salt, sorrow, and blood.
He pulled.
And pulled.
Until with one final surge, the mani came loose—wet, red, glistening with the heat of the soul.
And he did what Karna had done in another time, under another sky.
He tore off a piece of divinity he was born with from his body...
He tore off the gem from his own forehead.
He offered it. Willingly.
He rose to his knees, hands trembling, and extended it toward her.
To Draupadi.
The mother he had wronged.
The queen whose sons he had murdered in their sleep.
The wife whose screams had echoed in the darkness he created.
He placed the gem into her palm.
Not as a weapon.
Not as a trophy.
But as atonement.
And as he looked upon her—the fire of loss burning in her eyes—he thought of Karna again.
Karna, who would wait for him.
Across time. Across death.
Wait for him so they could meet again.
To laugh.
To walk side by side once more.
To fall into the embrace of friendship that life had denied them, but that the next might yet grant.
To grow old together, where no war would reach them.
Where they would no longer be almost chosen.
Only together.
And as Draupadi closed her fingers around the gem, Ashwatthama bowed his head.
Not in defeat.
But in surrender.
---------------------------------------
Krishna knelt beside Ashwatthama. when he had reappeared - Ashwatthama never knew
“You were not immortal,” he said. “You were shielded. And you used that shield to slaughter. To destroy the unborn. To kill children. Women. Servants.”
He leaned close.
“You fled death for lifetimes.
So now—you will know what it means to live without it.”
His hand glowed.
Touched the wound.
And the curse poured into it.
“You will wander.
Rot.
Decay.
No temple will shelter you.
No blade will finish you.
Ashwatthama gasped.
For a moment—just a flicker—he thought Krishna might bless him. That the dark god, slayer of tyrants and lifter of curses, would place a gentle hand on his forehead. Stop the bleeding. Ease the agony. As Indra had done for Karna, in recognition of the warrior's valor, his selfless daan.
But no such grace came.
Because Karna had not murdered children in their sleep.
Karna had not crept like a jackal in the night to slaughter sons under the veil of dreams.
Karna had never raised a weapon against women—or their unborn.
And Ashwatthama remembered then:
The mani he had handed to Draupadi was not a daan. It was a penance.
Atonement for a crime blacker than any shadow cast by man.
And the curse?
It was just.
It was his truth now.
To walk the ages wounded and watched, with the smell of blood in his nose and the memory of screams in his ears.
Not blessed.
Branded.
By the hand of God himself.
....
And since then - the world changed.
Delhi, 2025.
Beneath the cracked belly of a forgotten bridge,
he wept.
Not for himself.
Not for the child in Pahalgam.
Not even for the pain—that eternal ember—left behind when the mani was torn from his forehead,
the agony he had grown used to wearing like a second skin.
But for the only man who had ever made him better.
Karna.
Even in death.
Still his mirror.
Still his friend.
The one who had walked the path of dharma,
even as the world spat on him.
The one who had given without anger,
loved without condition,
and died without regret.
Ashwatthama closed his eyes.
He could almost hear Karna’s laughter—
soft, distant,
like the echo of a life that might have been.
And in that moment,
he did not mourn the curse.
He mourned the absence
of the only soul
who had ever made him feel
like he could be more
than what the world had made him.
The voice from the radio continued -
“…… Both perished instantly in the blast. Indian security
officials have condemned the attack and pointed fingers at Pakistan-based
militant groups, accusing them of orchestrating the strike. No group has yet
officially claimed responsibility.”
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