Mythological fiction: After the war, Karna lives in a gurukul, trying to bury the ghosts of the past

Present Day, Anga…

“It’s called the Vishnu’s Wrath,” said the jailor.

The two soldiers followed the stumpy, bald man to the front. One of them was the new recruit and he was exceptionally quiet for the job. While the other soldier was wispy and unkind, often blabbering about how he was guarding the king of Anga during Deepavali and he was exceptionally proud to do that at such an age.

“You have to be careful. The king has specifically instructed not to converse with it, in any sort of way.” The jailor continued.

They were walking in an empty alleyway, which only seemed empty because most of the prisoners were asleep. The cells had grills and the floors were stony. It was an underground prison.

“It has tried to escape from the prison multiple times and you have to be careful. It is smart.”

he other soldier, the one who was chatty, asked: “Why is it called Vishnu’s Wrath, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“The origins of the name is as obscure as the entity itself.” The quieter soldier arched his brows as the jailor uttered the word “entity”, as if Vishnu’s Wrath was some kind of a creature.

The jailor continued: “The king said it, and the name… it travelled from Lord Krishna of Dwarka himself. We don’t know how we came across it, but we know Vishnu’s Wrath is mighty dangerous.”

“Isn’t Lord Vishnu synonymous with peace and preservation?” The chatty soldier asked.

“But he has allowed this abomination to exist, so it must be his twisted sense of humour,” the jailor spoke, finally nearing the cell of the entity itself. “It has killed the very guards who you will replace tonight. You should not look in its eyes. Also don’t let it touch you. Just never let it touch you. And it goes without saying that the existence of Vishnu’s Wrath is mighty confidential. Not a single word, otherwise your heads will be cut off.”

“All right, sir,” the chatty soldier said while the quiet one meekly nodded. He had a helmet on top of his head. “Why doesn’t the king kill it?”

“Because they need it. For some reason, they need it. They do tests on it, train it and torture it and well… what not.” The jailor scoffed. “How the bloody mongrels am I supposed to know everything! I don’t, I’m telling you.” And the soldiers went quiet at his burst of anger. “I just have to make sure she doesn’t escape till tomorrow. She has more tests. Some big doctor is coming to visit her from Dwarka.”

They came to the cell and the jailor extended his hand for the soldiers to get a first-hand look at Vishnu’s Wrath.

At the centre of the cell, the quiet soldier noticed, was no creature. It was no entity. It was no otherworldly madness of abomination.

It was just a young, beautiful girl.

The girl was meditating. She had white hair resembling an old woman, but she wasn’t old at all. She had a pale face and a slender frame. She had bruises all over her face and wounds too. She was wearing a long gown, and she was in her happy place; perhaps imagining the world before she was brought in.

The two soldiers were standing on each side of the cell, facing their backs to the cell, so they don’t have to see her.

“Do you wonder why a young, beautiful damsel like her is a danger to reckon with?” The chatty soldier asked.

The quiet one was silent as always. Not uttering a word. But the chatty one, he was brimming with energy and excitement, with a grin as wide as the space between his broken teeth.

“I feel it’s all drama.” The soldier shrugged. “She must be some concubine the king wanted to get rid of.”

The king. The quiet soldier knew the king. Well, he was after all, Satyasena, the ally to the Pandavas and to Lord Krishna. He had become the king of Anga, after the war of Kurukshetra was won. And from what the quiet soldier knew, he was quite famous for having multiple wives but not concubines. He had never heard of such a thing.

“If she is a quarrelsome concubine who wanted her due, she would have been killed by now. Instead, she’s guarded well. Which makes me wonder again, who is she and where has she come from?”

The quiet one didn’t respond. He remained firm and tall. While the chatty one was small and plump, as much as a soldier can afford to be.

“A doctor from Dwarka came to see her, some big shot she is,” the soldier said. “I still feel she’s just being blown out of proportion.”

The quiet guard nodded.

“You don’t speak a lot, do you?” Asked the other one. “Where did you serve before you became a guard dog?” He paused.

The quiet soldier felt a tenuous restrain in his voice as he said, “I have served…” and he went silent again as the man opposite him continued to walk towards him, leaving his position, his eyes piercing into him.

“I haven’t seen you before. Ever.”

He was inching closer to the quiet one.

And the quiet guard – he knew what he had to do.

The other guard didn’t speak further, as the quiet one had brought his blade right through his throat, spraying blood on his face. It was done with such swiftness that even Vishnu’s Wrath didn’t fathom it and she opened her eyes to find a soldier’s corpse outside, with the other guard looking over it.

She pushed herself back.

“Who are you?” She cried.

The quiet soldier wasn’t so quiet anymore, he had the keys to the cell that he had stolen from the jailor’s girdle while the jailor was busy chatting with the other guard. He opened the door and let out his hands as he said, “I am a friend. I know everything about you. I have been secretly researching. Come. I can help you and take you to a safe place.”

“Who… are… you?” She rasped, her bright sapphire eyes gleaming in the dark.

The quiet soldier flared his nostrils as he revealed himself:

“I go by the name of Ashwatthama.”