Ashwatthama sank to his knees, letting his back rest against the gnarled trunk of a Banyan tree. His being was not merely stained but utterly drenched in blood—his own and that of the fallen Pandava forces. The Panchalas, Matsyas, Vrishnis, Chedis, Kekayas—the countless warriors who had narrowly escaped the relentless onslaught of Kurukshetra for 18 days—now lay lifeless in the very moment of their supposed victory.
‘Victory,’ Ashwatthama scoffed at the thought, wiping the blood from his beard. He leaned back, closing his eyes.
He had committed unspeakable acts: massacring the unsuspecting soldiers, slaughtering their animals, even ending the lives of their teenage children who had innocently yearned for the thrill of battle. Yet, there was no trace of remorse or shame within him. Ashwatthama tried to convince himself otherwise.
Shame was a distant memory. What consumed him now was the unexpected twist of fate—he, once a friend to the Pandavas, now hunted them. Ashwatthama had spent his entire life in close association with both the Kauravas and the Pandavas and he was one of the few people who could claim close friendship with both Arjuna and Karna, with both Bheema and Duryodhana. Ashwatthama had stood by the Pandavas during their darkest hours: when their wife Draupadi faced dishonor, during their exile, and when their kingdom was refused to be given back to them.
And what did those wretches do? Killed his father, in cold blood.
Their teacher, the same Drona Acharya who had treated them as his own sons. Gave them love Ashwatthama could only dream of. He clenched his fists, as his fingers twitched. Ashwatthama had bashed Dhritadyumna to death, till the skin on his fist was torn out and his bones were almost coming out of them. He had thought his anger would subside at killing him, the instrument of his father’s death, born of a so called celestial prophecy that proclaimed him as the one who would kill Drona. But he wasn’t the killer, at least not the sole one. The Pandavas were the killers, who had betrayed his father’s trust and killed him deceitfully. If Drona had perished fighting Ashwatthama would have revelled in his father’s glories, but now he sat in the forest filled with vengeance.
“Reminiscing of your father, Dronaputr?”, a voice called out to him, piercing his thoughts.
Ashwatthama was startled for a moment as he opened his eyes to see Vyasa.
The old seer was a master of the Vedas, which had earned him the title of Ved Vyasa. He was the ancestor of both the Pandavas and Kauravas, their grandfather and in fact the sole reason for their existence. In the pitch black night, his dark skin tone camouflaged his features. There were legends that spoke of Vyasa being a Chiranjeevi, an immortal who would live on till Pralay-the end of the world. Yet as Ashwatthama studied the sage, doubt crept in his mind. Yes Vyasa was revered, divine even, but immortal? His suspicion was surprising for himself. His own uncle, Kripa was blessed with immortality due to his impartiality as a teacher to the Pandavas and Kauravas. Ashwatthama couldn’t imagine spending his life outliving those he loved, but hadn’t he already outlived them?
Vyasa was perched down on small boulder, holding a bowl of water in Ashwatthama’s direction. Ashwatthama grabbed the bowl from his grasp, so quickly that he was worried that he might have hurt Vyasa, but Vyasa just kept a straight face, much to Ashwatthama’s relief. As he gulped down the water, Vyasa spoke once more, “That water was meant for washing your face boy”, he chided gently, “how is it that you are feeling thirsty?”
Ashwatthama understood the reason behind the inquiry. Embedded on his forehead rested the Syron Ratna—the very essence of Mahadev. This divine crimson gem bestowed upon him immunity from hunger, thirst, ailments, and pain. Drona, his father, had earned the blessings of Mahadev, ensuring that Ashwatthama would be a Rudra—an embodiment of Shiva’s divine essence. From the moment of his birth, the gem had adorned his forehead, its red glow reminiscent of Shiva’s third eye.
The truth was that Ashwatthama didn’t know why he was feeling thirsty, why his being had succumbed to exhaustion and why his wounds were burdening him with such immense pain.
“Why did you do it?”, Vyasa asked. His voice held no judgment, only curiosity.
“Because I promised Duryodhana,” Ashwatthama retorted, his anger flaring. “I vowed to destroy the Pandava forces, to avenge my father’s death.” Weariness weighed him down; he lacked the energy to evade Vyasa’s scrutiny.
“And do you believe you’ve fulfilled that vow, Dronaputr?” Vyasa’s calm demeanor contrasted with Ashwatthama’s rising rage. “Killing an unsuspecting army in their sleep—does that not amount to deceit?”
“Deceit?” Ashwatthama scoffed. “Do not lecture me on deceit, Rishi Vyasa! The Pandavas and Krishna orchestrated deceit aplenty. They slew my father, Karna, Duryodhana—all by cunning, and yet I am the one branded deceitful?”
He stood, glaring down at Vyasa. The sage remained unperturbed, unlike the fiery Durvasa who would curse him for such insolence. Perhaps Vyasa’s cool-headedness was the secret to his immortality.
“I wished I could have slain that wretch Arjuna and Krishna,” Ashwatthama confessed, collapsing at Vyasa’s feet. “They bear responsibility for all this suffering!” His grief threatened to overwhelm him. “Why did the Narayanastra fail? I alone possessed the knowledge of that weapon, which was capable of annihilating them, and yet it didn’t even scratch them.”
Vyasa’s reply cut through Ashwatthama’s despair. “What use is a Narayanastra against Narayana himself? Krishna is an avatar of Vishnu—you cannot kill him with his own weapon.”
Ashwatthama had heard tales of Krishna, one of the Dashavatar—the ten divine human incarnations of Lord Vishnu. Shri Ram was an avatar as well, living in the Treta Yuga as an ideal human being and the most righteous of kings. Krishna was not Shri Ram. He was the one who planted the seeds of war. His father’s death, Bheeshma’s fall, Karna’s killing and Duryodhana’s defeat-every single deceit had been carried out under Krishna’s counsel. No true Avatar would stoop to such treachery. Ashwatthama seethed, feeling duped by this self-proclaimed god.
But then, a thunderous voice shattered the night. “Ashwatthama!” he heard, and before he could identify the speaker, a blow struck his face, hurling him into the trees. His mind reeled, hands instinctively reaching for his throbbing head. As the haze lifted, he focused on the assailant before him.
Bheema, the second eldest Pandava prince and Duryodhana’s nemesis, stood before Ashwatthama. In his hands, he wielded the famed silver mace Vrigodharam—a weapon that bore the crimson stain of Ashwatthama’s blood. Despite the pain, Ashwatthama regained his footing, ready to face the wrathful Pandava. Arjuna and the other Pandavas raised their weapons to shield Bheema.
“Wretch! You killed our innocent children and our soldiers. If not for being our Acharyaputra, I would have strangled you to death at this very instant.”, Bheema roared. The Pandavas were visibly weary, probably owing to the shock deaths of their children and army.
This was Ashwatthama’s moment, his chance to obliterate the Pandavas once and for all.
“The dead don’t issue threats, Bheema,” Ashwatthama retorted. He plucked a handful of grass from the ground, focusing his energy. The forest ignited with a terrifying crimson glow—the manifestation of Ashwatthama’s mantra. The grass transformed into a divine arrow, its lotus-shaped head adorned with four deadly spikes.
The Brahmashirastra—the supreme weapon of Lord Brahma.
It was never intended for use against humans. But Ashwatthama cared little for rules. The Pandavas had chosen war, and now they would pay the price.
Meanwhile, Arjuna had invoked the Brahmashira as well, his enchantment speed surpassing Ashwatthama’s, enhanced by the Gandeeva bow gifted by Agni Dev himself. He truly was a skilled archer, but today his skills won’t save him.
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“Have you lost your mind, Ashwatthama?” Vyasa’s voice cut through the tension, revealing concern—the first time Ashwatthama had seen such emotion on the sage’s face.
But Ashwatthama paid little attention to him. He was here to end the Pandavas.
“Annihilate the wicked Pandavas,” he muttered to the Brahmashira, and hurled it towards them with all his might. Arjuna shot his astra and both arrow flew towards each other at a terrifying speed leaving behind fiery trails which scorched the ground below their feet. The forest blazed with their deathly glow, as the astras were on their collision course.
Ashwatthama closed his eyes, convinced that vengeance would be his final act.
Yet, no explosion came. Was he dead?
Opening his eyes, he was bathed in a brilliant golden light—celestial. A spinning, radiant gold disc spun between the astras, halting their collision. Ashwatthama squinted, realizing it was no ordinary disc—it was the Sudarshan Chakra, the weapon of…
Ashwatthama realised who had stopped the astras from colliding, as had the Pandavas who were looking behind Ashwatthama. He turned back to look at him.
Krishna.
The Yadava Prince, adorned with a golden tiara and his signature peacock feathers, stood resolute. His golden robes billowed in the scorching wind—the very wind stirred by the suspended astras. His face, usually exuding boyish charm even in dire situations, now bore a grim expression.
Ashwatthama’s rage surged at the sight of this ‘false’ god. He drew out a gold dagger gifted by Mahadeva himself and lunged at Krishna, who deftly sidestepped the attack. Ashwatthama staggered but remained on his feet. The nudge hadn’t been meant to harm him; it was a calculated move to disrupt his assault. This only fueled Ashwatthama’s fury—he sought no pity; he craved a fight to the death.
“Ashwatthama! Have you lost your senses?” Vyasa’s voice thundered. “The Brahmashira should not be used against mortals. And you, Arjuna, these astras must never clash, lest the land where they were fired remain parched for the next 1400 years! Recall your astras immediately!”
“Apologies, revered Vyasa,” Arjuna replied earnestly. “I launched the astra solely to intercept Ashwatthama’s weapon. As per your command, I will recall it.” Arjuna closed his eyes and meditated.
The astra transformed back into a normal arrow, shedding its terrible glow and returned Arjuna’s inexhaustible quiver.
“Ashwatthama!” Vyasa’s tone shifted. “Your misdeeds demand retribution. Remove the Ratna from your forehead. Invoking such a devastating astra will have consequences if they are used in a wrong way!”
Ashwatthama gritted his teeth, helpless to defy the command of the revered Maharishi—especially when that sage was none other than the Master of Vedas himself. His fingers trembled as he reached for the gem embedded in his forehead. The gem was more than an ornament; it was a part of his very being, akin to severing a limb to remove it. Agonizing pain surged through Ashwatthama as he pulled the gem free, leaving a gaping, bloodied hole in his forehead. He dropped the gem to the ground and collapsed on his knees. Gazing into a small puddle beside him, he recoiled in horror. His reflection revealed not the handsome warrior he once knew, but a grotesque demon staring back—a transformation that shattered his supposed fearlessness.
The gem flew to Krishna, who addressed Yudisthira, the eldest Pandava and now the King of the Kurus. “This gem shall adorn your crown, O king,” Krishna proclaimed. “Let Draupadi find solace in our disarming of Ashwatthama, so the sin of killing your Acharyaputr and a Brahmin in not wrought upon you.” Krishna’s voiced out, soothing yet calculated, seemed a fitting addition to his art of deception—an illusion of divinity. Ashwatthama harbored no hunger for life, and the Pandavas didn’t wish death upon him. But now, he would provoke them, ensuring they sought his demise. The battle might be theirs, but the war would belong to Ashwatthama and the Kauravas.
His Brahmashirastra remained suspended in the air by the Sudarshan Chakra. “I lack the knowledge to recall the Brahmashira,” he confessed to Vyasa. “So, I must use it to prevent the disrespect of Lord Brahma.” A wicked smile crept across his face as he locked eyes with Krishna.
“Hey Keshava,” Ashwatthama taunted, “if I unleash it upon you, surely you’ll die. Even avatars like Ram eventually shed their mortal forms. But you are not Ram. You can never be Ram. You’re a shameless man who claims divinity. I should kill you this very instant!”
The ‘avatar’ remained silent, his expression grim, yet he showed no traces of fear.
“But no,” Ashwatthama’s tone turned ominous. “A false god like you will meet his end eventually. I won’t squander the Brahmashira’s power on you. And as for the Pandavas…”
He fixed his gaze on Krishna and the Pandavas, his proclamation echoing through the charged air. “Let this weapon annihilate the future progeny of the Pandavas!”
Arjuna’s daughter-in-law, Uttara, carried the last hope for the Pandava lineage within her womb. Ashwatthama’s astra obeyed his command, hurtling toward her unborn child.
The Pandavas stood in stunned silence, their rage reaching its peak. Arjuna shot an arrow into Ashwatthama’s chest, his temper in its breakpoint.
Falling to the ground, Ashwatthama erupted into maniacal laughter. But Krishna had reached his limit. His once-attractive, dark-toned countenance now burned with rage.
“Your astra won’t harm the child, Ashwatthama,” Krishna declared, silencing the mad laughter.
“I bless Uttara’s child,” he continued, “that he shall be untouched by your malevolence and grow to become the next king of Hastinapura after Yudishthira. That child, born after the clan’s destruction, shall be Parikshit. And you, Dronaputr, I curse you! You shall exist alone and unwanted until the end of this Kalpa—your wounds unhealed, your acceptance lost. No longer worthy of humanity, death will forever elude you. Suffering shall be your eternal companion, O Paisacha!” Krishna’s gentle voice now resonated with ominous wrath.
Ashwatthama’s face contorted in horror. ‘NO! Kill me, Keshava!’ he pleaded, running towards Krishna. But Krishna’s wrath was from subsided, and as a final blow to Ashwatthama’s morale, he delivered a powerful kick. The impact sent Ashwatthama hurtling across the forest, blood spewing from his mouth. The once-glorious warrior now lay bloodied, battered, and cursed.
Tears welled up in Ashwatthama’s reddened eyes, mingling with the blood. He took one last look at Krishna’s distant silhouette and exhausted, he sank into a fitful slumber—the last peaceful rest he would know. When he awoke, sleep would be accompanied by unbearable pain.
Immortality. What use does it have?
When you are alone?
But Ashwatthama’s story was far from over…
———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
36 years later:
“Om Namah Shivay”
The cursed immortal was sitting inside a Shiva temple. Meditating. Suffering. Praying to the Shiva linga in front of him with folded hands to grant him death.
Ashwatthama had fashioned scrap metal from the Kaurava armors he possessed and created a metallic suit to preserve himself. The metal body englufed him completely, almost gave the impression that Ashwatthama was a metal statue. It wasn’t the most comfortable, but it did allow his being to avoid gaining more injuries as well as cool his body down. Most importantly, it helped his face to be hidden. Not that anyone had seen him for the last 36 years.
Karna had gifted him a special ointment, gifted to him by the Immortal Parashurama, the teacher of Ashwatthama’s father, which would grant him relief from pain when he had first met the eldest ‘Kaunteya’. He remembered the laughs he and Duryodhana shared when Duryodhana told him that Ashwatthama’s gem protected him from pain, and yet the golden warrior insisted he keep the ointment. The ointment did help him to sleep at least. Pain was nothing new after all these years for Ashwatthama.
Karna never appeared to be a Kaunteya, in death and in life, he was always loyal to Duryodhan. The truth of his birth was shocking, and even more shocking was the fact that Krishna knew it. Krishna had the key to prevent Kurukshetra and yet he threw away the key.
Footsteps interrupted his prayers.
Ashwatthama opened his eyes as he heard a familar, unwanted voice. “How are you Dronaputr?”
“How do you think Krishna? Being an outcast from society is a lot of fun, you can imagine.”, Ashwatthama replied bitterly. 36 years later, he was there to see him. No wonder, to mock his state.
Now Krishna was standing in front of him. He bowed before the Shiva Linga and then looked at him. Ashwatthama gritted his teeth, but Krishna didn’t notice since his metallic mask hid his face.
“Ah. Perhaps you still haven’t reflected on what you did. It’s a shame, that a divine Rudra can’t think beyond his ego.”, he mused. Ashwatthama noticed that age had began to show on his face, and while Krishna still had his unusual charm, his face appeared tired. He had a few grey hairs as well, which was surprising considering that Krishna should have looked far older.
“Ego? What I did was just war Keshava. No need to bring your human emotions to war. Wait, but you aren’t human Krishna. Apologies, my pain must have shrouded my memories. I will gladly listen to your celestial taunts.”, Ashwatthama spoke sarcastically. He didn’t have the will to fight him, but if Krishna would provoke him he definitely would.
“Killing children was never war Ashwatthama. What you suffer, is all a result of your actions. But I am not here to taunt you, but to tell you that you have a chance at redemption.”, Ashwatthama looked at Krishna, meeting his eyes for the first time. “My time on Earth is done. The world will soon be in the grasp of Kaliyuga, the last age. You are Chiranjeevi now, and as such you will help me when I take my final avatar.”, Krishna said earnestly.
“And why do you assume I will help you? I could care less about your divine mission.”, Ashwatthama said, drawing his eyes away from Krishna once more.
Krishna smiled. “Oh you will Dronaputr. With your own free will. You’ll understand soon enough.”
Ashwatthama looked at him, but he was gone. As if he was never there. Maybe he wasn’t. Perhaps it was his ‘divine’ aura who had come to speak to him. To ask for his help. ‘Help him?’, Ashwatthama pondered.
“Never”, Ashwatthama whispered as the word echoed in the empty temple.