Ashwatthama's Vengeance : Episode 2
In the previous part, we saw what Ashwatthama did under the cover of night — an act carried out not in battle or the heat of combat, but in silence, against those who had no chance to defend themselves.
Before going further, it is worth pausing to ask why this episode, among so many in the Mahabharata, refuses to remain only a story of the past.
Cruelty alone does not make it memorable. History has seen enough of that. What makes this moment endure is what follows — the point at which a deeply unsettled mind comes into possession of power that cannot be safely taken back. When that happens, the danger becomes catastrophic.
With that in mind, we return to Ashwatthama.
Ashwatthama does not look back at what the night has left behind. He moves swiftly toward the riverbank where Duryodhana lies.
There is no camp here — only the remnants of defeat: broken, scattered weapons and the slow, shallow breathing of a king who can no longer rise. Duryodhana’s body has been shattered. The earth itself seems to hold him in place.
Ashwatthama approaches and kneels. “It is done,” he says.
For a moment, Duryodhana’s eyes open wider than pain allows. Something passes across his face — not triumph or joy, but release. The long hatred loosens its grip.
“You have repaid them,” he murmurs. “Now I can go.”
Ashwatthama does not answer. He rises at once. His mind is elsewhere.
The sound of a chariot reaches him from behind. He pauses, listening. There is no need to turn. Arjuna will be close.
He leaves the riverbank and enters the forest, stopping at the edge of Vyasa’s ashram.
Arjuna reins in his horses. Bhima comes up beside him.
The forest here is different. The air does not carry the smell of blood. Leaves lie undisturbed.
Vyasa steps forward.
“You have brought the war here,” he says quietly. “This ground is not meant for it.”
Ashwatthama lifts his head. “I did not bring the war. I only finished what remained.”
Vyasa’s gaze does not waver. “Finished?” he asks. “Or carried it beyond its end?”
He pauses, then adds, “The law stands. It does not bend to those who come here to escape the consequences of a vile act.”
Ashwatthama hears him — but his eyes remain on Arjuna. It is Arjuna who unsettles him most.
The old comparison surfaces again — never resolved, only endured. As Ashwatthama stands on the edge of action, the memory returns of how he came to possess the Brahmastra he now holds. Not as something freely entrusted, but as something pressed for. His father hesitated then, aware of the danger, weighing fairness against judgment, and finally yielded. What Ashwatthama received was knowledge given late, and with reluctance — and that disappointment never left him.
Yet the memory does not remain one-sided. Drona had not withheld everything. There was the Narayana Astra, given later, with warning, meant for a single use and only in the gravest need. Ashwatthama remembers it as proof that his father had, in the end, acknowledged him.
What followed unsettles him still. When the weapon was used after Drona’s death, its force did not reach its conclusion. Krishna intervened, instructing Arjuna and the others to set aside their weapons. By doing so, they rendered the Astra ineffective. Ashwatthama does not read this as restraint rightly imposed. What stays with him is the interruption — the sense that even when something was finally given, its outcome had been prevented.
Ashwatthama’s grip tightens. The thought hardens as he turns to the Brahmastra. What he has carried for years now breaks its restraint — not in confusion, but in resolve, shaped by grievance and by the certainty that what was once delayed, checked, or rendered powerless must now be taken without concession.
Ashwatthama releases the Brahmastra.
The act is immediate — the unmistakable crossing of a final line.
Arjuna responds at once. Training answers before judgment can intervene. He releases the Brahmastra in counter, not to strike Ashwatthama down, but because such force cannot be left unanswered.
The air thickens. The ground warms beneath their feet. Trees split and darken. Water along the forest’s edge recoils from its banks.
Krishna steps forward. “Withdraw,” he commands.
Arjuna obeys. He recalls what he has released, restraining it before it completes its course. The escalation halts — not ended, but arrested.
Ashwatthama does not withdraw. Whether he cannot, or will not, no longer matters. What he has set in motion does not return to him in obedience. It remains unstable, dangerous, seeking a target.
He sees it then — Arjuna’s restraint, Krishna’s authority, and his own failure laid bare. The comparison he has lived with all his life finally breaks.
He turns the force away — not toward those who stand armed, but toward the unborn child carried by Uttara.
The choice is deliberate.
Krishna moves at once. He enters where destruction has no right to go and arrests it there. The force is broken before it can touch life. The child lives.
In time, the heir of the Kuru line will be born — the future emperor spared at the edge of extinction.
Krishna looks at Ashwatthama steadily.
What stands revealed is not a warrior overcome by fate, but a man who could not govern himself — and therefore should never have held what he was given.
He reaches out and removes the jewel set upon Ashwatthama’s forehead — the mark of protection, the sign of privilege.
“You will live,” Krishna says. “But you will not be spared.”
Ashwatthama lowers his head. Born a chiranjivi, he is condemned to wander the earth — wounded, restless, carrying the pain of what he has done, unable to escape memory or consequence.
His punishment will not redeem him. It will endure — so that this moment, when insecurity armed with absolute power nearly erased the future, will not be forgotten.
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