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A Night with Aswathama

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The year was 1993, and I found myself driving through the winding roads of Mandsaur, a district in Madhya Pradesh, India. My destination was Ratangarh, a small village perched atop a hill. The journey, which should have been routine, turned into an adventure that would forever change my perception of reality and history.

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As I navigated the treacherous path, the heavens opened up, unleashing a torrential downpour. My old Premier Padmini, a relic from a bygone era of Indian automotive history, struggled against the elements. The wipers, fighting a losing battle against the deluge, barely managed to clear the windshield for fleeting moments of visibility.

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The darkness was oppressive, broken only by the occasional flash of lightning that illuminated the landscape in stark, terrifying clarity. Thunder rumbled ominously, as if the gods themselves were expressing their displeasure at my journey.

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As I began the ascent up the ghats, my heart racing with each hairpin turn, a blinding flash of lightning revealed a dark figure directly in my path. Instinctively, I slammed on the brakes, the car’s tires screeching in protest as they fought for traction on the rain-slicked road. By some miracle, I managed to bring the vehicle to a halt mere inches from the mysterious figure.

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Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I peered through the rain-streaked windshield. The headlights illuminated a man of imposing stature, his height easily surpassing seven feet. Anger and fear mingled in my voice as I shouted at him, demanding to know why he was standing in the middle of the road during such treacherous conditions.

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The man, seemingly unperturbed by my outburst, simply raised his arm and pointed ahead. Following his gesture, I gasped in shock. There, blocking the entire width of the road, lay an enormous fallen tree. Had it not been for this stranger’s intervention, I would have surely crashed into it, with potentially fatal consequences.

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My anger quickly dissipated, replaced by a potent cocktail of fear and gratitude. I found myself in a precarious situation – stranded in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by darkness, with an enormous stranger standing before me. The rational part of my mind screamed danger, but something about the man’s presence felt oddly reassuring.

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“Come out,” he said, his voice deep and powerful, cutting through the sound of the raging storm. “It is not safe here.”

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Despite my trepidation, I found myself complying. There was an inexplicable comfort in his voice, a sense of authority that seemed to transcend our bizarre meeting. I stepped out of the car, immediately drenched by the relentless rain.

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As I stumbled after him, he turned, allowing me a clear view of his face for the first time. What I saw nearly caused me to lose my footing on the slippery ground. His face was a canvas of pain and suffering, dominated by a deep, ghastly wound on his forehead. Blood oozed from the injury, mixing with the rainwater to create rivulets of crimson that ran down his face.

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Upon closer inspection, I noticed that his entire body bore signs of recent trauma. His hands and feet were crisscrossed with cuts and abrasions, as if he had been through a terrible ordeal. Despite the cold rain that battered us both, he seemed oblivious to his injuries or the harsh weather. His face remained calm, almost serene, but his eyes… his eyes held a depth of pain that spoke of ages of suffering.

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We trudged through the downpour, the tall stranger leading the way with unwavering confidence despite the pitch darkness. After what felt like an eternity, we reached the mouth of a cave. My mysterious savior disappeared inside for a moment before emerging with an armful of dry wood. With practiced ease, he soon had a fire blazing, its warmth a welcome respite from the cold and wet.

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I retrieved my travel bag from the car, grateful for the chance to change into dry clothes. As I warmed myself by the fire, the stranger busied himself preparing a simple meal. Soon, the cave was filled with the comforting aroma of rice kanji and roasted corn cobs.

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As we sat in the flickering firelight, sharing this humble repast, I found myself studying my benefactor more closely. Despite his emaciated appearance, there was an undeniable aura of strength about him. He had changed into dry clothes as well – a simple dhoti and angavastram that seemed at odds with the modern world outside our temporary shelter.

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Gathering my courage, I introduced myself and asked for his name. His response shook me to my core.

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“I am Dronaputra Aswathama,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of millennia.

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My mind reeled, unable to process the implications of his words. Aswathama? The warrior from the Mahabharata? The man cursed to wander the earth for eternity? It was impossible – and yet, as I looked into his ancient eyes, I found myself believing.

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Sensing my disbelief, he smiled sadly. “Yes, I am the unfortunate Aswathama, derided and deranged son of the greatest guru of them all, Drona.”

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As the night wore on, with thunder still rumbling in the distance and lightning occasionally illuminating the cave entrance, Aswathama began to tell his tale. His voice, rich with the wisdom and sorrow of ages, painted vivid pictures of a world long past.

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He spoke of his unwavering devotion to his friend Duryodhana, and how the tides of fate seemed to always favor the Pandavas. His eyes gleamed with admiration as he recounted tales of Karna, the great warrior whose loyalty and skill were matched only by his tragic destiny.

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Aswathama’s tone grew complex as he discussed Krishna, the divine strategist whose machinations shaped the course of the great war. There was respect in his voice, tinged with a hint of bitterness as he recounted the curse that condemned him to his eternal wandering.

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“Krishna’s curse was harsh,” Aswathama said, his eyes distant with memory, “but not without mercy. He told me that when the new age dawns, I would become the Vyasa of that Yuga, tasked with compiling and teaching humans the Vedas and the way of life.”

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This promise, he explained, had been his anchor through centuries of pain and loneliness. It gave purpose to his endless wandering, allowing him to bear the weight of his past actions and the scorn of those who recognized him.

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As Aswathama’s tale drew to a close, I noticed a change in the quality of light around us. The storm had passed, and the first rays of dawn were creeping into the cave. We sat in companionable silence, watching as the sun rose, its light slowly dispelling the lingering shadows of the night.

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In that moment, as I sat beside this figure of legend, I felt a profound sense of connection to the grand tapestry of Indian history and mythology. Aswathama’s story – a tale of friendship, loyalty, war, and redemption – seemed to encapsulate the essence of the human experience.

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As the new day fully dawned, I turned to thank Aswathama for his protection and his story, only to find that he had vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared. I was left alone in the cave, with only the dying embers of the fire and my memories as proof of the extraordinary night I had experienced.

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Gathering my belongings, I stepped out into the bright morning. The fallen tree had been cleared from the road, and my car stood undamaged where I had left it. As I resumed my journey to Ratangarh, I couldn’t help but ponder on the encounter. Had it all been a dream, a hallucination brought on by stress and the treacherous conditions? Or had I truly spent the night in the company of an immortal warrior, a living link to India’s mythological past?

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Whatever the truth, I knew that the story of Aswathama – his pain, his endurance, and his hope for redemption – would stay with me forever, a reminder of the enduring power of our ancient tales and the complex nature of duty, loyalty, and fate.

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