6.4 Viveka
You don't argue with a strange ruffian pointing a loaded weapon at you. Even if he does look like Hrithik Roshan in Kaho Na Pyaar Hain. I did as he told me, went to the horse, lifted my leg, put my foot in the stirrup and was about to get on when a suddenly a sound burst out.
It was the sound of a man screaming. And it was coming from below, from the wadi on the east side of Pali Hill.
Both Rikit Raushan--that name was just too weirdly similar--and I turned to look. The two armies were massed below, facing one another, the Northern one still outnumbering the Southern by at least five times as far as I could tell.
The screaming was coming from the man with a white flag I had seen earlier. When I had last seen him, he was riding toward the Northern army, evidently bringing an offer of peace.
It seemed the Northerners didn't care much for his offer. Because he was riding back now in the direction of the South, minus one arm. The arm, still holding the pole with the white flag, lay on the ground several metres behind him, the white cloth splashed with bloodstains that were visible even from here.
Rikit Raushan sucked in his breath as he came up beside me, watching the drama unfold.
"Barbarians," he said. "Attacking an unarmed man bearing a flag of truce. I told the General not to waste time parlaying with them."
We watched the armless rider, clutching his severed arm to try and staunch the blood gushing from it, staining the rump of his horse and leaving a dark scarlet trail on the ground as he rode. He hadn't reached even halfway back to his own lines when a javelin came whistling through the air behind him, arcing high in an Olympian trajectory. It struck him squarely between the shoulderblades, driving his face down into the mane of his horse.
His horse rode even faster. The momentum jostled him out of the saddle and he hung sideways, hanging from one stirrup. He must have been dead before he reached safety.
Rikit Raushan bristled with rage beside me. "Cowards!" he yelled. "Let's see how you fare against a man bearing steel!"
He unsheathed a sword and raised it in the air. For a moment, I thought he would charge down the hillside and take on that army single-handedly. Now he reminded me of yet another Hindi film. I had recently seen Fiza--my mom had dragged me along to keep her company since my dad never saw Hindi films--and it was eerie to see the same jutting jaw, the biceps rippling with tension, the light-coloured eyes burning with fury. The real Hritik Roshan had only been acting in that film, but his counterpart in this world was demonstrating real passion, real emotion.
It took a great effort on his part to not go charging down the hillside, but I saw him control himself and turn away. Seeing that display of self-control gave me a glimmer of hope. I used the moment to try to appeal to his better sense.
"Listen," I said, trying to sound as sincere as possible--or as sincere as anyone can sound when speaking in pidgin Bambaiya Tapori bhasha. "You must believe me. I am not a spy. I don't even know why you people are fighting. I'm here by mistake, and all I want is to find my brother and go home again. I have nothing to do with this war of your's."
He wasn't listening. Below, the Northern army was sounding trumpets and preparing their first assault, even before the murdered peace-rider had reached the Southern lines.
Even I was silenced for a moment as the entire Northern army gave out one mighty roar and charged forward in a massive charge. It was an awesome sight, even seen from a kilometre away on top of this hill, and I couldn't even imagine what it must be like to actually face those charging hordes. I shuddered. What sort of hellish place had I come to?
"They attack without a parley," he said beside me, his voice choked with anger. "They butcher our peace-rider. And they mean to leave us no quarter."
He turned to me, his sword still in his hand. "The Northern barbarians. They outnumber us six to one and will not stop until our homelands are awash in the blood of our innocent women and children. By killing the bearer of the white flag they have announced that they will take no prisoners."
He put the point of the sword to my throat, eyes blazing. They were the exact same shade and tint as that of his counterpart back in my world. "Then why should we?"
It was the sound of a man screaming. And it was coming from below, from the wadi on the east side of Pali Hill.
Both Rikit Raushan--that name was just too weirdly similar--and I turned to look. The two armies were massed below, facing one another, the Northern one still outnumbering the Southern by at least five times as far as I could tell.
The screaming was coming from the man with a white flag I had seen earlier. When I had last seen him, he was riding toward the Northern army, evidently bringing an offer of peace.
It seemed the Northerners didn't care much for his offer. Because he was riding back now in the direction of the South, minus one arm. The arm, still holding the pole with the white flag, lay on the ground several metres behind him, the white cloth splashed with bloodstains that were visible even from here.
Rikit Raushan sucked in his breath as he came up beside me, watching the drama unfold.
"Barbarians," he said. "Attacking an unarmed man bearing a flag of truce. I told the General not to waste time parlaying with them."
We watched the armless rider, clutching his severed arm to try and staunch the blood gushing from it, staining the rump of his horse and leaving a dark scarlet trail on the ground as he rode. He hadn't reached even halfway back to his own lines when a javelin came whistling through the air behind him, arcing high in an Olympian trajectory. It struck him squarely between the shoulderblades, driving his face down into the mane of his horse.
His horse rode even faster. The momentum jostled him out of the saddle and he hung sideways, hanging from one stirrup. He must have been dead before he reached safety.
Rikit Raushan bristled with rage beside me. "Cowards!" he yelled. "Let's see how you fare against a man bearing steel!"
He unsheathed a sword and raised it in the air. For a moment, I thought he would charge down the hillside and take on that army single-handedly. Now he reminded me of yet another Hindi film. I had recently seen Fiza--my mom had dragged me along to keep her company since my dad never saw Hindi films--and it was eerie to see the same jutting jaw, the biceps rippling with tension, the light-coloured eyes burning with fury. The real Hritik Roshan had only been acting in that film, but his counterpart in this world was demonstrating real passion, real emotion.
It took a great effort on his part to not go charging down the hillside, but I saw him control himself and turn away. Seeing that display of self-control gave me a glimmer of hope. I used the moment to try to appeal to his better sense.
"Listen," I said, trying to sound as sincere as possible--or as sincere as anyone can sound when speaking in pidgin Bambaiya Tapori bhasha. "You must believe me. I am not a spy. I don't even know why you people are fighting. I'm here by mistake, and all I want is to find my brother and go home again. I have nothing to do with this war of your's."
He wasn't listening. Below, the Northern army was sounding trumpets and preparing their first assault, even before the murdered peace-rider had reached the Southern lines.
Even I was silenced for a moment as the entire Northern army gave out one mighty roar and charged forward in a massive charge. It was an awesome sight, even seen from a kilometre away on top of this hill, and I couldn't even imagine what it must be like to actually face those charging hordes. I shuddered. What sort of hellish place had I come to?
"They attack without a parley," he said beside me, his voice choked with anger. "They butcher our peace-rider. And they mean to leave us no quarter."
He turned to me, his sword still in his hand. "The Northern barbarians. They outnumber us six to one and will not stop until our homelands are awash in the blood of our innocent women and children. By killing the bearer of the white flag they have announced that they will take no prisoners."
He put the point of the sword to my throat, eyes blazing. They were the exact same shade and tint as that of his counterpart back in my world. "Then why should we?"
posted by Ashok K. Banker at 12.10.05
1 Comments:
The Ritik Raushan character seems odd. Anyway, the story is going on fine.
Will have to catch up with all the parts today.
Paddy
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