Mythological fiction: Parashurama uncovers secrets of Mahavishnu’s legendary axe

The chariot sped through the forest and the night, whisper smooth and arrow straight. The ruin that was Mahishmati and the bloody carnage of twenty-one Akshauhinis lay far behind. The shattered legacy of a samrat who had it all – strength, valour, majesty, divine blessings and utter dominion over Prithvi – but had squandered it at the altar of ego. A few muhurtas ago, righteous wrath had scythed his pride down, his armies and his many-splendoured capital ruthlessly cut and burned like weeds, and his strength and life ground in the mill of karma and tossed aside like chaff.

The rise and fall of Chakravarti Samrat Karthavirya Arjuna will be remembered and spoken about until the end of this Manvantara. Perhaps even beyond. Legends and fables would bloom, their fragrance strong and heady, but petals prickly. Bards would sing of how the earth sighed in relief and spun lighter on her axis as she turned her perpetual homage around the sun. In their ballads would be a name that would gather awe in the listeners’ imagination and spark primal fear in the oldest part of their lizard brains. Their breath would turn cold at the mention of the dread weapon, and they would huddle closer together when they would hear of his indomitable fury. The weapon had found its match and master, and would forever prefix his name … Parashurama.

Mahodhara held the reins lightly, letting the horses determine their course and pace. Akrita was curled up on the floor of the chariot, deep in slumber. Rama rested against the ratha’s centre pole, brow lined with beads of sweat even in the cool of the night. His eyes were closed, but the pupils moved behind the shut eyelids, his mind lost in rambling thought and untethered from reality. The inferno of rage that fuelled the annihilation of Arjuna and his vassals had simmered down. Somewhere in the night, that sense of absolute clarity Rama had achieved after embracing mrithyu had escaped, from him, without him being aware. The brilliant stillness inside him had turned into a stormy disquiet. Rama didn’t understand it, and this added to his unease. He had dozed off in the ratha and the pounding in his head had begun.

Rama was caught between worlds. He sat still as a statue, but felt disconnected from his body, as if he were outside of it, floating in the air beside the chariot, moving with it, and gazing down at himself. Inchoate worry gnawed at him. His mind raced from the thrill of victory and despair at Arjuna’s death in one moment, to disgust at the triumph and glee at his end the next. He tried to remember the vision of the Supreme Goddess and came up short. His brain thumped inside his skull like a hundred hammers were pulverising it. He couldn’t form the agnikund in his mind or focus on the banalinga or kalasha. The fury of the Parashu seemed far away … buried deep underground. Nightmare visions danced before his mind’s eye.

He saw himself walk upon the dead and dying, their flesh bodies as far as the eye could see. The dying cried to him for help as their open, gruesome wounds spouted blood. They begged for a quick death to end their agony. He laughed at them, mocking their pleas. Hands grasped at his legs in supplications of mercy, and he kicked them away. Vultures perched on his shoulders; armies of wolves followed in his wake. The pisachas and vetalas came to him, salivating rivers of ichor, offering bitten-off flesh as homage. This was the eclipse world of death and fear and torture. And he was the god of it. He roared his supremacy. With the thunder of his roar, his body grew in strength and size. It grew humongous, reaching for the dim stars. And then … he sprouted a thousand arms.

NO! Rama’s mind screamed.

No, neti, neti … he kept repeating as if that one word would somehow rescue him.

He found himself back in the chariot, and another vision bloomed: Arjuna lay curled beside him, smiling up at him. The chariot was huge; he seemed high up in the air. He looked over the front rim of the ratha. It was yoked to Sahasrabahu. The ratha careened over his father’s ashram, trampling hut and human …

No …

The vision disappeared, and Rama gazed down at Akrita as he slept; his slender neck was white against the dull golden floor of the ratha. Rama felt an irresistible urge to cut that neck. Cut it, just like he had cut his mother’s, but a clean slice this time. Blood would leak and the floor of the ratha would be a glorious red. Rama’s hands reached for the Parashu …

No …

He was immortal. He would see yugas come and go. Arjuna was merely long-lived. He would live forever. He had beaten Arjuna here, too. The samrat was no match for him. He was superhuman. He would conquer the earth; all crowns would rest at his feet. He would stride across the world like a colossus, rule till the end of time and collect tribute …

No! Rama’s mind screamed. I’m human.

Guru! The Guru would have answers. He could save him. Something was terribly wrong with him, and the Guru would know how to correct it. Relief coursed through Rama, lifting his spirits and giving him hope.

He couldn’t remember the Guru’s name. He remembered nothing about him. Rama wept with grief.

A sound vibrated within him. Two separate syllables repeating themselves. Rama couldn’t hear it clearly. He concentrated as hard as he could and then gave up in defeat. It was either too loud or inaudible; he didn’t know which. He cupped his ears in mind-numbing pain and in his imagination, blood coursed out of them, between his tight fingers and down his arms.

He tried again to form the agnikund, to imagine the banalinga and kalasha. He failed again. His mind throbbed and pounded as he cast about frantically for an answer.

Rama teetered on the edge of insanity.

“Acharya!”

The word seared through him, loud and sharp. Rama startled awake, struggling to focus his eyes on Akrita kneeling before him.

“What happened?” Rama stuttered.

Akrita looked closely at Rama before answering. ‘We’ve been trying to wake you for a while now. You were lost in some dreamworld, it seems, or maybe it’s just battle fatigue.’

Rama didn’t answer. He looked around slowly to get his bearings. It was shadowy and still all around.

“The ratha has stopped,” he blurted aloud. He shook his head and blinked rapidly to clear his mind. There seemed to be an ocean of water sloshing around in his head and shaking it made his vision and mind pitch and yaw like a ship on stormy waters.

Excerpted with permission from Blade of Fury: The Epic Saga of Parashurama, Ranjith Radhakrishnan, Westland.