In the little daylight that’s left, Shikhandi packs up his meagre posessions and follows the king.
The hot meal feels like heaven, even if the bread is stale and the gravy is watery. The boy— Satyajit— talks his ear off, asking for story after story, saying how it is SO COOL that he sleeps on a tree and lives on his own— Shikhandi feels a strange ache in his chest, and realizes that he cannot remember the last time he was around children. Amba wanted them. Shikhandi only wants revenge. But that night, on the floor of the tent, he sleeps more soundly than he has in a long, long time, and is only woken up when the sun shines through the window of the tent and the king and prince have already gone out. There is a bow and a quiver of arrows by the king’s bed.
“Only until they’re camping here,” Shikhandi tells himself, and helps himself to a hot bath, a dhoti that hasn’t been torn and muddied seven different ways, and a glass of milk. He hides the bow under the mattress, the quiver under his blanket, and decides to get some sleep. He needs his strength if he is going to vanquish a skilled warrior like Devavrata.
In his sleep, he hears the Prince talk to his father.
“Please baba, can we take him home? Please?”
“Satyajit, we can’t just-”
“Our palace is sooooooo big! There’s definitely room for him!”
“What? Satyajit, you know that’s not how it works,”
“Weren’t you looking for a babysitter for me?”
“I can’t just hire him! I don’t even know who he is!”
“Because he isn’t telling me ANYTHING!”
“I don’t know, Satyajit. Now eat your lunch,”
“Where’s the deer we hunted?”
“Why is it in the curry?”
“Because the cook-” The king began, before sighing tiredly.
Shikhandi does not want to babysit the prince. But he still goes with them when they want to fish at the river after lunch, and sleeping through breakfast and lunch has made him hungry, so he stays for dinner. The patterned cloth of the tent bearing tassels of some shiny thread and tapestries of stories about gods and demons makes a strange ache spring up in his heart.
That night, the boy— Satyajit— has fallen asleep, but Shikhandi lies awake in the tent as he has slept through the morning and early afternoon. The General, (Mriganka?) is talking about how they should actually do a puja in honour of Shiva, for his blessings to the army had finally gotten them Victory in the latest battle over the Kurus. Drupad was agreeing. And all Shikhandi can think about is that they could have solved the problem of the Kurus attacking them permanently if Drupad had taken his garland and—
An epiphany suddenly strikes him.
He hates Bheeshma. Panchal hates Bheeshma.
He is devoted to Mahadeva. Panchal is devoted to Mahadeva.
He needs to prepare, to train. The Prince would begin his training soon.
He stops himself, though. His only goal is bringing about Bheeshma’s death, nothing else. He must NOT get attached to anyone, least of all a child, and not even an ordinary child, but the child of the one who had spurned him. Amba doesn’t let go easily.
And although one part of him would like to do nothing more than wander around singing Mahadeva’s praises, he knows the purpose of this body is different. Someday, though. Someday. Right now, he takes the bow and quiver he had hidden under the blankets and disappears into the night.
