The Cursed Warrior and the Squirrel

The squirrel noticed the giant long before the giant noticed it.

From atop a weathered stone lantern, half-swallowed by moss and centuries of rain, the squirrel watched the stranger emerge from the morning mist.

The squirrel had a name.

Nagendra.

The villagers had not seen him.

Or perhaps they had and chosen not to speak of it.

He stood far taller than any of the men of those times, his head nearly brushing the low branches of cedar trees that lined the narrow mountain path. A tattered overcoat hung from his frame like funeral cloth draped over a scarecrow. Beneath it, flesh split in places where flesh should not split. Dark blood seeped through the cracks. Yellow pus glistened in the cold light of dawn.

Yet he walked.

As though pain were merely an inconvenience.

The squirrel twitched its nose.

It wasn’t just the smell of blood and rot. It was something older. From forgotten battlefields.

The giant paused.

For the first time, Nagendra saw his face.

A broad forehead.

Eyes ancient beyond reason.

A scar stretching from brow to cheek.

And in the centre of his forehead, concealed beneath tangled hair, something dark and ruined, as though a wound thousands of years old still refused to heal.

The stranger looked east.

Toward the sea.

Beyond that sea lay lands under occupation, rebellion, and war.

Beyond that sea, men were gathering beneath a new banner.

The Indian National Army.

Subhas Chandra Bose had called.

And somewhere within the immortal wreckage of Ashwatthama, son of Drona, something had answered.

He resumed walking.

Nagendra leapt from the stone lantern.

Landed on the path behind him.

Ashwatthama ignored him.

Nagendra followed.

Ashwatthama stopped again.

For several seconds, neither moved.

Ashwatthama sighed.

It sounded like wind passing through the ruins of an abandoned temple.

"You should not follow me, little one."

His voice was deep and rough, carrying the weight of centuries.

Nagendra stared.

Ashwatthama stared back.

Neither understood the other.

Ashwatthama continued walking.

Nagendra followed.

“Who are you? And why are you following me?” Ashwatthama asked.

“How’s the Delacour boy?” Nagendra asked.

Ashwatthama froze.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“René Delacour. Persecuted by the Nazis. Rescued by you, of course.”

Ashwatthama turned.

“How do you know all that?”

Nagendra shook his head sadly.

“I have travelled extensively across Yugas. I have seen what you used to be.”

“Are you mocking me, squirrel?”

Nagendra ignored him. He pulled out a scroll of parchment.

“That’s very old school,” Ashwatthama said.

“Not as old school as stumbling into wars, is it?” Nagendra asked coolly, not even looking up.

Ashwatthama froze.

“Who sent you?”

“Nobody.”

“Nobody knows that boy exists.”

“I know.”

“That concerns me.”

“It concerns me too.”

“You know too much for your own good.”

“Not as much as knowing how to annihilate sleeping warriors at night.”

Silence.

The wind moved through the cedar trees.

Somewhere in the distance, a crow called.

Ashwatthama's expression did not change.

Which somehow made it worse.

"You know of that night," Ashwatthama whispered.

"Yes."

"And yet you still chose to follow me."

“Because I had a question.”

Ashwatthama tensed.

“Look, I didn’t know that Prativindhya, Sutasoma, Shrutakarma, Shatanika, and Shrutasena were in the tent that night.”

“So, you’d kill the fathers instead of the sons?”

Silence.

Ashwatthama turned away.

“Go away.”

“Okay,” Nagendra said. “Here’s a truce. I’ll give you an acorn, and you’ll answer a second question.”

Ashwatthama glared at him.

“And what makes you think I’m going to agree?”

“Because the last time you ate something, it was with young Delacour. Days ago.”

The only sounds came from an American war plane flying overhead.

“If you’re going to ask why I killed Abhimanyu’s child—”

“I was going to ask why you saved Delacour.”

Ashwatthama stared at him.

“And not the others,” Nagendra finished.

“I couldn’t save everybody.”

“And why is that?”

“Because generations after generations think theirs is the last war.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It does. More than you realise.”

“No, I asked why you specifically chose Delacour.”

“They were going to execute him.”

“Many were executed.”

“He was there.”

“And so were the others.”

“You do realise how annoying you are?”

“I have been informed.”

“By?”

“By gods, kings, sages, and one particularly furious swan.”

“A swan?”

“Long story. In fact, the timeline suggests she will be born precisely 54 years from now.”

“Then, leave me alone.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re going to Japan,”

“Does that answer why you saved Delacour?”

Ashwatthama sighed.

“Fine! I saw a young, scared little boy.”

“You must have seen millions.”

“But couldn’t save them", Ashwatthama said. “I threatened the life of Parikshit.”

He looked at Nagendra, who stared back.

“Abhimanyu’s son—”

“I know that.”

Silence.

"Then why ask?"

"Because you're still not answering."

"I answered."

"No."

"No?"

"You told me what happened."

Nagendra scribbled something onto the parchment.

"I'm asking why a man who once tried to end a bloodline carried a frightened child across half of Europe."

Ashwatthama stopped.

The sea breeze moved through the cedars.

For a long time, he said nothing.

“Was it because Lord Krishna cursed you?”

“He did right,” Ashwatthama said. “I was drunk with rage. And now, I am tired.”

“Tired of?”

“Being that man.”

Nagendra stared at him for several seconds.

“Despite that, I see you’re walking towards another war.”

Ashwatthama’s features changed.

A second American aircraft growled somewhere overhead.

Nagendra waited.

"You heard me."

"I did."

"Then?"

Ashwatthama looked toward the eastern horizon.

"The world is burning."

"It has always been burning."

"Not like this."

“You yourself said every generation says this.”

“And I also say that they’re wrong.”

“Do you still want to fight?”

“Dharma is usually more complex than that.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Just because you suffered yesterday, today’s suffering doesn’t become less painful.”

Nagendra stared at him.

“You regret the Brahmastra, don’t you?”

Ashwatthama looked away.

“During my younger days, I was proud of my strength. I wanted to defeat more enemies. Prove my valour.”

His hand unconsciously moved toward the ruined wound on his forehead.

“Now, I think strength lies in protection. Prevention of war.”

“With an army?” Nagendra frowned.

“Sometimes.”

“Elaborate.”

“Lord Krishna went to Hastinapura seeking peace. When Duryodhana refused, he asked for five villages.”

“The Kauravas declined the truce,” Nagendra said in a small voice.

“Exactly,” Ashwatthama said. “There are times when peace works. And there are times when war is inevitable.”

“You think this is one of those times?” Nagendra asked.

“I think people deserve the liberty of choosing their own futures.”

“That sounds too political.”

“It is.”

"You know, for someone who claims to be tired of war,” Nagendra said. “You spend an awful lot of time walking toward it."

Ashwatthama looked toward the sea.

"Perhaps."

"And?"

"Perhaps I am still learning the difference between fighting for something and fighting because I enjoy it."

The squirrel blinked.

"That's surprisingly self-aware."

"I have had thousands of years to ponder."

"And yet not enough years to develop a sense of humour."

A corner of Ashwatthama's mouth twitched.

Nagendra noticed.

Ashwatthama noticed that Nagendra noticed.

Neither commented.

The sea breeze moved through the cedars.

For several moments, neither spoke.

Then he quietly rolled up the parchment.

Ashwatthama frowned.

"No more questions?"

"No."

"That's unusual."

"You're not nearly as interesting as you think."

Ashwatthama almost smiled.

Almost.

The squirrel dug into its satchel.

"Here."

An acorn.

Ashwatthama stared at it.

"What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Eat it. Keep it. Throw it at a tyrant. I don't care."

Silence.

Then, reluctantly, Ashwatthama took it.

The squirrel nodded.

"Good interview."

"This was not an interview."

"Agree to disagree."

Ashwatthama sighed.

Nagendra turned and scampered down the mountain path.

The son of Drona continued toward the horizon, carrying wounds that would not heal and memories that would not fade.

Toward a future he could not yet see.

The acorn remained in his hand.

For once, he did not throw it away.

Nagendra, alias Naganna the squirrel, is a recurring character from Echoes of a Late Bloom, where he interviews gods, kings, queens, warriors, sages, and other innocent bystanders across multiple Yugas. 🐿️📚

Who is René Delacour? What happened to him?