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stood a serious chance based on seniority—Drona, Bhagadatta and I.
    Drona, the acharya, head guru of the Kuru family. He was a Brahmin schoolteacher who had found his calling in destroying armies. For years, he ran the best military college in Bharatvarsha at Hastinapura under the patronage of the Kurus. Its reputation was so illustrious that even his enemies sent their children to humbly prostrate themselves in the dust before him and learn at his feet. There was no one better qualified to run the army than him. Even Bhishma had said so, many times, to which Guru Drona replied by stroking the nest beneath his chin and protesting strongly, invoking Grandsire’s seniority and battle experience as contrary evidence. But behind that reluctance lay the simple knowledge that no man could unite this bickering mass of confederates better than Grandsire. Sketching out intricate battle plans and marshalling troops was just a part of the responsibility. Motivating the kings, most of whom had never been in anything more serious than cattle raids and border skirmishes, to come back every day and shed their blood for him; that was what made Grandsire the only man in Bharatvarsha fit to command its largest confederation of troops. But now, with the Terrible One gone, there really was no longer anyone better than Drona to take control of this army.
    Unless one considered Bhagadatta.
    The king of Pragjyotisha was the oldest man on the field of Kurukshetra and perhaps the only man to have unsheathed his sword as many times as Grandsire. Like Grandsire, the old king of Pragjyotisha was no senile dodderer. The Elephant King was what we called him. His akshauhini of elephant warriors had been used as shock troops in the initial days of the war and had caused much destruction among the Pandava front line. Varahamira told me that the elephants had evoked such fear in the Pandava camp that they had actually strung together a special division commanded by Bhima for the sole purpose of containing Bhagadatta’s rampaging beasts. Not one to stay at the back directing troop traffic, Bhagadatta swaggered across the field on his silver-bedecked elephant, Supritika, seeking out duels with the most renowned fighters in the Pandava army. To his credit, he had defeated many of them including the half-wit commander they called Dhristadyumna.
    I liked the old man. He was a cheery boozer with any number of stories from pre-history and not one content to rest in the vanity of his past. After Bhishma, he was the most experienced campaigner in our camp. Unfortunately, he also displayed a reluctance to accept the mantle of leadership, preferring instead to go out and derive savage glee from wrecking the Pandava army. ‘They won’t promote me out of a fight,’ the bloodthirsty old tyrant had once told me. Of course, if too many kings insisted on his leadership, there would be little he could do, except take up the sceptre.
    And then there was me, the man no one wanted to nominate for the role, but were grudgingly willing to accept if no one else was willing or able to take command. I had won over thirty battles and impressed my might upon five major kingdoms in Bharatvarsha. Arrow for arrow, I was the best chariot archer in the world, and the best independent commander of Chariot Corps. More significantly, I had defeated armies the size of the Pandava forces on a number of occasions in recent years, unlike Drona and Bhagadatta who had entered the battlefield rusty from the excesses of peaceful living. I knew how modern armies fought. I had fought in them, I had fought against them and that was an edge that neither Drona or the lord of Pragjyotisha could lay claim to. This was something all the allies knew, and more importantly, Suyodhana.
    Finally, with characteristic impatience, Suyodhana declared, ‘It is evident to me that there are only two kings who will be able to lead this army.’

YUDHISHTHIRA
    W e took our places inside the council tent. Twelve