A Different Path

Glass

The room was locked. Karna rapped gently on the smooth surface of the lustrous door. Dushasan sighed when there was no response.

"He's probably unconscious." He suggested. "Those herbs he takes......it does things to him."

Karna, undeterred, knocked harder this time, the sounds echoing in the empty archway.

"Look, I made him seriously mad,and he is going to be very aggressive, violent even. Maybe we should do this later."

"You should move."

"Why? What are you-"

Karna kicked the door open with his leg, ignoring Dushasan's hue and cry, and entered the chambers. He was shocked at the sight in front of him.

Duryodhana's room looked like it had suffered through a violent cyclone and should be demolished since there was nothing worth saving or keeping in it. It was in complete and utter shambles. The king-sized bed was destroyed, the wood reduced to splinters with some even having traces of blood on them. The sheets were torn to shreds and the pillows and blankets deposited on the other side of the room in a big, sad mess. The luxurious armchairs were overturned, and the table was tilted to one side because one of the legs was missing. The carpeted floor was littered with the pieces of ceramic, wood, and glass that had once been extravagant and unique figurines from across the world, coveted for their intricate and seraphic designs. The curtains had been ripped off and thrown into the fireplace where they burnt, serene blue turning black.

And there, sitting amongst the wreckage, his back to the wall, a bottle of sura in one hand, and a shard of glass in the other was his best friend.

Duryodhana's eyes were cold and bloodshot, his cheeks were covered with dried tear tracks and his lips were quivering as he mumbled to himself. His left foot was bleeding, no doubt he had stepped on the shattered glass, as were his arms from thrashing around the place. His chest rose with resignation as if every breath he was taking was a monumental task in itself and he would much rather be----dead.

"Brother?" Dushasan cried out, horrified and Karna guessed that things had not been as bad as when he had left.

Duryodhan's eyes flashed but he didn't reply. Instead, he kept his gaze on the shattered ceramic pieces cluttered near his feet refusing to grant them even a moment of attention. He stayed with his knees bent, fingers fiddling with the sharp edges of the glass shard that he held tightly in his hand.

Karna felt it just then. It started from a point in his heart and then gradually moved outwards as if mixed deep into his blood and soon every inch of his body felt it all the way to the tip of his nerves- the soul-crushing weight of guilt. A grotesque feeling settled deep in the pit of his stomach, one which blamed him for his friend's grief, one which knew he had betrayed him the day he had given that promise to Kunti and had been deceiving him in bits and pieces until his final act of abandonment. His throat was all clogged now, his breaths coming out rough and uneven because his lungs were filled with sorrow, shame, and extreme self-loathing and he simply couldn't breathe.

But he pushed it all down. This wasn't about him anymore. This was about Duryodhana. And Karna had to salvage what was left of him, whatever parts had survived his treachery.