Sahadeva smiled at her as he would at a child. ‘If they knew what this meant, we would never have seen this night, Draupadi.’
With an emphatic nod, she replied, ‘We knew then that they would neither comprehend, nor acknowledge our restraint. Still, we did what we had to do, Sahadeva. It is this very conscience that they will lack when their weapons rise against us tomorrow.’
A drum sounded, announcing the second quarter of the night. Instantly, everyone turned towards the sky to check the movement of the stars.
‘Face it and fight till the end, sons of Pandu,’ Draupadi continued, partly concerned at the mixed reactions. ‘Let us not forget, even for a single moment during the course of war, that we are not fighting for the kingdom, not for vengeance, not against our kith and kin, but for the honour of every man and woman who invested their faith, wealth and labour on us when we built Indraprastha. Fight to reclaim the lost honour in the eyes of those innumerable dead soldiers who fought alongside you, to establish the empire of dharma. Fight to restore that faith our subjects have in us. Fight for the victory that we owe them!’
Thirty-six
Bhishma’s Secret
The darkness under Yudhishtira’s eyes was worrying. After nine days since the war had started, the losses were heavy. Arjuna had lost a son of his—Iravan, by a naga woman who had faithfully sent her limited resources to fight along their side. Draupadi heard him recount how the togetherness of the father and son had been limited to a couple of days.
And it was just the beginning.
King Virata had lost both his sons. Even the bubbly and endearing Bhuminjaya who had not tired in his efforts to motivate the soldiers. Seeing Abhimanyu console the distraught Uttara, Draupadi could not help worry. It was not about personal loss, but about the grim pain of sacrificing the younger generation when their fathers were alive. Lighting the pyre of one’s dead father was an inevitable pain that every man had to go through in his life. But lighting the pyre of his son is something no man can ever be prepared for. The tenets of philosophy, motivational axioms from the ancient texts, loving and consoling words from those who had experienced similar pain—everything seemed to fail when each of them, right from Arjuna to the lowliest soldier, combated their respective losses.
‘Every life lost is a debt we have to repay, Draupadi,’ Yudhishtira lamented. ‘The fact that Bhishma is alive is the cause of demotivation for our men!’
It was a chilling transformation from being a loving grandson to waiting for the death of a beloved elder. Yet, his words were not laced with anger or hatred. Draupadi had inquired about how the other side was faring, and their condition was not better either.
‘Only Arjuna can rein in Bhishma’s mad run. Only Bhishma can hold back Arjuna’s progress. But when they face each other, they fall weak and take out their fury on other warriors,’ Yudhishtira narrated.
‘Krishna was so badly wounded that he took up a weapon himself, unable to let the carnage go on, Draupadi. He had to be coaxed to back off.’
Draupadi rose from her seat and hurried to Krishna’s tent. Not finding him there, she rushed to the makeshift stables erected to rest the horses and found him tending to them. She noticed other caretakers pause in their tasks just to see him in the act.
Watching him soothe the fatigued steeds was a sight that could melt stones. Draupadi waited until she saw him clutch his own right shoulder, still bleeding from one of the wounds of the battle, possibly by Bhishma. He had not even bothered to apply any medication. Walking up to him and patting one of the horses, she held his arm, smiling. ‘Come Krishna. The horses deserve better than a wounded sarathi.’
Krishna’s characteristic smile was absent. Graveness lingered in his eyes even when he let Draupadi lead him towards his tent, instructing the other caretakers to finish tending to the steeds. Neither of them spoke until Draupadi ensured that the medication was applied in a judicious quantity. She could see why Yudhishtira was annoyed at Arjuna’s weak resistance to Bhishma.
‘So, Arjuna’s best does not come out when the grand old man comes in front of him,’ she remarked.
‘The strongest of walls too have their cracks, Draupadi,’ Krishna said.
‘What did you call me?’ Draupadi almost jumped.
‘Enough theatrics,’ Krishna finally beamed. ‘That’s my territory.’
Draupadi relaxed and bade the physician to leave. ‘Sakha, we need a Bhishma to counter Bhishma.’
She was about to lie back against the mound of wolfskins, but Krishna suddenly tugged at her arm, pulling her to her feet. ‘What is it?’
‘We are going to find a solution to this dance of death called Bhishma,’ he declared, wearing his upper garment and handing her another shawl. ‘From Bhishma himself,’ he added.
It was a sheer leap of faith that made Draupadi agree to what many would have called a ridiculous idea. Before long, they reached the camp of Hastinapura, and stood at the entrance of Bhishma’s tent. It wasn’t that Draupadi was afraid to face Bhishma, but having taken the bold step, she needed the encouragement from Krishna when she entered while he stood guard outside. The man of a terrible oath sat in a meditative pose, eyes half closed.
‘Greetings, Grandsire,’ she knelt on the floor before him.
‘Deergha Sumangali Bhava!’ came the absent-minded response. Bhishma had probably taken her for a laywoman who had strayed into the camp.
‘How can those words come true if my husbands cannot protect the soldiers faithful to them from the onslaught of the enemy’s commander, Grandsire?’ she rose and looked at him, prepared to meet his gaze if he opened his eyes. ‘Isn’t a king who cannot protect his soldiers from the enemy better dead than alive?”
Bhishma opened his eyes. The streak of recognition brought a momentary spark in his eyes. ‘So, the sons of Pandu have again sought the refuge of their queen,’ he laughed.
‘The household of Pandu has learnt to survive without needing refuge, Grandsire. From assassination attempts to abject inaction of capable elders, we know the futility of seeking refuge,’ she looked into his eye, the spark in hers daring him to laugh again.
‘A wife never brooks a word against her husband. And you have five good ones,’ Bhishma smiled—this time, a warm one. ‘My apologies, child. This old man never had a woman in his life to gauge one well.’
‘I wish you indeed had one, Grandsire. The descendants as well as the empire needed the care of such a woman to not end their existence in a carnage like this,’ Draupadi rued. ‘Before we lose ourselves in an intellectual exchange, the outcome of which will not matter, Grandsire, I seek to know what can stop your onslaught.’
Bhishma’s eyes widened. ‘For someone who once ruled over Bharatavarsha, I expected better from you, Draupadi. Or is it that grandchildren always falter in front of their grandfather? What kind of an enemy blurts out his own death secret, my child?’
‘The one who realizes that he had a huge role to play in the deterioration of the empire he claimed to serve with utmost devotion,’ Draupadi retorted. ‘How long will you make the soldiers of Bharatavarsha pay for your mistakes, son of Ganga? And there are way too many, right from abducting unwilling princesses to staying silent when your word was the most required!’ Draupadi’s eyes blazed. ‘I know you are wise enough to gauge your own role in this war that is claiming the lives of five whole generations of warriors, Grandsire Bhishma. Pray, show me a way to end this sooner.’
Bhishma sighed and rose. ‘I am called Bhishma, child. And true to my name, I shall continue being the terrible old man on the field! As long as I face a man!’ He considered her intent gaze, unflinching at what he had declared about himself. ‘I understand what my inaction cost, daughter of Drupada. Go, my child, you have the solution hidden in my past actions.’
Draupadi lowered her gaze for the first time, pondering over the cryptic solution Bhishma had given. Bhishma touched her head, in affection and apology. ‘You have everything in your hands, Draupadi. Go, ask the naughty b
oy outside, who brought you here in the first place. Tell him to end my predicament soon. Tell him I am counting on him.’
Draupadi’s put her hands together, as she still battled the riddle. She had spoken about his past action, that of abducting the princesses of Kashi, Amba, Ambika and Ambalika, against their wishes. Ambika and Ambalika were married off to the much weaker Vichitraveerya, who had not lasted even for a year after his wedding. The women then had to endure niyoga to beget Dhritarashtra and Pandu. And the story of Amba was even more heart-rending. Draupadi could never forget what the name of Amba meant in Panchala during her childhood.
The thought struck her just as she met Krishna.
Shikhandi!
She clutched his arm. He smiled, ‘I had an inkling. I just wanted to confirm. Come, Sakhi, let us give the poor old man some rest. He has suffered enough.’
Thirty-seven
Dushasana’s End
It was the afternoon of the fifteenth day of the war when Draupadi woke up. The mounting losses each day had robbed her sleep. When Satyajit had fallen to Drona’s arrows on the twelfth day of the war, the grief that had churned through her had been beyond comprehension. She had spent the entire night consoling Drupada, but in vain.
Abhimanyu’s tragic death in an unfair combined attack had followed the next day and the entire Pandava camp was numb. She heard that every single soldier on their side had shed tears. Uttara had been stoic while Subhadra had wept hysterically the entire night. Arjuna had taken the pledge to kill Jayadrata who had played a key role in isolating Abhimanyu within the formidable Chakravyuha. Subhadra had taken a vow of not having even water until Arjuna returned safely after killing Jayadrata. While the Pandava side had suffered Drona’s onslaught, Arjuna and Satyaki too had massacred the opponents that day, raising the spirits of the camp. But grief had remained and had multiplied with the death of every family member.
The fifteenth day had been strange. They had lost Ghatotkacha in the night of the fourteenth day, and Drupada along with Virata, early in the morning. Draupadi had suppressed her grief to console Uttara and had hoped to vent hers with her brothers when they returned that evening. But by sunset, Drishtadyumna had achieved in his own words, ‘what he was born for’. She had numbly watched him celebrate Drona’s death more than he mourned for Drupada. She remembered Shikhandi’s sober demeanour after he had felled Bhishma. Dhrishtadyumna, on the other hand, was exhilarated. Later, she had come to know that Drishtadyumna had been distraught on the field after Drupada’s death and had killed Drona at what many called a ‘morally wrong’ moment.
‘The bloodlust has been unleashed way too much for anyone to bother about morals and codes. All we can hope is for the feeling of vengeance to get satiated by itself,’ Yudhishtira explained.
‘My entire life before I wedded you, I had dissuaded my father and brothers from pursuing the path of blind vengeance,’ she sobbed. ‘Fate has succeeded in making a mockery of all my efforts. My father and brothers stood by me! But I failed as a daughter and sister!’
‘Stop blaming yourself, Draupadi!’ Bhima had exclaimed, partly annoyed. ‘More losses were incurred because some on our side felt weak with emotions when they should have been giving their best.’ The jibe had been directed at Arjuna who had abruptly left the conversation midway.
The fractures in the relationship among the five brothers had started deepening. This was a greater loss. Only Krishna, she felt, understood what she went through whenever an unpleasant conversation took place among them.
‘Have we failed, Krishna?’ she had asked him once when they were alone.
‘We succeed. We fail. We give in. We get back,’ Krishna had responded. He had retained his prized equanimity while she felt lost. ‘Depends on when we consider our fight ends, Sakhi.’
‘It seems like our fight will continue till we die, Sakha,’ she had rued.
‘Then we have the luxury of not worrying about success and failure!’ he had patted her cheek.
It had finally drawn a smile from her amidst the devastation that raged around. Holding his hand, she had whispered, ‘Don’t die. If you die, those five are better dead than alive. But I want to follow you before anyone of them can.’
‘Now that makes it necessary for me to postpone my plans of dying!’
She had thrown the first thing she found at him. He had left with that teasing expression.
He knew it made her feel alive.
It was dawn again by the time her eyes closed. None of her attendants woke her up until the blazing rays of the sun shone through the hole on top of her tent. Neither did any of her husbands come to her before they left for the battlefield. She suppressed the bout of anger knowing that they had done so only to not disturb her precious sleep, which had become scarce nowadays.
Like every day, she remembered the names of each warrior who went to war and prayed for their victory and safety. About two weeks back, that list had taken her more than an hour and had tested her ability to remember. Today, it was not as much of a challenge to remember the handful who survived. Her heart missed a beat with each name.
How worse could it get before it was over?
Draupadi felt her energy drained even before she had gotten out of bed. Subhadra came searching for her, bringing her meal along. Draupadi saw traces of annoyance on her face and asked her for the reason.
‘It is Sudeshna!’ Subhadra sounded indignant. ‘She was blaming you for her losses. I gave her a piece of my mind.’
‘Go easy on her, Subhadra,’ Draupadi waved, too tired to analyse or conclude. ‘She has lost her brothers because of…’
‘Because they thought it is their divine right to force themselves upon unwilling women!’ Subhadra interrupted. ‘Don’t ever say it was because of you, Sister!’
Subhadra, like her brother, could boast of an impeccable clarity of thought. Draupadi smiled and wondered where hers had gone.
‘Any news from the field?’ Draupadi asked, shuddering at the next wave of troubling thoughts.
‘Someone lost his charioteer. Someone’s horses were killed. Someone was wounded…’ Subhadra recounted, taking no names. But the numb grief of losing someone dear came through. ‘At the risk of sounding selfish, our husbands are alive,’ she said and turned away.
Draupadi turned to her, ‘What is it, Subhadra?’
‘It is Uttara, Sister,’ Subhadra broke into tears. ‘She neither speaks, nor sheds tears. Eats almost nothing unless forced. Faints frequently. Do something, pray, do something.’
‘I shall try talking to her again, Subhadra,’ she assured her. A thought struck her. But she was not sure how Subhadra would take it. She was not even sure how Arjuna would react. But before sharing with him, she had to know Uttara’s thoughts.
The sun had begun his westward journey and the day began to wane. Draupadi realized sheepishly that she had not bathed and walked towards the lake when she heard Bhima’s exhilarant voice calling out to her. Even before she had turned, she was conscious of her heart beating fast. It meant something! Her jaw dropped, seeing his hands covered in red.
‘Bhima!’ she shrieked, rushing towards the giant. ‘How did this…?’
Bhima laughed aloud, seeing realization dawn on her face. Without further words, he held her head with his bloody hands and kissed her, not bothering about the onlookers. ‘Guess whose blood it is!’
Draupadi stared at him clueless. What shocked her more was the blood on his lips, parts of which were on her cheek. Whoever was his victim, the joy Bhima felt was disturbing. Draupadi realized that her hands were shivering when she held Bhima’s. ‘Whose…blood…is this, Bhima?’
‘Remember the cowardly rascal who dragged you by your hair in the sabha? Remember the scoundrel whose lowly conscience permitted him to tear your garments?’ Bhima shook with rage.
‘Dushasana!’ Draupadi spoke in a whisper and saw Bhima’s hands again. ‘You killed him?’ A momentary smile appeared on her lips but it quickly faded at his next words.
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‘Don’t you remember my oath to tear open his chest, taste his blood, and wash your hair with his blood?’ Bhima said.
Draupadi nodded, her face pale, imagining what Bhima would have done on the battlefield. Her jaw dropped on realizing that Dushasana’s blood was all over her hair, her face and her clothes.
‘I have kept my oath! Draupadi, I have killed him. I tore open his chest in front of that conceited Karna. I could hear Karna sob out of sheer helplessness. I could feel the entire Kaurava host go numb with fear!’
‘Bh…Bhima!’ she held his arms. ‘Bhima, tell me you did not drink his blood.’
Bhima was about to say something when he noticed her shock. The fear he saw in her eyes in place of the jubilation he had expected injured him more than the onslaught of all the weapons he had endured throughout the battle at Kurukshetra. ‘Draupadi!’ he whispered, realizing the bitter truth. Speaking no more, he shoved her out of his way and proceeded towards the lake.
It took Draupadi a long time to recover. Her first reaction was to rush towards the water and wash Dushasana’s blood off her. This brought back the memories of her first day with Bhima, the encounter with the Naga factions, and how he had ripped apart the miscreant who had violated the Naga girl. That was immediately after he had known about the heinous act.
This was a Bhima who had suppressed his rage for fourteen years! And the woman was her, who he loved!
Under the personification of violent retribution, this was a man who loved with all his heart. She could not let that heart be broken.
‘Bhima!’ she rushed towards the lake. It took her some time to find him. Submerged in water, chest deep, he was facing the other side. She saw the big wound on the back of his shoulder and cringed. ‘Bhima!’
Draupadi- the Tale of an Empress Page 21
