by Mukunda Rao
Not far from where the men rested, Kurukshetra, once a vast, open land, a sacred space where sacrificial rites were performed to the chanting of mystic words, was now a scene of a grisly carnage. It looked as if a forest of sharp-horned animals had run amok, goring soldiers to death. In the midst of this ghastly scene, the great rebel who had invented his own style of rebellion against the wise and the mighty of the land and shaken them to their roots, the one and only Karna, lay slumped against his broken chariot, eyes wide open in a blank stare, an arrow stuck in his once proud heart.
Kurukshetra was now a horrible, confused mass of corpses and torn bodies, broken chariots and weapons. The dead lay rotting, yet to be mourned by their dear ones, yet to be cremated, a dreadful commentary on dharmayudha. Jackals tugged at bodies; vultures with beaks sharp as goads, and ravens with deadly wings, swung down to tear and peck at human flesh. Dazed horses and maddened elephants without riders wandered here and there.
Amidst all this was one who was still alive, but about to breathe his last. Bheeshma lay on a bed of arrows, his face a picture of ageless sorrow, suffering not so much the pain in his aged body as the agony of his futile sacrifices. He was called ‘Bheeshma the Terrible’ not because of his matchless prowess but for his terrible vows. Why did he renounce his birthright to be the king? Was it to ensure heirs to the kingdom in the form of illegitimate sons born of the queens through yet another illegitimate man born of Satyavati? How poignant the story turned out be.
Bheeshma was certainly not the man the Kuru race needed. He had lived and walked this earth not as a Kshatriya but as a Brahman whose life was one of sacrifice, and devotion to knowledge. He was the opposite of ‘Drona the Terrible’, who was terrible for the awesome power of the astras in his possession. Perhaps it was the stratagem of Kala, Time, to create such aberrations, distortions and confusions such that the distinction between dharma and adharma blurred, so that out of this bone and flesh of disorder and confusion, a new vision, a liberating transcendence became possible.
It was the moment of truth, Bheeshma’s moment of truth, but would he be able to say all this when they came to hear his last words, his last wish? Bheeshma raised his heavy eyelids to the sky, to the blessed neutrality of the sky, which was now, in accordance with the cosmic rta, turning dark grey. Soon, it would turn into a cauldron of brewing, sparkling heavenly bodies.
Duryodhana’s ruse worked like the wish of an evil god. Was Drona really the commander of the Kaurava army or a friend of the Pandavas? Wasn’t he partial to Arjuna? After all, Arjuna was his favourite disciple. It was the misfortune of the Kauravas that they had to fight a losing battle under a commander who, if he was truly committed to his task, would have used his powerful astras to drive the Pandavas to the ground.
Duryodhana’s calculated gibes worked and drove Drona to fight like a demon. He formed the insurmountable padmavyuha to trap and kill, most treacherously, Arjuna’s young son Abhimanyu. Now, on the fifteenth day of the battle, he fought like a man possessed, like a man without a heart, and he hated himself for it. The more he hated himself, the more fearsome and dangerous he grew. His fiery weapons burnt a quarter of the Pandava army.
Drona had come a long way from being a seeker of the truth, from being a poor Brahman who couldn’t afford to buy even a little milk for his only child, to become the guru, and then the commander of the most powerful and venal Kauravas. It was anger, it was hatred, and it was hunger for vengeance that had started this long convoluted journey. If his boyhood friend King Drupada had not insulted him or, like a true Brahman, he had forgiven his friend, he would have probably remained a humble seeker of the truth. But that was not to be. It was his desperate desire to teach the haughty Drupada a lesson that had set him on the path of revenge. Bheeshma had given him shelter, and fuelled his anger.
Why did Drona allow anger and hatred to enter his heart and corrupt his being? Why did he let his rajas destroy his sattvic poise? To what end? To merely take revenge on Drupada? Or was there in him a hunger for power and wealth? Poverty was definitely a curse. The pursuit and acquisition of knowledge and wisdom on an empty stomach, wearing ragged clothes and living in a broken hut was a cruel joke emanating from a deluded mind. But then, he was not born of a Brahman womb. He was an idea born of mind, not flesh.
The more Drona thought of his debased life, the more violent he became. Even after killing King Drupada and Virata, his anger remained unabated. Gripping his bow, hissing, he looked around like a beast scanning its prey. It seemed that the Pandava army was gaining the upper hand. And then, he decided to commit the most grievous sin which, let alone a Brahman, even a righteous Kshatriya would avoid at the cost of his own life. He got ready to fire the Brahmastra on the Pandava soldiers.
Krishna’s chariot came up beside Drona’s just as the acharya was pulling the deadly weapon out of his leather quiver. ‘Yudhishthira,’ Krishna said in anger, ‘Drona has lost his dharma. He is fighting an unjust war by using the astras forbidden in such a fight. If we don’t stop him now, there will be nothing left of your army. We must use other means to vanquish him, otherwise all is lost.’
Yudhishthira agreed, for he knew that Acharya Drona could never be defeated unless he laid down his bow.
‘Break his heart and he will wilt,’ said Krishna.
Bheema understood what had to be done. ‘Ashwathama is dead,’ he roared.
The fire in Drona’s eyes died that instant, and his face turned pale with shock. The bow fell from his hand and, with it, the deadly weapon. He saw Yudhishthira at a distance and shouted, ‘Yudhishthira, I know you will never lie, even if you are offered the throne of Indra in exchange. I know you will not lie even to save your life or the lives of your children. Tell me, Yudhishthira, is my son dead? Is Ashwathama dead?’
‘Ashwathama is dead,’ Yudhishthira replied loudly, and then, under his breath, added, ‘the elephant called Ashwathama.’
Yudhishthira’s reluctant white lie hit Drona like a thunderbolt and he sank to the floor of his chariot. There could be no victory now after the death of his son. There was no meaning in continuing with his existence. He was the cause of his son’s death, the cause of this colossal but avoidable tragedy.
‘Duryodhana,’ he howled in anguish, ‘take charge of your army. I’ll fight no more.’ Stepping down from his chariot, he sat in padmasana on the ground, his eyes closed. His life played itself out in his mind. Now, with calm clarity, he saw his terrible mistakes, the first wrong turn he took the day he was seized with vengeful hatred and lost his Brahmanhood. There was no way out now, and he realized it was his fate that his life had to end this way, drenched in sin. He stilled his mind, blocked out the horror around him, and drew his attention to the space within his heart.
Now Dhrishtadyumna, keen to avenge the death of his father, Drupada, and his son Virata, jumped off his chariot and advanced with a sword in his hand. Arjuna, who had been watching all this with bated breath, was overcome with pity for his acharya, and cried, ‘Don’t kill him, Dhrishtadyumna. Take him alive but don’t kill him.’ Consumed by hate, Dhrishtadyumna did not hear Arjuna’s tearful plea. Drona sat still, immersed in dhyana, trying to come to terms with himself. With a fierce swing of his sword, Dhrishtadyumna sundered the guru’s head.
Kritavarma’s loud snoring irritated Ashwathama. Had he come alone, he would have finished off the Pandavas by now and gone back to Duryodhana. Was he still alive? Ashwathama burned with anxiety. Night fell uneasily, as if in fearful anticipation of the morrow. As he sat awake in his diabolic mood, he was distracted by a flock of little birds that flew in and settled down noisily on the branches of the trees around. Then he saw an immense owl, its eyes gleaming red, fly in noiselessly and perch on a nearby branch. It looked around like a haughty king and spotted the little birds sunk in sleep. Then it opened its deadly wings and rose in dark silence. Quickly and efficiently, the little birds were massacred. Pleased with itself, the creature rose again and, flapping its bloodstained wings in triumph,
flew beyond the trees, like an arrow against the moon.
Ashwathama shuddered in wicked joy.
He shook Kripa and Kritavarma awake and told them about his murderous plan. Horrified, Kripa said, ‘Ashwathama, how could you? Mother Earth will never forgive us.’ As Brahmans dedicated to the search for truth, they should have guided the Kauravas towards the path of dharma; instead, Kripa and Drona had allowed themselves to be dragged into this river of sin. They had failed, and they had betrayed their dharma.
Acharya Kripa sighed tiredly, for he knew he had come too deep into this jungle of bloodthirsty Kshatriyas, and there was no going back. ‘Ashwathama,’ he spoke again, taking his hand in his, looking into his eyes with sympathy, ‘you have sworn to avenge the death of your father and Duryodhana. We are with you. It’s a choice we have made and we will not go back on it. We will seek our revenge openly, like the true warriors that we have been all along. Tomorrow morning, we’ll challenge them openly and we’ll fight to kill them, or we’ll die in the attempt. That would be in the spirit of dharma. Desist from this dastardly plan of yours.’
‘Don’t speak to me about dharma,’ Ashwathama cried in rage. He respected Acharya Kripa all right, but he did not care for his naivety. The teacher may have been the sanest person left on earth, but Ashwathama did not want to obey him. This was not a war of dharma but a war of deception, hypocrisy, malice and vindictiveness. Had there been fair play and justice on the part of Dharmaraya when he had uttered that terrible lie and became the cause of his father’s death, his father who was also his most revered guru? And was Krishna, the being they all believed to be an incarnation of dharma, really so? Was it in the spirit of dharma to hit Duryodhana below the waist and leave him to die like a dog? No, the acharya was being foolish. Every rule of war had been broken without a second thought. Let alone the chariot drivers and animals, even unarmed soldiers, load carriers and vaidyas had been killed mercilessly. Corpses had been disfigured. There were no rules and no dharma in this bloody war. Killing, by whatever means it took, was the only rule, if there was one. There was no room for doubt, sentimentality or regret.
‘Don’t stop me now,’ Ashwathama said harshly. ‘I am the Senapati, so either you both follow me or leave this very moment. I have made up my mind. I’ll be the deadly owl tonight.’
Thus, in the thick of night, Ashwathama rushed towards the Pandava camp, wielding high the lethal sword given to him by Shankara. Acharya Kripa and Kritavarma followed reluctantly. Ashwathama entered the camp and quickly massacred the sons of the Pandavas and the soldiers lost in slumber. In one of the tents he saw Dhrishtadyumna, his father’s killer, lying alone on a soft bed. He unstrung his bow, used the string as a cord to tie it round his neck and then kicked him awake. Dhrishtadyumna’s eyes flew open in shock, and for a moment, he thought he was still on the battlefield, wrestling with an enemy whose face somehow he could not see.
‘Wake up, sinner, murderer of your own guru…’ Ashwathama said. Dhrishtadyumna instantly recognized the voice and knew death had come for him. ‘Coward,’ he hissed, ‘if you are man enough, fight with me like a soldier.’
Ashwathama tightened the string round his neck and laughed fiendishly. ‘Were you a man when you killed my father? You are a shame to the identity of a Kshatriya. You don’t deserve to go to heaven.’ And he pulled the string until blood spurted out of Dhrishtadyumna’s nostrils and mouth, until his wriggling body went limp. Still, his anger unabated, he kicked and pummelled the lifeless body till it was a bloody mass.
‘No, Mother,’ Sanjaya cried, ‘this gruesome war waged in the name of dharma is adharmic. Perhaps it is dharma that is the problem here. For it is not adharma that is the cause of this destruction, but dharma itself. How can dharma, which does not contain within itself the attitude of forgiveness, of compassion and peace, be called dharma?’
He wiped his tears with the back of his hand and groaned as one whose throat had been slit. ‘Mother, help me,’ he prayed, ‘show me what is right. Is it right to resist and fight evil? Is it possible to fight evil without becoming a part of it? But what is evil? I’m in darkness; show me the light. I need to know the truth and speak the truth. Didn’t Bheeshma, in his act of great sacrifice, sow the seeds of irresolvable conflict? For that matter, not a soul, whether it was Bheeshma, Dhritharashtra, Gandhari or even Kunti, was sane or above adharma. There is something wrong somewhere, for it is not merely the violation of dharma that has been the cause of this terrible tragedy.
‘Look at Kunti. She suffered because she could not be herself, and in the course of her great suffering, she made others suffer too. Draupadi, who suffered no less at the hands of insensitive and inhuman men, turned haughty and vengeful, and turned the great and most humane Bheema into a demon, ready to kill and drink the blood of his own cousin. Suffering is a disease, Mother. It eats into your vitals and destroys your sanity.
‘And tell me, who is Narayana among these naras? If there was one person who could have prevented this massacre, it was Krishna. Why did he not do so? Why did he act like an apostle of revenge rather than one of dharma? Was it because of his indifference or because of his attachment to the Pandavas? Is his idea of lokasangraha to renew and sustain dharma through a bloody war? I don’t know, Mother, I really don’t know what to think. My heart is filled with sorrow and I don’t know what is right. Speak to me, say something…’ Thus Sanjaya sat by the river, filled with doubt, immersed in grief, waiting for Mother Ganga to speak.
Abandoning their chariots, Dhritharashtra, Gandhari, Duryodhana’s wife and son Durjaya, and even the women from the palace harem, went on foot to Dwaipayana lake.
‘My son, where are you, where are you?’ shouted Dhritharashtra and Gandhari one after the other. ‘Where is he, Durjaya, where?’ But little Durjaya was absorbed watching the vultures circling the sky. ‘O, why am I still bound to life?’ Gandhari cried. She desperately wanted to tear off the cloth covering her eyes so she could see her son before he died.
At the time of his birth, she had struggled hard to overcome the temptation to see her baby. One morning, after the child had been bathed in scented water, when the palace maids had sat round him, fondling him, describing his big, wonderful body, his long, curly hair, his already prominent nose, firm bottom and great penis, Gandhari had fled the chamber in tears, praying, ‘God, let not my sacrifice go waste. Let it give him the strength of a hundred bulls and protect him from all dangers.’
Finally, mother and father found their son lying in a pool of blood. He would not speak, nor would he allow them to come near him. Her firstborn was about to breathe his last. ‘Suyodhana, my child, answer me, talk to your mother. I cannot see you, my son. I cannot, I’m cursed. Speak, my child, say something.’ The father began his lamentation: ‘I must be the most cursed and wretched creature on earth to lose all my sons in this savage battle we should never have started. God, how can you be so cruel that you cannot spare even one among my hundred sons, not even one to complete my last rites.’
Duryodhana did not react. But when the one with the dove-eyes and ample bosom – his favourite concubine – removed her veil and stepped towards him, he smiled briefly before lifting his hand to stop her.
Wiping her tears, Duryodhana’s wife spoke finally, ‘My lord, what do we do now?’ Still, Duryodhana did not speak. What could he say? That they must surrender to Yudhishthira, even though it was unlikely that he would be cruel to them.
The queen gently pushed her son towards his father. ‘Go, Durjaya, go to your father,’ she urged. The little child took a few hesitant steps and stopped. He did not know what to do or say. Usually, in the evenings, when his father came home and patted his big thigh with a big smile, the child would run and perch on his father’s lap, gurgling with laughter. He screwed up his eyes now and studied his father, lying on the ground like a commoner. Before leaving on his murderous mission, Ashwathama had covered Duryodhana’s mutilated thighs with a cloth, which had now turned red with blood, and looked like the red
silk cloth dancers tied round their heads during carnivals. With an eye on the cloth, the boy asked, ‘Father, why are you lying down? What happened? There is blood on your legs.’
Duryodhana’s heart broke into a thousand flinders and tears gushed from his eyes. Look at my son, he thought, the delight of my eyes, the one closest to my heart, born of my loins. Look at his frightened face. Duryodhana wanted to tell his son that he could not sit on his lap that day, or ever again, and that he needed to stand firmly on his own feet. His lips twitched but no words came. The boy’s voice trembled as he said, ‘Father, what happened? Why don’t you speak? Tell me, and I’ll kill all those who did this to you.’
‘No.’ The words finally burst forth from Duryodhana, frantically, fearfully. ‘No, my son. Come here and listen to what I say.’
The news of the massacre of their sons shattered the Pandavas. Yudhishthira fainted in shock and Draupadi turned hysterical, beating her chest and tearing at her hair. Arjuna cried uncontrollably and Bheema collapsed on the ground like a wounded tusker resigned to death. Nakula and Sahadeva went blank with despair. When Yudhishthira was revived, they all rushed to the camp.
Dhrishtadyumna was a mass of reeking flesh, while Draupadi’s sons lay in a jumble of headless bodies and scattered limbs. She let out a wail and collapsed. This was no war; this was a mindless massacre. Bheema roared and beat his chest like a demented man, and in that instant of wild anger and pain, a horrible truth dawned on him. Consumed by such neurotic hatred and vengeance, he would have done the same to his enemies. And he recalled, shuddering like one afflicted with ague, how he had cut open Dushasana’s breast and lapped up his blood. He remembered how Draupadi, grinning like a woman who had lost her sanity, had smeared her hair with the same blood and then tied her long, bloody hair into a proud knot.
