The one who takes this journey knows. He is above all ritual and what the Vedas promise. The sacrifice offered without forethought is never left without return.
The vast emptiness began to slip from me. I could no longer hold it and I asked to see in ways my human smallness would not lose. “There rose as from the centre of our earth the things of excellence, the things a Kshatriya understands: Airavata among the elephants, the horse that sprang from nectar, the wish-fulfilling cow, and, among men, the emperors, among sacrifices the Ashwamedha.
“In life,” I was shown, “I am the power of creation, the body’s love of love, the Lord of Death among the governors, the light that plays behind shadows on the face of sages, the eagle among birds, the wind among the cleansers, the Ganga within rivers, the Truth that shines in discourse. What am I not?” He danced in Bheema’s muscles and lurked within Shakuni’s sleight of hand. Laughing, he showed himself as me drawing a bow amongst my brothers, and laughing even more, as Krishna of the Vrishnis. He was the brilliance of Vyasa. Among the Punishers, he was the mace, the hint upon the lips of tactful people, the silent wall behind which secret people crouch.
Then as the greatest grace of all, Krishna became my cousin Krishna, my mother’s brother’s son who helped me win Subhadra. My charioteer!
I asked for more.
At once a thousand suns burst in the sky and gods emerged from them. I had called forth the awesome form with many mouths agape and with wide bloodshot eyes. The hairs upon my body stood erect: Greatfather, Karna, and Dronacharya were rushing into open jaws. They were impaled upon moist teeth, their bones crunched, and they were swallowed. A thick red tongue whipped out and licked the lips. I thought I too would die.
“Do you think that you can save them? Though you refuse to fight, not one of these will live.” I had called him Krishna, Yadava, and friend; I had argued and laughed with him and teased him. Now weeping in the chariot, I murmured: “I worship you a thousand times and bend my body to you, but show me once again your gentle form.” And then he showed me Love.
What can I say of Krishna’s love? It took a thousand forms and had none. It was the ultimate mystery, that even when you tell it keeps its secret.
My body stretched itself in full prostration.
When I looked across at Eldest, he was still removing his finger-guards. I understood that the creation and destruction of the world takes less time than it takes to peel off a glove. Krishna turned the horses round. We drove back to our vyuha.
2
The din of battle leapt as from an opened box. The Kaurava conches screamed response. War drums unleashed their waves of sound upon us. Eldest’s chariot axle was connected through the flagstaff to the drums beside his banner of moon-ringed planets. His horses were the colour of elephant tusks with proud black tails halted where no-man’s land began. Eldest doffed his armour and laid it on the tigerskin. We turned to watch. He climbed down from his chariot. Bheema called his name and ran towards him. Vishoka followed in the chariot drawn by huge dappled horses. The battle music plunged behind them as though into a nether world. We waited.
Walking, Eldest’s course was set towards the enemy; he looked steadily before him. Bheema seized his elbow and thrust his head towards him. They faced each other as they had so often, without speaking. Bheema stepped back, unstrapped his quiver, and gave it to Vishoka. He threw his gloves aside and removed his armour. A murmur went up. The men were saying that the Brahmin would not battle with his guru. After our exile in the forest, they called Eldest “Brahmin”. I too removed my battle gear. Krishna and I stepped down and followed. The twins were behind us. We walked in silence, single file.
Like the black mouth of the mountain cave when I climbed for Shiva’s weapons, Greatfather’s banner came no nearer. We walked towards our childhood. Along the battlefield our flattened likenesses moved faithfully to their appointment, shadows cast by atmans, while we, ephemeral, hovered somewhere in between. Finally, we stood before Greatfather’s peerless silver horses.
Greatfather’s face, set more deeply in the strength of age than fourteen years before, looked out towards us.
Substance and shadow both had reached the silver chariot. Eldest laid his head against Greatfather’s feet and then looked up.
“Greatfather.”
“What is it, Yudhishthira?” Word by word Eldest pronounced the ritual phrases.
“We seek permission and your blessing.” Greatfather stepped down from his chariot with agility and held his hands above the head of Eldest. Eldest bent down.
“Son of Pandu, do battle since you must. May victory be yours.” A smile came to the branches of his eyes. “Is there something else you want of me?”
“Greatfather, you wish us victory! How shall we gain it?” No one but Eldest had the Dharma which empowers one to turn the ritual phrase into truth. Greatfather brought his brows down sharply to hide the answer in his eyes. Leaning his chin against his chest, he went inside. When his eyes were open once again he said, “My death has not yet come for me; I cannot call it yet, so cannot clearly see who carries it.” But Truth compelled the Dharma in him: “They say Shikhandin bears my death. It may be true. I will not fight with one who was born a woman.” Eldest took the dust from Greatfather’s feet and carried it to his eyes. Bheema came forward; then it was my turn. I felt Greatfather’s hands upon my head. I could not speak, so I took the garland of white flowers from my neck and laid it at his feet. He raised me up and held me close, then looked in my eyes. I felt my soul swim into them like some deepwater fish drawn to the surface by too strong a current. I knew he told me something then but it would take me many days to understand it. As Nakula bowed before Greatfather, Eldest led us through parted lines of silent men to Dronacharya.
Our guru, shrunk and withered since the dice game, stood upon the platform of his chariot as though he grew from it. His eyes were full of memories. Eldest knelt and touched his feet.
“Acharya, we are your disciples, trained by you for victory. Though today we fight you, you remain our guru. Counsel us.” Dronacharya looked at us from under knitted brows as when he sent us on manoeuvres; he gave us his crooked smile.
“This is a god’s dilemma. While I fight, you cannot win. Make no mistake. Yet victory does not belong to us. We cannot wrest it from you.” Eldest gave his level look, the one he must have given the crane.
“What would a god do?”
Dronacharya gave a little hoot of laughter.
“Forest exile makes men cunning, does it?” He pondered and then raised his head.
He looked beyond as though measuring a target. His voice was distant. He looked at Eldest, yet I knew he spoke to me. “I dreamed I sat in meditation, my heart weighed with the one great sorrow of my life. I cast my weapons down. The end had come for me. Make what you will of it.” Now he looked at me and I saw his love for me had never died. We made obeisance and went to Kripacharya. He had aged less than Dronacharya but was more distant with us; I thought he did not trust himself to speak. Finally we went to Uncle Shalya. He looked at us with saddest eyes and gave formal permission for the battle. Then Eldest cupped his hands and shouted through them: “If any noble Kshatriya here would fight on the side of justice, of Krishna and of Dharma, let him come forward and join with us.” It was a pebble thrown into the lake which failed to ripple. There was silence. As at the dice game no one spoke. I had half hoped to hear Vikarna once again and could not help but look around for him. He sat upon his elephant and gazed at us. It was another voice that we heard—his brother’s.
“Yudhishthira,” it called, “I would be proud to fight with you.” A banner moved. There was a sound of wheels. The ranks were parting. The banner was Yuyutsu’s, a blazing sun with eagle claws for rays. Eldest went to meet him with open arms and they embraced. Then Eldest said for all to hear: “Yuyutsu, you will survive to offer Uncle Dhritarashtra’s funeral cakes. You will carry on his line.” In Yuyutsu’s chariot we returned to the beat of drums and cymbals, a
ware of the silent praise wrested from the eyes of our enemies.
3
Turning away from Greatfather’s Sarvatomukha formation, I saw how our Vajra looked to them. Our thunderbolt was imposing. But the enemy’s front was much wider and we would have to stay on the offensive or be engulfed.
We waited for the twins to move into position in second line between Virata and Dhrishtadyumna. Shikhandin was behind them, third on the right.
“If Shikhandin is to kill Greatfather, he is too far back.” Krishna did not answer. “Shall we bring him forward?”
“Have you prayed to Mother Durga?”
I looked at him. “I pray to you, my Lord.”
“Pray to Mother Durga. She is Mother of all Victories.”
I closed my eyes but could summon only Krishna. At last I prayed, “Mother Durga, thou art the Mother of the battlefield who knows the hearts of all her children… My Lord has bid me pray to you. Guide our hearts and minds and give our arms power.”
After a war, when you have killed as many men as there are leaves that fall in autumn, and seen ten times as many die, there are a score of moments you remember above others, and out of these there may be two or three that haunt you.
On the first day we lost Uttarakumara. I must have thought that Uncle Shalya would never use his arms against us until he hurled his javelin at Abhimanyu. It flew under his arm grazing his axilla and killed the man behind him. I let an arrow fly at Uncle Shalya’s head while yelling “Abhimanyu!”
Uttarakumara’s elephant ran forward to cover Abhimanyu, and Uttara turned a fierce smile on me which said that he would guard my son. He was slower than Uncle’s second javelin and faster than my second arrow, and was pierced by both. His elephant was kneeling now and uttering a strange lament, and Uttara’s blood was streaming down its side.
“Get me to him,” I begged but Krishna had the horses’ heads in that direction before I even spoke. By the time we got to him, his gajaroha had withdrawn the javelin. This let the blood out and, with it, his life. He held his hand over the wound. As I jumped down they handed him to me. His eyes never left mine. He smiled though he was dying. As we drove to the physician’s camp, I had him on my lap and tried to cushion him. All the way he held my eyes and smiled to show me that he felt no pain. “You are the hero of this day,” I said to him. His great dark eyes glowed full of memories and messages. He had saved Abhimanyu’s life to pay a debt. “You are the paragon of Kshatriyahood,” I said. His lips moved but he could not speak. When we reached the tent I saw his breath had gone but he was smiling still. I clasped him to me. Tears still flowed on the first day.
We commended him to Pushan, the god of journeys, and left him with the surgeons. Krishna handed me his emerald and said, “This is for you. He gave his life for Abhimanyu out of love for you.”
They say that in the heat of battle your rage will carry you beyond your grief which waits on your revenge. But mine had no such patience. It tore at me like eagles feeding on their prey.
We turned back to look for Uncle Shalya and found that Shweta in his armour of the golden suns had challenged him. It was his brother’s blood; we let him take revenge. Krishna positioned us to shoot at the protector of Uncle’s right front wheel. My arrow found his neck and sliced it through. Suddenly, Greatfather was upon us to protect our Uncle. Shweta in a trance of fury cut his standard down and shot at his horses. The shining palm tree fell into tangled reins and rearing chargers. Greatfather roared his outrage and sent an arrow straight through Shweta’s heart. I did not see him fall. The fighting grew thick around Greatfather.
The noblest king in all Bharatavarsha had lost two sons today. It was my final thought before I lost myself in battle.
When the sun at last reached the western hills our conches signalled that the day was over. It was a melancholic call. We had lost one akshauhini and the victory of the day. We met Virata at the flap of Eldest’s tent and fell into each other’s arms. When I handed him the emerald, he pressed it into my palm so hard that it cut my flesh.
“For Abhimanyu’s son,” he said and left unsaid what I saw in his eyes: “my Uttarakumara will have no sons.” Would Abhimanyu live to father sons? I did not want to know the answer. We went into the tent of Eldest and saw that he could hardly breathe from anguish. He drew long sighs and closed his eyes when we came in. The generals and all our sons stood back.
I touched my head to Eldest’s feet; there had been more life in Uttarakumara’s corpse. I knew he grieved for me and for Virata. But he was King and wept for Dharma too. Bheema wept for Shweta. There was no one who had not lost a loved one. Eldest rose to his feet to honour Krishna who bent to touch his feet.
“Greatfather cannot be defeated. He is Dharma.” It was a statement of despair from Eldest.
“You are Dharma,” said Krishna.
“Greatfather will destroy us all for a kingdom. The forest was our kingdom, Krishna. We should have stayed there. Even Arjuna is fighting at half strength. Anyone who knows the sound of Gandiva can tell you that. Bheema is the only one whose heart is in it and this will bring their fury down on him.” Each one of us protected someone in his heart. “Lord Yama is Greatfather’s servant.” He looked to Krishna, as we all did. Krishna shook his head. He took the other hand of Eldest and warmed it on his heart.
“Even if Yama never tires of waiting, Greatfather will. Yama is no one’s slave forever. A promise has been given to Shikhandin too. There is a season for everything, a season for the forest and a season to wage war.” I think that Krishna could have said anything in that vibrant voice and lifted our hearts. He gazed at Eldest. Eldest’s eyes began to live again, though he could not bring himself to smile. The talk then turned to the faults in our formation and the merits of the Krauncha bird deployment we were planning for the next day.
Later, bathed and refreshed, I lay alone in my tent on clean linen in a snowy bed; the incense at my head soothing my nerves. When I closed my eyes I saw Uttarakumara. His smile turned into Abhimanyu’s. Chargers galloped past me, their riders’ heads hanging in the dust with bows still in their grasp. The lifeless lay upon the ground but in my waking dream they rose again and rushed towards each other. The trumpeting elephants among them crushed the chariots and trod the fallen. In every pause my dream returned to one who smiled at me and fell. Now Uttarakumara, now Abhimanyu, now Shweta roaring vengeance, cutting through the Kuru lines to shout his unheard threats at them. Drums and chariot wheels covered the sound of voices. I saw Shweta smiling and flicking out his tongue from side to side. Then he fell again. I heard Paundra send out its great primeval blare. I could not sleep on this first night of war. I left my bed and sat by the opening like a watchman huddled in his coverings. I saw my mother in the forest with my father still alive. Her smiling face looked down at me and from her mouth came words I could not understand. She clasped me in her arms. I woke again and thought of her in Uncle Vidura’s house barely a few yojanas away. I tried to see through the veil of night to uncle’s hearth where she might sit with him. I slept again and down a winding corridor came Draupadi, writhing and moaning piteously that she was in her period, her garment stained with blood. The corridor was as endless as this life and many more to come. Relentlessly, Draupadi came towards us, but never reached her goal. Sometimes it takes a dream to let you wander through another’s life and taste its sweetness and bitterness. How little we had been able to give our queen. I gave her love and loyalty, admiration and respect. But the honey of my heart had gone elsewhere.
Our queen. We never said we were her kings. I rested my head upon my knees and lived her years of pain. The cold entered and I pulled the skins about me. And then I stood and walked among the sleeping tents. Here was the one where Bheema slept and snored. There were the twins ready to rise if I so much as called them in my thoughts. And there was the tent of Dhrishtaketu, son of Shishupala of the Chedis. Krishna had proclaimed him after Eldest’s Rajasuya where he had killed his father. Like Sahadeva of Magadha, he had remembe
red and come to us. His generals, convinced that we would lose, refused to follow him. He had come to me in Indraprastha to learn weaponry and would not use against me what I taught him or against Nakula the husband of his sister. Krishna’s father was his great-uncle, so he had Vrishni blood in him, but then so had Kritavarman, Satyaki’s brother, who chose the Kauravas. So many of these choices had been unexpected. Only the All Compassionate could know why one friend turned against you and another who owed you less stood by your side. But on this first night after a losing battle it stirred my heart to think of Dhrishtaketu and Sahadeva of Magadha.
A bright banner slapped at the night. It had the dove and falcon claws of Uttamaujas who guarded my right chariot wheel. Beside him was the tent of Yudhamanyu which flew a thorn tree. Between these two Panchala brothers—as long as they had breath in them—my wheels were safe. And there was Eldest’s tent, pitched on the highest ground.
The corpses of our men and animals were being cleared. We had lost the day; I thought about the morrow and my reason might have slipped had I not remembered Krishna: life was what we cast into the sacrificial fire. Draupadi, dragged by her hair, was the oblation. Shweta, Uttarakumara— my thoughts returned like a hawk to Abhimanyu.
The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata Page 41
