I drew his tent flap back. The breeze that came in with me set the ghee lamps flickering upon his Vrishni brow and raven hair. His hand was on the sword my master swordsmith made for him when he was born. He felt a father’s presence and he did not stir.
Night brings dreams and morning, battle. In times of peace their parting is a gradual mystery. But in war, the first wild shriek of conches splits night from day; the sun shoots up from Kala’s bow.
Krishna and I surveyed our heron bird with its drawn-out central column. Two wings curved out and forward. Bheema’s silver lion on lapis lazuli blazed out above our right wing. Abhimanyu commanded on the left. At the tips were our non-Aryan allies. The body was one-third the length of the long wings and legs; it joined the limbs to form a small triangle with Virata at its apex. My Mother’s uncle, Kuntibhoja, was the right eye. Behind him and in line with us was Drupada. Eldest’s golden planets flew in the centre high above the other banners. Our chariot traced the edges of the bird, so we could greet the men and wish them all a hundred years of life.
When Krishna brought us back to the beak’s point, I saw Greatfather’s sun and stars. My heart began to pound. I could not make it still, and I said, my tongue a stranger in my mouth, “My Lord, why can one see one day what one cannot the next?”
Krishna turned to speak. The din of chariots positioning and a lifting in the music hid his words. Clinging to the standard post I leaned forward to hear him.
“Is that a riddle?” he asked.
“Not unless you make it one.”
He glanced at me. If Krishna would not speak I could not make him, but I feared Gandiva might elude my grasp again and leave me trembling on the chariot seat.
“Today,” said Krishna, “is not yesterday. Eldest was right about Greatfather. Bheema held us all together. Your arrows had no truth in them. Eldest has taken this as proof that we are wrong to fight. There is only one way to fight a war. Do not prolong it.”
His words were death to Greatfather, I thought. But though my arrows drank more blood that day than on the day before, they would not kill him.
Duryodhana demanded victory every hour. He stormed at Greatfather for shaming him and favouring us. Returning to the field, Greatfather advanced on us. His silver horses almost collided with ours. “Now!” called Krishna. Our chargers reared, my aim was blocked. We crossed each other, then Krishna wheeled. With Greatfather three bow-lengths from us, Krishna turned his dust-masked face to me and yelled: “Now, now, Arjuna! Now!” His words empowered me. The fighting around us stopped to let us duel. Greatfather or myself would fall. I fought with all my might and all my skill but your muscles know when you fight with half a heart. I wounded him. I killed his charioteer and aimed to cut the throat behind the beard. Duryodhana’s charioteer shot in and they swept Greatfather out of reach. No arrow can deliver someone unto Yama unless it bears his name.
Our elephantry and cavalry ploughed through the enemy and mowed them down.
Drupada and Dronacharya fought to kill after a quarter century of hatred, but could not. Dhrishtadyumna joined his father, and Dronacharya, crying out in pure hatred, hurled a spear at him. Dhrishtadyumna stopped it with an arrow that carried all the skill the Acharya had instilled in him.
We all knew Bheema’s fighting, but today he was Rudra craving blood. He was everywhere. I saw him swing himself from chariot to elephant, and from an elephant to a riderless horse when his own mount was killed. Men, horses, chariots all swerved from their course at his wild shouts.
“Bheema! Bheema! Bheema!” His own name streaming through his gaping mouth, he hurtled through the lines to come to Dhrishtadyumna’s help. Satyaki sped towards his friends. The three of them took on all the Kalingas. Their princes fell. Before their father could be given time to grieve, Bheema dragged him from his chariot and threw him to the ground Their men and horses panicked. A passing horseman saved the father’s head from Bheema’s sword.
When Dhrishtadyumna fought beside Bheema, he fed upon his wildness. So did Satyaki. And they created pandemonium. The best trained elephants turned tail and trampled their own men. Greatfather raced down towards them, his javelin arm drawn back. The javelin flew at Bheema who jumped on to his seat and caught it in mid-air, snapping it in two while Satyaki, laughing and yelling, killed Greatfather’s second charioteer.
These three fought like many-armed and furious gods. The Kalinga clan was routed and Dhrishtadyumna leapt up on Bheema’s seat, yelling his war cry. Satyaki joined them; their dancing and embracing made the seat collapse.
Towards the afternoon Greatfather and my guru attacked us, one from either side. My hands were light and quick. My arrows flowed like oil. Durga was behind me and beside me. I fought as I had never fought and drove Greatfather back before the sun lost strength.
I waited for a word of praise from Krishna. He looked at me in silence. I had not killed Greatfather. My muscles began to ache fiercely. I clambered up beside him. In silence he handed me the reins. The horses had to pick their way through severed heads and arms and legs, through elephant trunks and jewelled hands that clutched their weapons, and arms that proudly wore their angadas. A white and silver turban lay unwound and bloodstained in the dust. It tangled in our horses’ hooves and got into our axle. There was a ripping sound. It made me think of Uttarakumara. And then I saw them everywhere, the turbans, rose and gold, peacock on violet, silver, saffron, some on battered heads with staring eyes. Did Krishna think I did not feel it? I knew that he was right. To let Greatfather live was to prolong the war. He gazed into the sun that burnished a last cloud. His silence bit deep into me. I called on Mother Durga and on Shiva Shankara.
“Tomorrow, Krishna, I promise, I promise, I promise you, tomorrow.”
This evening there was laughter from the royal tent. As we approached it grew into a roar. Bheema and Satyaki, the heroes of the day, were laughing, heads flung back, their mouths wide open. They all held cups of wine and Eldest smiled the smile that came only when he gazed at Bheema. They all rushed up embracing me and said I was the hero of the day. Not even Eldest’s grateful hand upon my shoulder as I touched his feet could lift the stone upon my heart. Nor could the wine.
Abhimanyu came to me and said shyly, “I am so proud to be your son.” Only then did I feel it lighten.
Duryodhana was the butt of our jokes.
“Did you see the jackal’s tail Duryodhana had on today?
“And how he ran when Bheema set fire to it?” said Satyaki.
Bheema was belabouring his pun on “the lingas of his Kalingas!” and fell into Satyaki’s arms helpless with laughter. “At least they will have learnt to count the proper way,” said Sahadeva, “that their eleven against six means only strength of numbers, not victory.”
“Not in one day, not in ten,” Nakula dovetailed. Dhrishtadyumna growled.
“It will have dawned on him that he cannot show his thigh to Draupadi.” What had happened at the dice game was yesterday for him. This raised a roar. Draupadi’s sons gathered around him, their brows angry and their eyes flashing. They had grown up on this. It was the daily lesson of their lives. The dice game. It was what changed our world and would change the earth. Mother Earth needed a war to wipe out the Kshatriyas and she had ripened it in Hastina’s crystal sabha.
Wine, incense, scented water, oils kneaded in your flesh, the sound of veena and the beat of tabla helped to dull the pain but not the questions. Not even my son’s praise could do that.
Everyone lauded my fighting. Greatfather himself was heard to say when he withdrew that it was but a waste of men to go on fighting me today. Was that not good enough for Krishna? it was not, so it was not good enough for me. Even the children knew that Greatfather held death at bay. Was there something in me stronger yet than Yama, Lord of Death, a boon Krishna had given me? If this were so, could my love for Greatfather defeat my sinews, deflect my arrows? These thoughts were with me as I bathed and they would not wash away.
4
My
memories of the third day are pearls strung on the thread which joined my life to Krishna’s long before the war began. When we destroyed the Khandava forest in our first fight together and both were granted boons by Agni, I asked for weapons; Krishna asked that our love last forever. At times it seemed that Krishna’s life was one long testament to his love for us. Sometimes you see a thing from so close that you need a blow to send you back to see it anew. Or you never hear a word sung until a certain voice uncovers it. Today would show me even Krishna’s honour counted as nothing in the scales that weighed his mission and his love for us. It knew no measure.
On the third morning, we formed a crescent moon to pierce Greatfather’s eagle. The tides of battle surged and turned, and turned again.
Just as our army hungered for Greatfather’s death, they craved mine. Krishna’s deftness with the horses and his constant wheeling saved me, else I would have lost my life by midday.
Greatfather streaked from side to side to make us chase him. He started on the eastern wing and moments later while we dealt with some delaying tactics he cut across us. It looked like maya when he zigzagged, a bolt from Indra’s hand, north–south, south–east, and back again.
He was using mantras, and our armies panicked. Shikhandin’s soldiers fled, then so did mine. Once they had broken rank, not even Krishna rallied them. It was the first time that my men had deserted me. The horses caught the smell of fear and, rearing, bolted. The infantry was taken apart. The elephants lifted their ears and screamed and turned around upon themselves. They charged into our chariots and crushed the men that fell from them. In all this tumult Krishna reined the horses in. I saw an elephant foot lift high above us like a slab of stone. I shot into the centre of its hennaed tracings.
Signing to Uttamaujas and Yudhamariyu to cover us, Krishna drove us off the battlefield.
“You may as well stay here,” he said. “You swore before the sabha to conquer on the battlefield. You swore you would destroy the enemy. You swore you would spare no one. Look at Uncle Shalya there and think of Uttarakumara who gave his life for Abhimanyu. Tomorrow it could be Abhimanyu. Listen to the voice of Dronacharya when he sweeps through us. I avoid Ashwatthama for you but not Greatfather. If you spare Greatfather now, you betray the trust of all the kings that follow you. Eldest himself would not have chosen war without you. This war is won with arrows, not with maces. Twenty Bheemas cannot do what you must do.” It was what Dronacharya taught in his academy of war in Hastina. It was what I had taught my students at Indraprastha. Wars depended on great bowmanship, the range you kept between your foe and yourself. “Look at the princes of Panchala. Uttamaujas and Yudhamanyu learnt this lesson from you and throw themselves with naked hands upon your enemies to let you bend your bow. Satyajit has no thought but to guard the king. The Kekayas placed their trust in you and so did Dhrishtaketu, though it split their armies. Look at all of us scampering like helpless deer while Greatfather keeps our army on the run.” He took us out again into the heart of battle and tried to reach Greatfather. The arrows thumped into our armour, into the chariot seats, into our horses’ breast plates and head coverings, into the wooden mast, into our flesh. I pulled two arrows from Krishna’s right arm. I pulled another from my hip before I felt a jar that nearly toppled me. A crescent head would have sheared my arm off but for my angada. It ripped and dented it so that the metal bit my arm. I had to tear it off.
“Keep shooting, keep shooting,” Krishna turned an anguished face to me. Even his eyelids were dust-coated. “Here comes Satyaki to support us. You are his guru; do not shame him.” Like a cowherd, he rounded up our soldiers with his prayers and exhortations. Greatfather, keeping us at bay, managed to scatter them again and yet again. Then Krishna with a chilling war cry flew down from his driver’s seat. I thought he meant to help Satyaki rally the men, but then I saw him go over to Greatfather with the golden chakra blazing on his hand. Sudarshana! Greatfather understood and laid his weapons down.
I jumped before I thought and gave chase to Krishna’s yellow robe. If he broke his promise not to fight, his name would be dishonoured for all time. What good can poets sing of one who breaks a sacred vow? The Vrishnis are fleet-footed. I had never won a race from Satyaki and few from Subhadra. The battlefield now stretched across the universe. I ran and ran. As in a dream, I did not gain any ground.
I caught a glint of Sudarshana and thrust my left arm out to clear a path. Once I shoved a horse aside and thought my arm was broken. Stampeding elephants walled me off. I ran beneath one, calling out to Krishna like a mantra; what else could save me in this madness? The glint of the chakra came and went, but now Greatfather stood upon his chariot seat for all the world to take aim, and clinging to his standard mast he thundered in ecstasy: “Come, Chakra-wielder, come! My namaskara to you. Grant me this blessing, my Lord Krishna. Send me on the unknown journey.”
To kill Greatfather weaponless! I sweated horror. At last I did what I should have done much earlier. I flung Gandiva to a passing charioteer, shouting, “Give it to Satyaki.” Now I ran more fleetly and when I next caught sight of the the glint of the chakra, I sprinted forward, yelling, “Krishna!” His cloth stayed in my hands. I caught his shoulder but he slipped away like oil. I fell upon my face. Sudarshana now spun upon his finger. Screaming, I made the tiger-leap that Balarama taught us. I held him firmly now. Though I was heavier, he dragged me several paces before we both fell to the ground. I pinned him down and nicked my thigh on the serrated edge.
“You could have killed yourself and me instead of Greatfather,” he yelled in anger. I was angry too.
“You will dishonour us,” I panted while Greatfather pleaded for release. But I held Krishna firmly to the ground.
“We will all be dead before dishonour finds us,” Krishna retorted. The horses’ hooves raised clouds of dust as they thundered past, but did not trample us. “Would you give back the throne to Duryodhana, and prate to me of Dharma and dishonour like those wise men at the dice game?” He made to break away from me which made Greatfather plead with renewed frenzy.
“Golden Sudarshana, leave Krishna’s hand. Release my soul.” This cry brought sudden respite to the fighting.
Greatfather’s head was lifted high. His beard moved with the breeze. His eyes were shining while he chanted: “Sudarshana! Sudarshana! Krishna! Krishna!” I pressed my knee down more firmly. “Arjuna, let him send me on my way since you cannot!’ Standing on his chariot seat he called for death, while down below we fought and argued in the dust. I pleaded and I promised. I panted. I could never spend another happy hour if he besmirched his name. I would rather die than let him, so he must kill me first. I promised I would perform the killing of Greatfather.
“With what? Where is Gandiva?” he asked with bitterness but quietly now. And then I knew he would not send Sudarshana: I felt his muscles ebb. It sent a message through the field. The men who watched us nocked arrows to their bows. Greatfather had his horses turned to run from Shikhandin. Suddenly Satyaki’s russet horses slowed beside us; his hands held Gandiva.
“Somebody threw this bow away,” he shouted as his horses gathered speed. “Jump in!” We hurled ourselves into Satyaki’s chariot just in time to avoid Bhoorisravas’ javelins. They whistled past our diadems. Uncle Shalya’s mace smashed through our standard mast.
Greatfather flung a shakti which took my sight away. In my blindness something flowed through me. It was my astra come in answer to our need. Nothing else could save our troops. It rushed into my fingertips and pulled my bow for me. Gandiva thrummed with menace. The earth seemed to rise through our wheels and forced my arms apart. It would almost certainly have torn them from me if the arrow had not left Gandiva. An arch of fire blazed across the sky. It branched out into other arches and each one forked into a thousand more that sprouted deadlier fire shedding flame that fell furiously upon the Kauravas. Greatfather’s silver chariot halted. His neighing, rearing horses pulled in two directions. The Kauravas hid their faces in their hands. Gandi
va hummed a triumphant hymn. From the ten corners of our army conches blew. Drupada and Virata rallied to us, yelling war cries. We rode towards the fire-spitting curtain and shot our arrows into it. During the early morning of this third day the massacre that we inflicted was greater than what had befallen us on the first. Few emerged unscathed. Greatfather, Dronacharya, and Uncle Shalya were sent off the field. My skin felt like a field of fire after its many grazes.
We had won the day, but Greatfather lived.
“The third day and we are using power weapons,” I said to Krishna.
“Then kill Greatfather,” he replied.
5
During the early morning of the fourth day Duryodhana roused his leaders from their sleep. He himself had slept but little and could not tolerate that others should. The subject of his discourse was what to do about Arjuna. Greatfather had to bear once more the shame of Duryodhana’s public scoldings. And so it was that when the conches blared next day Greatfather rushed toward us, ignoring other challenges, a thing he had not done before.
Abhimanyu broke rank and sped towards him calling: “You who were silent at the dice game…you who would not speak, now show your courage!” I had never seen him vexed until Greatfather shot past him smiling. That left my son to deal with Ashwatthama, Uncle Shalya, Bhoorishrava, and their friends who must have thought to teach the boy a lesson. He made them all turn tail and run. Krishna edged us in beside Greatfather’s silver chariot. There was a perfect opening. But just before I could release my arrow, we were cut off by the Trigarta brothers. My arrows killed their charioteers. I now had to fight off Uncle Shalya as well as the Trigartas, Kritavarman, and Guru Kripacharya. Dhrishtadyumna rushed to help me and drew our Uncle Shalya’s arrows. Abhimanyu came to his aid. Every time we sped towards Greatfather I found myself fighting another man whose chariot seemed to drop from heaven. The morning was lost in skirmishes.
The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata Page 42
