“You promised…” and that was all he had the time to say before Greatfather without turning his head shouted: “I told you what you had to do to save your skin and that of all your brothers. Now go away and turn your strength to fighting and to dying. How can I keep my promise with you pulling at my armour?” That was the last time Duryodhana complained to Greatfather.
That night he took his grief to Karna.
The next day Greatfather kept us all at bay while Ghatotkacha created Maya-madness in the enemy. Great numbers of Duryodhana’s army lay upon the field rowing with their arms and shouting that they swam in pools of blood. Dronacharya and Ashwatthama, Uncle Shalya and Duryodhana fled the field. Greatfather stood his ground and blew his conch to pierce the Maya.
Then Bhagadatta and Supratika both descended on us, guarded by ten chariots and at least a hundred horses. Bheema raced his chariot round and picked them off one at a time. Supratika, enraged, ears flapping, and trumpeting to the sky, thundered towards Bheema. Abhimanyu and the five Kekaya brothers on their twenty red-as-indragopa horses raced to help him. Draupadi’s sons and Dhrishtaketu tried to ward Supratika off. The arrows that they shot at him drew blood and he began to look like a mountain washed by red chalk streams. Nothing could stop Supratika. Our heaviest arrows hung from his great sides and would not penetrate his hide. Supratika’s trunk reached out for Bheema. Vishoka swerved.
Just then a darkness overtook us. Dhrishtaketu galloped past us like a cloud storm driven on his elephant and wove his way obliquely through an ocean wave. As soon as he was through, his elephant gathered still more speed and charged Supratika. Supratika took his first step back. The varandaka rocked and Bhagadatta had to cling to it. We cheered our brother-in-law as though the war were won. But it was one step and no more. We rushed to give him cover.
Bhagadatta laughed as at a puny dog’s attack while Supratika started to rip into the armour and protective gold work on the body of Dhrishtaketu’s elephant. Still he plunged his tusks back into Supratika, dislodging arrows that clattered against Bheema’s chariot. Then Supratika came at us. Dhrishtaketu and his mount fought valiantly, but finally Supratika pierced the poor beast in the cheek and through one eye. He squealed and trumpeted in pain, with Dhrishtaketu hanging on his neck and crooning in his ear. But the animal was dying. And in his blindness and his agony he charged us. We scattered as he trampled soldiers underfoot. Suddenly, he stopped and fell like some great cliff. Supratika had lost strength. Though his gajaroha goaded him with ankur and with toe spurs, Supratika’s pace was slowed. There was a stagger in his gait. Brandishing a trident, Ghatotkacha galloped at him on his elephant and tried to pierce its side. But Bhagadatta stopped it with a crescent arrow. Wounding Ghatotkacha he sent Abhimanyu’s diadem flying from his head. We thought that he had killed Vishoka who fell senseless to the platform. Bheema’s horses reared and tried to run off in opposite directions. Finally they bolted to the left and passed in front of us, at which point Bheema leapt down, juggling his mace. “Bheema is finished now.” I thought as Krishna sped us towards Supratika’s front legs.
“Leave the animal alone!” I yelled at Bheema. I aimed my arrow upwards, trying to find the elephant’s brain, but it swerved around and charged, trampling our men again. There was nothing left to do but scatter. We were routed. Even Bheema ceded victory to Supratika, who trumpeted his triumph with the Kaurava conches.
“I wish that elephant were ours,” I shouted. Krishna turned his head.
“Leave them something to make up for Duryodhana.”
Krishna slowed the horses down as wounded elephants loomed up before us. Screaming like cranes, they collapsed on chariots and foot soldiers alike. From far afield Shakuni’s light grey elephant began to lead Gandhara troops along our eastern horn. From our far right Iravata detached himself and forged forward. What could he and his one chariot hope to do against a force of elephants? As though Krishna had read my thoughts, he followed him, but Iravata was far ahead. Our wooden wheels jumped over severed limbs and other battle debris. They swerved round broken chariots and dead horses. As we came up behind the boy we heard his challenge to Shakuni. Shakuni smiled down at him like some great cat who has a little mouse beneath his paw.
“You lying, cheating swindler! I will shoot those rotten fingers off that rolled those rotten dice.” It was sheer lunacy and though I did not like to interfere, I shot Shakuni’s standard to distract him.
“Your daddy comes to help you.” Even in the heat of war his poison was as smooth as silk. He loosed the arrow meant for Iravata at me. I ducked. Then Iravata performed the feat that he had threatened to. He shot the little finger from Shakuni’s hand, the right one, then the left. “He is indeed your son,” called Krishna. Alambusha the Rakshasa came in to take revenge with an enormous arrow. Shakuni fled the field. Iravata’s light bow flew in two pieces from his hand. My son took up his battle axe and swung himself right up into the chariot of Alambusha. He had inherited from me the skill in both his arms and swung the axe from hand to hand to kill the ugly giant. But Alambusha with some maya tactic took the axe from him and swung. Iravata stared wide-eyed at me; and then his head fell to his feet. It bounced off Alambusha’s chariot; his body followed it. I picked the head up calling “Ulupi!” as I thought his mother could return him to me.
I have no memory left of what came after that. Krishna told me later as we proceeded back to camp that Bheema killed eight more of Duryodhana’s brothers late that afternoon. But not Duhshasana.
I was silent for a while, remembering Iravata. Our chariot wheels bumped over an arm still smeared with the morning’s sandal paste. What use was the art of man…the rows of bells that tinkled faintly still, ivory and golden hilts, embossed and shining shields, inlaid bows and quivers all oiled and polished and filigree abounding everywhere, elephant goads with turquoise handles, jewelled chariot frames, embroidered pennants, curdwhite and coral conches, elaborate varandakas lined with softest deerskin, glittering caparisons, and silken cloth, the ornaments that should have graced our queens, our sabhas, and our diadems when we hunted tiger, the treasures that should have gone to our young brides and grooms, and the silk umbrellas meant to proclaim our royal dignity.
The gold in Surya’s parting rays had seemed strange to me today. When I reached the camp I vomited.
I had a fever when I fell asleep. As exhaustion sucked me into depths of slumber, all around me Mother Earth trembled with battle cacophony. Gongs, cymbals, and conches sounded, a mere hand away from my left ear. “Exterminate the Pandavas!” I knew the voice of Shakuni and that of Karna. Then great black and dark grey birds with scraggy necks descended from the sky, shrieking and crowding in as the risen sun began to pale. I forced myself out of a deep sleep and chanted:
The waters of the sky or those that flow,
Those that are dug out
Or those that arise by themselves, those pure and clean waters
That seek the ocean as their goal—
Let the waters, who are goddesses, help me here and now.
I lit more incense and my attendant went to fetch the physician and Dhaumya. Dhaumya embraced me as he would a child. He lit a sacrificial fire chanting:
Help us to find nourishment
So that we may look upon great joy.
Let us share in the most delicious sap you have,
As if you were our loving mothers.
I drank a cordial. It left a taste of bitterness and roots which I welcomed. Silence trickled in. The crashing and the wailing inside my head slithered away coil upon coil, until they poured themselves into the ground. The night of that eighth day, Dhaumya became a mother to me, a priest and a bodyguard against the claws of darkness, and a physician too. I had never seen nor understood him thus before and the softness of his heart. Our long forest years would have been bleak indeed without Dhaumya to tend the sacred flame. Tonight we met on the edge of a dark abyss. Dhaumya looked up from the potion he was mixing and said:
This is a remedy
for your need
And a benediction for the heart.
Fly away, disease, with the blue jay and the jay;
Disappear with the howl of the wind, with the rain storm.
I repeated shlokas after Dhaumya, stoking his power to make the herbs my helpers and protectors:
Let one of you help the other.
Let one stand by the other.
All of you working together;
Help this siege of mind to pass.
“Dhaumya, you have the sight. Will Abhimanyu live? It is his sons and his sons’ sons who must speak of this sacred battlefield where light rode out to meet the force that would engulf it. Abhimanyu came to battle from his marriage bed.”
“You have vision too, my Prince. Krishna gave you knowledge. No greater grace can be bestowed on man. Do not slip now towards a lesser truth. Each day I tend the sacred flame. The sacrifice is a journey that makes us sacred. The inward offering is the vehicle. Throw everything into this sacred fire and do not count the cost nor think about the consequences.” I looked into the flame and saw the earth was offering herself. I could do no less myself.
Even had I had the sight, like Sanjaya, to look into the tent of my mortal foe on the eighth night, I could not have known that Karna’s dilemma fitted tighter than my own. No one could have known but Krishna and my mother. Duryodhana sought solace from his only friend that night. Though they wept together for the brothers Bheema had killed, Karna could no more aceede to Duryodhana than Greatfather could; he could not fight as long as Greatfather lived. No Kshatriya could break a vow such as he had made. Duryodhana was near to raving. It was the first time he had asked for anything from Karna throughout their years of friendship.
Though Karna ached to show his love and gratitude, the world watches a suta. His honour was the thing he, more than anyone, could not forego. Duryodhana asked Greatfather to lay down his arms.
When we heard of it, we all agreed that on that night Greatfather must have paid for every shadow of his karma. Indeed, there was but one day more of fighting for him. Duryodhana had the gall to remind him he had failed to kill the Pandavas and to protect his brothers. Tears filled great Bheeshma’s eyes.
These were Greatfather’s words to him: “Whether I want to kill the Pandavas or not is now of little consequence. They fight and live under a different law than yours. Go and sleep away your ignorance. Let me lie. Tomorrow I must destroy the armies of the Panchalas and Vrishnis in a way the world will talk about long hence. Do not ask more.”
On the ninth day Greatfather devised the Sarvatobhadra, safe on every side. He came out far in front of it, his head higher than was his wont as for a victory parade. Following him were Kripacharya, Kritavarman, Saibya, Shakuni, and the Kamboja Ruler Sudakshina. Dronacharya, Bhoorishravas, Uncle Shalya, and Bhagadatta on his elephant protected the right wing. Ashwatthama, Somadatta, and the Avanti princes guarded the left. Duryodhana, surrounded by the Trigartas who had vowed to kill me when I trounced them in Virata, was stationed in the centre, directly facing us. Alambusha and Srutayas brought up the army’s rear. They were massive. Duryodhana’s army looked freshly groomed, chariots gleaming, armour shining. Their new banners bravely caught the breeze. Horsemen and charioteers sat proudly. The men’s morale was high. You feel a force’s pride in its commander. The men were taut with his expectation.
I concentrated on our formation. It was a risk, of course, the sickle moon. But it was how we hoped to isolate Greatfather, closing in behind him with our left and right horns meeting. Some days your best-wrought plans will come to nought. No matter how you try, your foe is more swift and cunning. Mother Durga favoured him today. We could not make a breach. Then Abhimanyu charged alone and without cover.
“He must be mad,” I said to Krishna. He flicked the horses and they jerked us forward. Krishna’s conch screamed congratulations and Abhimanyu answered. There was laughter in both messages. Streaming arrows, Abhimanyu left his army far behind him. I saw him swallowed by the enemy. Those of us that tried to follow him were checked. “He is alone,” I said to Krishna.
“He is not alone.”
“He is alone,” I shouted louder, “against eight thousand men.”
“There is a force with him and it is stronger than ten million men. Durga is with him. Shiva is with him. I am with him.” There was a note in Krishna’s voice that I had heard before on the first day: “He is a tempest that tosses enemies like heaps of cotton and flings them to the sky. He is the fire that draws his foes into the blaze.”
When through a hedge of spears and shining lances he emerged again, unscathed, I knew that all my dreams of glory for Subhadra’s son had been fulfilled. The tide had turned. The enemy was shaken. All around the snapping of bows against the fingerguards was like continuous claps of thunder. My blood exulted. I thought the day was going to be ours, but as the day advanced we made no further headway. Greatfather kept his promise that our armies would be shattered and when Krishna took me to Greatfather’s chariot, Gandiva’s arrows could not find him.
Krishna ranted: “Before all the kings after the marriage feast, you made a sacred vow. In the palace of the king who harboured you in exile, you made a promise. In the palace of Virata you promised to kill Greatfather, your Guru, and your cousins. Virata followed you, and he has lost three sons. Satyaki followed you, and he has lost ten sons. They said Arjuna would protect them. And what about your sons? I showed you on the first day. These men are dead. Your arrows do no more than free them for their destiny. This is the ninth day. Tomorrow is the tenth. How many more? My arms no longer feel like mine. My fingers are rubbed raw. I have a fever. Look there at the horses.”
I blew my conch with all the power of my heart and my lungs, and rallied Eldest’s cavalry and our men, who streamed behind us as our horses flew forward. Our forces were like huge waves about to crash on a shore, or clouds rolling furiously in a storm. They would not stop.
“Mahatma Krishna!”
“Dharmaraj!”
“Prince Arjuna!”
In war there is no music sweeter than the loyal roars of armies you have rallied. It carries you. You are halfway between earth and heaven. The horses know it. There is no need to urge them on. They pull the sun across the sky. Krishna held the reins like garlands. Not even Indra’s charioteer could have done what he did. Only Krishna had this lightness in the midst of battle. Only Krishna had this laughter. Light seemed to dart out of his laughing eyes. I felt my head snap back and my war cries were punctuated with laughter. The earth itself rippled with laughter under beneath our charging steeds. The sound of scores of bamboo groves exploding into flames was not a hundredth part the sound of battle. The dust rose towards the sun, but no one broke formation. Invisible threads held us together in the shrouded light.
Krishna let the twins overtake us and veil us in their dust while Greatfather stood waiting, his bow drawn to his ear. We burst upon him from the side; I shot his bow straight from his hand. It shattered and sent pieces flying to blind the charioteer behind him. My arrows felled his flagpole. I wounded his four horses and pierced his charioteer’s right hand. And then finally my arrows pierced Greatfather’s breast, but stopped short of his heart, as though they had spent their force. Thinking that any moment now he would topple over, I paused. An arrow grazed my temple. It would have killed me but for Krishna’s constant swerving. Greatfather stood.
Arrows came at me in droves. Gandiva never ceased to throb. Our horses now were dancing to the touch of Krishna. And then with sudden whinnies all the horses stopped. There was a flash of gold—Krishna was running, running with his hair unbound, his robe flapping in the wind. The whip flew out of Krishna’s hand. Greatfather understood. He understood before the chakra left its pouch, and so did I. He put his bow down as I jumped and ran.
Greatfather bellowed: “Make way for Krishna. He is my liberator.” The men and chariots parted. But they would close again before I reached them. My brain was working feverishly, but now it stopped comp
letely as I was flung forward like a javelin. I still thank Great Indra for that moment. As Krishna’s chakra winked and blinked above his shoulder, I leapt and caught him. I clung to him desperately, although he strained and tried to drag me after him. Falling, I held on to his knees. This time the chakra was flung sideways. With sobbing breath I begged him. I promised and beseeched him; he merely dragged me forward.
Greatfather stood firm, invoking Death. “Krishna of the Vrishnis! Krishna Vasudeva! Bestow my death on me. Bestow release. Bestow the blessing of my life.” His eyes rolled back. The cracking noise of bowstrings died as Greatfather and I competed for the ear of Krishna. I do not know which syllables I used to promise I would keep my word as soon as Greatfather took up his bow. Greatfather’s voice carried across the field a hymn of death:
Come home again, leaving your stains;
Assume a body bright with glory.
His voice had sober joy in it. Then raising his head to heaven he sang out in a ringing sort of music, rocking his whole body with it:
Now take your seat, O Yama, on the sacred grass,
Together with the priests of old and with the Fathers
May the prayers of the sages bring you hither!
O king, rejoice in this oblation.
I heard a hush, and then the sighing wind of awe and admiration. Pitted against it I heard my voice, brash and metallic, pleading with Krishna to let me be the one to take Greatfather’s life. I could not bear my voice. I risked my purchase on him and turning Krishna’s head towards myself, I forced his eyes to look at me. His anger shocked me but my grief made him desist.
We returned to the chariot. I had sworn by my weapons, I had sworn by Truth itself to kill Greatfather; so I gathered my last strength. But Greatfather, propelled by Yama’s power, bore down on us with burning fury. I held a brief advantage before he paralysed us. We were cattle in a bog.
The sun was hovering like a great red dancing fruit and would not take its leave of us. Night was delayed by Greatfather’s invocations. It thwarted us as did its brother Death. My broken promises had turned the universe awry. Arrows pinned us down. At last the sun took pity and slipped away from our humiliation.
The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata Page 45
