The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata

by Maggi Lidchi Grassi

  I felt the friendship in him fighting with resentment. The friendship won. “You know my father summoned me to kill his enemy. He made my mother pray before our births and offered sacrifices to the gods so ardently that we were known as the Altar-born. The mission of my life is to avenge my father who was slain this very night in Dronacharya’s insanity. We have not found even his body nor that of Virata to perform the rites. We may have killed them ourselves. You know the story of my birth, it is no secret. Both armies know of it. Our family chanters sing of it. Why else have I spent fifteen days of war pursuing Drona’s chariot? Why, if not to kill him? Nobody said I should not. There was no pact that Drona should be left alive. What Kshatriya will not honour oaths? Our oaths are sacred. Did not your Guru Dronacharya teach you that? When Abhimanyu died, you took an oath to kill Jayadratha. If we must speak of Dharma, what must we say of how the sun set twice? Arjuna, we all lost Abhimanyu. He was our pride and hope. No one who saw him streak across the battlefield remained unstirred, nor doubted that a god was in him. Among the dead who are not even cold, remember, are my father, who was a father to you, and my brothers, who were your brothers, and my sons. Drona fought unrighteously. There is no sin in what I did, and even if there were, it would not cling to Eldest.”

  I felt the friendship of Dhrishtadyumna, and he felt me feel it. He spoke as a physician speaks to a sick man: “And finally, I say to you, Arjuna, that though they say your fury should flow into the river of the past once you have killed your enemy, mine has not. I feel that I can never fully avenge my father and my brothers and my sons.” His strong features remained set but tears came to his eyes. “Satyajit was felled by this monster of a Brahmin. In the midst of battle I look around for my Satyajit, my own Abhimanyu, and then I felt proud that he gave his life for Eldest.” The silence of respect which our commander’s speeches always met with deepened into reverence. He put his arm around my shoulder. “Disciples should not kill their gurus. There are some things we do and cannot help them. You had to kill Greatfather.” His grief spoke to mine more eloquently than his words. My son by Draupadi came forward and took the dust from his feet, and his brothers followed suit. Then he came to me, and though he performed his obeisance with affection, grace, and courtesy, he looked up at me with eyes that were his real father’s, Dhrishtadyumna’s. In the grip of pain I yet knew how fortunate he and his brothers were. But I could not keep my mind from taking stock: I had no sons. Iravata by Ulupi had fallen to Alambusha, and Babhruvahana by Princess Chitrangada had not come to fight by my side. This lost its bitterness somewhat: one son at least would survive the war.

  Dhrishtadyumna’s arm pulled me closer and checked my thoughts. When someone speaks to you like this, there are no rights and wrongs. Had Dhrishtadyumna asked for an apology, I would have given it. I think he felt it in my silence and my bowed head. Satyaki, who was bunched against my other side, leapt up and stood before Dhrishtadyumna. He panted in rage: “You dare compare what you did with Dronacharya’s head to what my guru Arjuna did? Greatfather wanted to be killed. He told us all as much. He laid his weapons down because he wanted to be killed by Arjuna.” By now I had jumped up and caught Satyaki from behind. “Say one more word about my guru and I shall swing your head from side to side.” I felt Satyaki’s muscles jerk and knew that in his mind he had already killed him. Dhrishtadyumna stared up at him and his mouth prepared to speak. Sounds came from his throat with great difficulty.

  At last he growled “Satyaki” and walked some steps away to put some distance between himself and this madman. He prowled around us and threw his head back in astonished, angry laughter. “This must be my day for learning to forgive. Arjuna loves you and the Vrishnis. I would not add to all his losses nor to mine. You are a son and brother to him and much more. Otherwise, I tell you, Satyaki, you would be greeting Yama.” He paused. “We cannot lose a warrior of your courage.” He pressed the knuckles of his fist against his lips, but then burst out, “What courage did it take to kill Bhoorishravas when he tried to leave his body? Did you stop to think of what the shastras say? Did you rehearse the code of battle in your mind? Bhoorishravas had an ancient grudge against your Greatfather. He put his foot upon your chest. It would have been more dharmic if you had killed him in battle to avenge all of your sons, but though no one applauded you, we did not heap insult on you.” I understood again why Krishna had chosen Dhrishtadyumna as commander. We were all crazed for lack of sleep and there had been but little time to eat. None of us had been normal since the death of Abhimanyu and my vow to slaughter Jayadratha. Perhaps none of us were normal after the tenth day when Greatfather left the field. Dhrishtadyumna sat again. Relief rippled through us all. “Satyaki, with every passing day, the definition of Adharma becomes more problematic. If we had all the experts on the shastras, all the pundits of the world before us in this tent, they could not tell us what to do. I give you my point of view. It was my father’s as stated in the sabha of Virata the day after Abhimanyu’s wedding: I fight on the side of the Pandavas not only because they are my kinsmen and I love them but because they stand for Dharma. For that same reason our men have not defected to the other side as the Kauravas have run to us. When Dronacharya lost all virtue we would, in any case, have had to find a way to kill him, quite apart from any vow of mine. I say to you the aim of any war is victory.” He flung this out. “The world will honour Eldest. His was a glorious lie. It was a sacrifice of virtue offered to the gods.” Dhrishtadyumna paced the room, trying to keep up with his thoughts. “You were insulted by Bhoorishravas and you killed him. Now if anybody wants to cut my head off, let him try.” Satyaki broke free from my embrace and sprang at Dhrishtadyumna. Bheema sprang after him and caught him. I thought that Satyaki must die but Bheema swerved him away from Dhrishtadyumna and Nakula stood between them.

  “Satyaki,” he said in a voice that would have soothed the wildest horses, “the Vrishnis are our life and hope. We love you as we do Krishna. Abhimanyu loved you. You were his guru and his father. To lose you would be a cause of despair to us. To lose Dhrishtadyumna would be equally so. His father was the raft which saved us when we nearly drowned. He and Virata were our fathers when we were refuge-seekers. They have reached their warrior’s heaven. Let all dissent be swallowed in the river of the past.” I had Satyaki by one arm and felt the words of Nakula enter his blood like a potion. Then he grew quiet. With my free arm I embraced this young brother who never boasted but had the wisdom to save us from ourselves. Dhrishtadyumna took the perfume from his hair. Nakula’s healing emanations entered me.

  “Arjuna, you say it was my lie that killed our guru.” Even when angry, Eldest remained immobile, and spoke from his throne in measured tones. He spoke without emotion. “This man you claim was a father to us, he was the one under whom six heroes killed our Abhimanyu. He sat and watched the Kauravas try to disrobe our Queen in the sabha. Some days ago he promised me to Duryodhana so that I could be challenged to another game of dice. Another thirteen years of exile. Was it a father’s love that made him promise Duryodhana that your oath would not prevail against Jayadratha? If I have foregone Heaven for this lie, so be it. I do not feel the stain of sin. If Dronacharya is your guru, mine is Krishna.” Krishna. In our madness we had forgotten. Our madness was that we forgot. His name calmed me. “If Krishna had been in Hastinapura at the dice game, his voice would have spoken for us. If Krishna had been there, there would have been no dice game. We all know how little I have yearned to rule a kingdom. I was accused of loving exile in the forest more. I am prepared to end my life but I have no qualms about my words to Dronacharya.” Bheema was sobbing and the others were silent in their support for Eldest. I too was silent. Krishna had wrought a change in Eldest. After the death of Dronacharya, Eldest understood that the world was full of decisions which conventional Dharma could not lead you to.

  14

  We had not long to wait for Ashwatthama’s answer. We were moving out in our formations when the animals started breaking line. There wa
s a restlessness in all of us. At first I thought it was the nerves of utter weariness or just the turmoil that Kuta warfare brings about. Gold and ivory goads kept flashing in the sun; gajarohas had to use their toe spurs to keep the elephants from veering off course. Birds of prey began to pass us on the left. The sacrificial fire had gone out this morning, but there was no need of omens to tell me that the world had gone awry. Even Krishna had his work cut out for himself. He tried with all the effort he could muster to keep the horses’ heads turned to the enemy. A pack of jackals ran past us. Our fighting in the night had deprived them of their prey. Krishna used his whip to drive them away. I wondered whether it was a dream, such as you might have when you have had little or no sleep.

  “Krishna, I feel I am dreaming that we are in a nightmare.” He did not turn his head and neither did he answer. The impending feeling that this was a nightmare grew. There was a numbness in my fingers which I had never felt before when I held Gandiva. There was loathing of the jackals and the rats that scampered past. I shall wake up, I thought, and find myself inside my tent with Krishna laughing at my side. I willed myself to awaken from this nightmare but that only made the dream grow worse. An unexpected dimness fell upon the air, twilight at midday. Sahadeva had not warned us of an eclipse. The sky darkened into a sudden blackness. This was the worst omen of all. I searched my mind for a shloka to avert evil. I could remember nothing. Krishna turned his head at last and the grimness of his face froze me completely.

  “Unless the men can understand…” His words were carried off by whistling winds that blew dust in my eyes. His face had told me nothing would avail.

  I shouted, “What is happening?” as the chariot rocked and lurched forward. I grabbed the standard mast to steady myself, as I had never had to in Indra’s chariot. “The earth is trembling,” I shouted. Just then it heaved as though an elephant rose under it, and I fell down on the sprawling ground. All around us, the horses bolted, scraping past us or colliding to fall with broken legs. Dreadful cries came from their lacerated chests. Wheel hubs spun off and axles snapped as chariots hurled into each other. Krishna gave our horses their heads so that the stream of elephants would not trample us. There was no choice. We raced along like waves borne by the tide. The animals and elements had taken over. There was no room left for mind and reason. We galloped into darkness with the howling of the wind and of the men, rising together. Was the sun, at last, protesting against the macabre event that had been Kurukshetra? Above the howling, Krishna shouted. I could not hear him and holding on to the standard mast I leaned as far forward as he leant back. He shouted once again and louder but still I could not hear the words he was crying out. The earth had turned into a stormy sea. My stomach churned.

  I finally saw the word that Krishna’s lips were forming: “Narayanastra, Narayanastra.” Krishna’s face had told me that no one knew the mantras or the counter-astra, so I saved my breath; there was little enough of it. I tried to climb up beside Krishna. The elephant that moved the earth fell to its knees and we keeled over. My head had hit the chariot hood against the crest of gold. And if it had not stopped me I would have fallen out just as our horses ran into another cloud of darkness. “Hold fast!” I heard Krishna order me. The horses slowed down after jolting and crashing into one another and swerved and turned around, an erratic tide drawn by an insane moon. They galloped back faster than they had galloped forward. The rivers had begun to turn in their directions.

  Krishna looked behind us and as he did, I felt a great heat as though the sun itself, shrouded in black, had advanced towards us. I turned my head and saw a glow.

  “Surrender. We must surrender to the astra.” Krishna made me take the reins. “When I say so, stop the horses.” He jumped onto my seat and blew his Panchajanya. He blew it repeatedly until it split the darkness. The heat was growing fiercer and when I looked, I saw a large number of discs like many golden chakras spinning slowly towards us.

  “Surrender! Surrender! Throw down your arms. Offer yourselves to Vishnu. Prostrate before him.” Krishna barked out his orders. The word spread quickly. Every tongue beat words against its palate.

  “Offer no resistance!” “Throw down your arms!” “Surrender!”

  “Surrender!” Behind us, Nakula jumped down from his chariot and stretched full length upon the ground. Horses swerved to right and left of him. Seeing this, Satyaki did the same, his head protected by his hands.

  “Take your hands away!” bellowed Krishna. “Surrender everything. Be fearless. Do not protect yourselves. Vishnu’s astra is our blessing.”

  “Open your hearts to it. Surrender fear.” I could hear the voice of Sahadeva.” Surrender! Surrender!”

  Krishna pushed me off the chariot, and as I fell I saw the discs accelerating, you could hear their whisper slicing through the commotion. Where the men tried to escape they dipped and made great screaming torches of them. They passed over the bodies of the prone and covered the horizon like golden locusts. They came dipping soundlessly and now the cry went up from ten thousand throats: “Lay down your arms! Surrender! It is Lord Vishnu. It is the Lord Himself.”

  The voices grew glad, hope stole into us, and a joyful chorus murmured mantras of surrender:

  Om Namo Bhagavate Naaraayanaaye…

  Om Namo Bhagavate Naaraayanaaye…

  I bow down to you, my Lord;

  I bow down to you, my Lord.

  Soon, our entire army, or rather what was left of it, lay prone upon the earth, arms outstretched, palms joined, chanting praises of Lord Vishnu’s lotus feet and hands. His thousand faces slowly lifted and spun into the sky. As they passed over us we felt no fire, only a soothing warmth and a gentle breeze. It was a blessing that stole the stiffness from our souls and bodies.

  We learnt that day what no weapons teacher can tell you. The ultimate weapon is surrender. It is love.

  Only Krishna stood upon the battlefield, his hands shading his eyes. He looked to where a flight of discs began to dip and blaze. There was a lone and wildly dancing figure waving arms and shouting. It was Bheema. Krishna started running and without thinking I ran too.

  “I will not bow to you,” Bheema shouted at the discs and shook his fists. I began to feel the heat again. Bheema glowed and bellowed. I sprang upon him and threw him down. He was burning like a furnace. Still he shouted, “I put my foot upon your head, Ashwatthama! I put my foot…” I ground his head down. He spat out grit, “I put my foot…” I sat upon his head. His mouth was open like that of a hippopotamus and full of sand. In desperation I stuck my foot in it and felt his teeth.

  Krishna shouted, “Eldest needs you.” I felt the muscles tense and then go limp. “Chant Lord Vishnu’s mantra.” I looked up at the sky. The discs were hovering, poised and steady. I surrendered Bheema, I surrendered everything.

  Bhagavate Naaraayanaaye.

  Om Namo Bhagavate Naaraayanaaye.

  There was a fragrance in the air that wiped away the stench of fifteen days of death. Death now showed its hidden face to us. It glowed with love. We saw a promise of creation. This thing that had been sent to shrivel us gave new life, new faith, new hope. From the corner of my eye I saw the metal of the chariots curled like withered leaves. I looked down at my arms but they were whole.

  Narayana is life. Narayana is life disguised in astras. He is the only healer. Everything is Narayana. Bow down to Narayana. I felt a body heaving beside me. Bheema must be weeping. I took my weight off him to find my brother laughing with wonder.

  I had seen Krishna once again. I stretched myself in full prostration to him. The mind was stilled, the heart was glowing. That evening when the mind was active and full of thoughts, I mused: “You spoke of action once as though it were the greatest good. Today surrender saved us. Had we surrendered long ago would there have been no war?”

  “No. You saw it for yourself. Because Greatfather’s formidable surrender was to a dying Dharma.”

  “What of Eldest’s surrender at the dice game?”


  “Surrender to a dying Dharma only feeds a dying Dharma. It is not surrender to the Absolute.” And then he looked at me and closed his eyes and smiled. “Discrimination. I said discrimination, Arjuna. That is the most important thing. It is the only thing.”

  I have often thought of Krishna’s words and what they meant and how our conversation ended in the first starlight. I knew that discrimination was something I did not have.

  “That is one reason, Krishna, for us to stay together always. You are my discrimination.” Men cannot live in truth for very long. Our sense of wonder fades like stars and moon by day. The knowledge that I did not have discrimination, brought me closer to its edge than I had ever been before. Discrimination is an astra that surrenders doubt; it is the arrow’s head that sunders darkness. “Krishna, when this dark war is over…that has brought me so much light, you must let me be your charioteer. I do not want to part from you.”

  “We still have time together,” Krishna said, “before the Lord of Time may scatter us across this earth.”

  “Your words are like a knife,” I said.

  “That is because, as you have truly confessed, you do not have discrimination.” When Krishna saw he could not make me smile he sat up sharply and took me by the shoulders half rocking, half shaking me in that way he had. He said, “To be without discrimination is one thing, to be without a memory as well is worse. How many times have I told you who we are. We are Nara and Narayana; we are the indissoluble.” It was true, what he had told me. We were sitting on a carpet woven of silk and silver threads. I still remember its design of trees and deer and birds, just discernible in the starlight. “We came to do something together and we are doing it. The rest is like this,” he pointed to the silver thread. “It is not essential. Yes, I am your discrimination. You are my chakra. I told you on the first day of the war. There is no difference, there is no space between us.” He brought his thumb and forefinger together tight to show me and placed them beneath my eyes, then he shook me gently once again. “Never forget it. If you took away all the rest, this still would be. I know what we are here for. You forget. Forgetting is the suffering. Ignorance is pain.”