The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata

by Maggi Lidchi Grassi

  We went down-river to the Kaurava camp. When we arrived before Duryodhana’s pavilion, Krishna put his hand upon my arm and told me to take Gandiva and both my quivers and to get down. He said I should caress the horses and give them gratitude. They were vibhutis. I put my arms about the neck of each horse and kissed the wounds. I thanked the Ashwins for sending us these energies of heaven and did pradakshina. Perhaps the Ashwins told me something, for with foreboding I embraced them once again. They rubbed their heads and cheeks against me, snorting, while I gently pulled and stroked their plaited manes. I waited while Krishna placed the reins upon the seat and jumped. As he met the ground something flapped up and flew into the sky. The Hanuman that had topped the standard mast, with wide-flung arms and one leg raised, grew and merged into a giant cloud. The chariot, as though struck by lightning, burst into flame. It was no mortal fire but blazed forth quickly and then died. As we blinked at it the chariot, with two pairs of horses, yoke, and shaft, layered into ashes. I stared and then with tears I bowed to Krishna. I knew what he would say, that they had served their purpose. I looked at him. He understood my meaning.

  “I shall not live forever, but until destiny comes for me, I cannot be destroyed. Nor can you, Arjuna. Each man, each horse, each chariot has its destiny, and yours and mine are linked forever.”

  Turning to Eldest, he gave him the formal congratulations on victory and salutation to the emperor.

  “May you reign forever Bharata, and may the earth prosper under your feet. May you realize the Self and share your blessings with the creatures of the earth and seas and skies,” he said with gravity. He touched his hands to Eldest’s feet and put them to his eyes. We all stood silent. From Krishna it was more than a coronation bath. We all saluted Eldest as our king which he had never ceased to be.

  Eldest requested Krishna to go to Hastina and beg forgiveness of Uncle Dhritarashtra and assure him of our filial devotion. Seeing Daruka drive Krishna off in his own chariot with Sugriva, Saibya, Vahlika, and Meghapushpa drawing it, was to know that the war was over. I felt unease as well as grief at his departure. Never again would we live one in the other for eighteen days.

  Observing all the rites, we entered the enemy encampment and went directly to Duryodhana’s tent to get the military chest. The camp was near deserted save for an ancient counsellor, half a dozen frightened women and some eunuchs who seemed not to have heard their king lay dying. When they saw us they scattered like frightened chickens, except for a eunuch Bheema drew in by the neck with his bow, and an old grandfather who, with milky eyes, came forward to salute us.

  “My Lord,” he said, gliding towards Eldest with obsequious familiarity. “This is indeed a great day.” I knew we knew this man, and peered at him. He had no teeth and tried to smile at everyone together. It was not until Bheema sprang and caught him by the hair that I remembered.

  “You wanted to make smoke of us,” Bheema pulled hard on Kanika’s thinning topknot. I rushed forward to save him. Kanika was whimpering and trying to tell us how much he loved us all. As soon as Bheema had let go, he fell at Eldest’s feet and taking hold quite firmly of his ankles, rubbed his forehead in between the arches.

  “How often did I tell that foolish boy Duryodhana!” he said. The twins held on to Bheema. I stood away: I would not have cared to touch Kanika with my bowtip. Eldest may have felt the same for he stepped back. It was the only time I did not see him raise a suppliant to his feet. He looked at me and stretched his eyes in question, what should we do with him?

  I shrugged: “Make him the Minister of Benevolence.” Kanika who was sitting on his heels said: “Yes, yes, Prince Arjuna.” The nose of Eldest twitched away a smile.

  Nakula said, “Make him the Minister of Housing and Public Safety.”

  “Let him found an academy for teaching techniques of weeping at the funeral of your enemies,” Sahadeva said.

  “With tears of molten lac and wax,” Nakula added. It was release for all of us, except Bheema who was still insistent on killing him. Eldest put his laughter away.

  “Enough of killing! If Krishna wants him killed, then and only then shall we execute him. Kanika, you can show us to the treasury now.”

  “Yes, yes, my Lord,” he said. He scrambled to his feet and started gliding towards the treasury. I was glad to be behind him and kept my hand on the hilt of my sword. So did the twins.

  Be sure you have no trap for us,” warned Sahadeva. Kanika looked over his shoulder with reproach.

  “He is too cunning to do that,” said Nakula. He drew his sword and pressed the blade to Kanika’s back.

  “Kanika, this sword loves blood and has not tasted it for several watches.”

  “Where is Ashwatthama?” Eldest asked Kanika.

  “I do not know, my Lord.” Kanika turned around to face us. “Is he not dead, my Lord?” I tried to see the truth in this old scoundrel’s eyes. They smiled at me. There are some eyes that have no truth in them. I recalled his favourite counsel: Smile; utter soft words but keep a razor in your heart. We knew we were no masters for the guile of Kanika, so we looked about us carefully as we followed him, Bheema walking backwards.

  Most treasure chests were replete with gold coins to pay the soldiers. Others were full of gems and rings and bracelets from the dead. Bheema and Sahadeva stood guard with drawn swords as Satyaki arrived. He had not found Ashwatthama. He helped us sort the things we would be taking with us: jewels and golden vessels, gem-encrusted weapons, silks and carpets, finely woven blankets, perfumes, and deerskins from Gandhara. They were the very things that kings had brought to Eldest for his Indraprastha rajasuya. I recognized the design of eagles inset in gold on one of the shafts. Eldest had said that we would go to Hastina and take the place of Dhritarashtra’s children. But what would be a city where the likes of Shakuni and Kanika had prevailed?

  We left Hastina with mourning crowds lining the road on either side, and Draupadi in her blood-stained clothes. They said I threw handfuls of sand into the air but I was hardly in my senses and did not know it. I stared at the heaps of gold as one stares into a threatening fire. Satyaki came and stood beside me.

  “Why the bleak look?” Satyaki asked. “With the world’s riches in these coffers, you can build two more military academies.”

  “But not in Dwaraka,” I replied, defeated. He put an arm about my shoulder. I was glad he said no more. Nothing could console me. Eldest, as he counted on my arm in war, would count on it in peace. Kanika had brought the stench of Hastina to my nostrils. The dream of Dwaraka had been a dream, no more. This brought to mind the prophecy of Balarama when he was in his cups, that Dwaraka would disappear beneath the sea one day when Krishna left his body. Of what use was the war and all the consequent deaths? I told my thoughts to Satyaki who stretched his eyes to stare at me.

  “Is this the sort of thing that you said to Krishna in the chariot every day?” I smiled. Even as disciple, Satyaki had been the only one to say these things to me. I cuffed him as I always had, as Dronacharya had cuffed me. The first grey hair was in his temples. His face was, like all of ours, ravaged by battle and grief, but with his liquid smiling eyes, he would never be without enchantment.

  “Can you make me laugh about this character here?” I asked, looking at Kanika.

  “I need to laugh myself when I look at him. He is an architect of war as well as of the Palace of Delight. Why is he drawing breath?”

  “Eldest waits for Krishna to decide.”

  “Krishna will say “Kill him.” Perhaps now that the war is over, he will even do it for you.” Satyaki said, “I will do it for you if you ask me. You are the kings again; we cannot burden ourselves with crowface here, we still have Ashwatthama and Kripacharya to think about.”

  “The war is over,” Nakula said. “Let this scoundrel do penance in forest exile. We cannot have bad smells in Hastinapura. Perhaps the sages in the forest can explain what worlds await if he does not.”

  “Poor sages. Should they have to bear the sten
ch of burning flesh as well as live on roots and leaves,” hooted Bheema with laughter. He could not stop his laughter, and then he came to each of us in turn to tell his joke again.

  Kritavarman, Ashwatthama, and Kripacharya found Duryodhana dying near the lake.

  At the very end, revenge was in his mind again and Ashwatthama caught it. When he saw Duryodhana lying broken in the dust alone, his mind was lifted off its hinges. He started shouting, “More Adharma! Kshatriyas are doomed but a Brahmin will avenge you. Two Brahmins will avenge you, Duryodhana, as well as my father’s unspeakable death.” He swore by all his acts of piety and all religious merit that he would send Dhrishtadyumna and the Panchalas to the court of Yama. Duryodhana, lying in the dust, commanded Kripacharya to bring water. This man, who could not move and who could hardly speak, installed Ashwatthama as the king and commander-in-chief. Kripacharya poured the water on his head and said the mantras. Then the dying king unleashed his army of three men to wreak his vengeance.

  21

  When Krishna wept with you, he washed your sorrows away. Krishna had wept with Uncle Dhritarashtra and Aunt Gandhari; he was subdued as he recounted what they said. Uncle Vidura and he had begged for kindness for us and spoken of our exile borne with patience. They reminded Aunt Gandhari that Duryodhana had tried to capture Krishna when he had sought on our behalf to plead for peace. What softened them at last was Krishna’s promise to be a son to them and that we five would live in and reign from Hastina as their sons. He had obtained a message of forgiveness. It was Bheema who remembered Kanika and asked if we could kill him.

  Krishna held his head in his hands: “The war is over. There is to be no more killing except in self-defence. Send him into forest exile. Place a heavy guard around the camp and let Dhaumya light the sacrificial fire.”

  That night Ashwatthama murdered not only our five sons by Draupadi, but Dhrishtadyumna, Uttamaujas, Yudhamanyu, and Shikhandin in their sleep. No Panchala remained.

  As Kritavarman told it, while he and Kripacharya slept on the forest floor, Ashwatthama prowled. Hearing the leaves beneath his feet, they begged him to lie down and sleep in preparation for the next day’s battle. But something had possessed Ashwatthama. He burnt with restlessness.

  He lay under a tree but could not close his eyes and stared up at its branches where crows were sleeping. A huge hawk owl, with deadly beak and talons, swooped down to slay nine sleeping birds. There were only nine survivors of Panchala blood.

  He woke his uncle and Kritavarman and told them he had a vision of how to kill the Panchalas. The idea was abhorrent to the other two who vehemently refused. They were prepared to fight us to the death if so commanded, but openly and by day. They told Ashwatthama that his good name would be odious for all time to come. He did not argue but climbed into his chariot. They saw he was deranged and followed him. Next morning, the news was brought to us.

  Years later Ashwatthama told me how it had taken him.

  “A fire of revenge possessed me. Not only could I not sleep but I could neither lie nor sit. Uncle Kripa told me to lie down. To please him, I lay beneath the banyan tree beside them. I listened to the voices of the night. The branches overhead sheltered sleeping crows. They slept securely with heads beneath their wings. Have you ever looked at birds when they are sleeping, Arjuna? There is nothing more unguarded in the world. They put their heads under frail wings as though those wings were armour. My father sat like that, as though a yogic meditation were his protection. For the first time after seeing Duryodhana lying in the dust, I took a full breath. I knew that something was preparing in answer to my prayer. Into the branches flew a monstrous owl with tawny plumage and round green eyes that glowed with battle madness. His beak was long and sharp; so were his talons. He glided in with soft moanings and killed nine sleeping crows. He tore their wings and slashed their heads as though taking revenge. I counted as they fell and there were nine, as there were four Panchalas and five Upapandavas, the sons of Panchali, still breathing. The owl flew round and round in ecstasy. I was that owl. Only one thing could clear my mind and cure my burning desire for revenge. These verses of the war shastras sang inside my head:

  You should smite the enemy

  When wounded or fatigued,

  When eating or retiring

  Or when resting within their camp.

  “I could avenge my father by depriving Dhrishtadyumna of a warrior’s heaven. I woke Uncle Kripa and Kritavarman of the Bhojas. I told them of my plan. They were struck to dumbness by horror and by terror but I was their commander, appointed with sacred coronation water by King Duryodhana. I raged at them, reminding them Bheema had put his foot on an anointed head. Bheema’s laughter would not let me sleep. Uncle Kripa saw that I was raving and mad with anger. He spoke like an acharya: “Effort without the hand of destiny is not auspicious. It is fruitless rain which falls upon the mountain and not the cultivated field. We fought for Duryodhana. It was rain upon the mountain. He was stained and greedy and for this he lies alone. Let us go to Hastina and seek the counsel of Vidura.”

  I did not answer him. They tried to humour me and said they would help me in the morning after they had rested. I got into my chariot and I told them that they should sleep. I would sleep later. Uncle Kripa shouted after me that I might be the commander but I was his nephew and disciple too. I laughed like twenty demons. They followed me but I managed to shake them off.

  “The gate of your encampment was guarded by a giant being. Around his loins was draped a tiger skin from which blood dripped; it was Shiva in his Rudra aspect. His arms were long and massive and clutched uplifted weapons; his angadas were snakes. His mouth breathed fire. Sharpened teeth showed through it. His face wore many eyes. I started sending arrows at him. They bounced off, but my restlessness was gone. I laughed and hurled a flaming javelin. It broke into fragments like a meteor striking against the sun at yuga’s end. I flung my sword, I flung my mace. They whistled like the wrath of Vayu but sank into his body as though it were a swamp. When all my weapons had been spent, Krishna appeared and warned me never to use weapons against a sleeping man or one just woken from his sleep. But another voice said louder that it was a sin to fail in great endeavours and leave a warrior’s vow undone. What sin is greater than to leave a father’s killing unavenged?”

  Ashwatthama was half-possessed again as he intoned his prayer for me:

  Great Shiva, Thou who art the universe,

  Who art the Lord of Uma,

  Who livest in cemeteries,

  Who art the world’s energy,

  Lord of ghostly beings who wieldest the skull-topped club,

  Who is called Rudra and who is Bramacharin,

  I adore Thee and offer myself as victim.

  Purify Me.

  A golden altar came before Lord Shiva with blazing fire dancing high from it. Mighty beings with glowing mouths and eyes, of many feet and lifted arms adorned with jewelled snakes, rose up beside it. The faces of some were those of tortoises and alligators, others had visages of ducks and bears, wolves, cows and elephants, sharks and whales. Their eyes took fire, their hair and fur blazed out at him. Some had faces like conches. Some had ears like arrows or staring eyes upon their hands. Some were irresistibly beautiful. Some were garlanded with lotuses. Some wore crowns. They held great maces. Some had snakes with numerous heads erect for diadems. And all wore white. They approached Shiva with shrieks and roars and laughter. They were waiting for the murder of the sleepers. Ashwatthama said that he had felt no fear. My own skin quivered like a horse’s as I listened: I had often felt the presence of unseen beings thirsty for our vital juices upon the battlefield.

  Ashwatthama poured his soul as a libation on the fire:

  In this hour of distress,

  O Soul of the Universe, all creatures are in Thee

  And Thou art in all creatures.

  I cannot kill my foes, unless Thou accept me.

  Ashwatthama mounted the sacrificial fire. Shiva, the Bholanath answered: “None is
dearer to me than Krishna Vasudeva of pure deeds. To honour him I spared the Panchalas. But now their time has come.” He blazed into Ashwatthama who swelled with inhuman energy that tore at him, tormented him into an ecstasy of killing which alone could bring release to him, as well as Grace to the Panchala souls. Uncle Kripa and Kritavarman had found him wide-eyed at the gate; they tried to check his energy but staggered back. A voice that was not his commanded them to guard the gate lest anyone escape while he avenged his father.

  Ashwatthama woke Dhrishtadyumna with a kick and seized him by the hair. He slid a bow over his head and twisted it to strangle him. Dhrishtadyumna begged for a warrior’s death that he might reach a Kshatriya heaven. But Dhrishtadyumna’s chariot driver said he only laughed. “You seized my father’s topknot as he sat in meditation.” He killed Shikhandin, Uttamaujas, Yudhamanyu, and our sons by Draupadi and set the camp on fire. The chariot driver, terrified, said he had seen the demons gorging upon human flesh, licking up the pools of blood and squealing, “How very sweet these pure ones are!”

  The three went back to Duryodhana. He lay stretched out, immobile, his eyes closed. They thought he might be dead. Ashwatthama told his story fiercely in his ear; Duryodhana’s body was traversed by thrills of fulfilment. His eyelids flickered and he wore a ghastly smile. His chest gave out a sigh; with a last rattling, his breath departed from him. Ashwatthama shaking his body begged him to take the message of his deed to his father’s spirit, to Bhoorishravas’s, to Bhagadatta’s. At midnight a jackal howled.