The common soldiers adored Karna. Thanks to him, they no longer lived in constant fear of the pitiless astras that could, in an eyeblink, turn a disciplined battalion into a writhing mass of agony. They could rest at night without worrying that they might be attacked without notice. But mostly they loved him because, in the evenings after the other maharathis had retired to their tents, he walked among them. He offered solace to the wounded and made sure they were given what comfort was available. To those who would go into battle the next morning, he spoke bluntly and honestly, man to man. I cannot promise you safety, but this much I know. Whoever wins—Yudhisthir or Duryodhan, he will take care of the families of those who fight faithfully in this battle. Such was the power of his conviction that men who were ready to desert changed their minds. I wonder if Duryodhan ever knew that it was Karna's words that held his dwindled army together in its last moments. This was how things stood on the seventeeth day of the war, when Karna and Arjun faced each other.
From the beginning it was clear that this duel was unlike their previous encounters. It would end only when one of them died. By unspoken consent, soldiers on both sides stopped their skirmishes to watch. (If they lived, this would be the story they'd tell their grandchildren.) Vyasa has written that the gods themselves came to see this amazing fight. I believe him, for though I couldn't see them, I felt an electric presence in the air, a deep, if impersonal, sadness.
As for myself, I prayed desperately for the sight to be taken from me—at least for the duration of this duel. Whatever its outcome (and already I guessed what it would be), for me there was only pain. But the sight, inexorable, descended on me clearer than ever so that it was as though I were in the midst of the fighting, close enough to hear every indrawn hiss of pain.
Vyasa describes it as a glorious battle, equally matched, each hero countering the other's astras with unconcern. This was certainly true of Arjun. For the first time, I felt his concentration, pure, exhilarated, the way he focused on his task as if it were the one point of light in a drowning darkness. Who could resist admiring a talent so absolute and deadly? Not I, even as my heart twisted in fear of what would happen to Karna.
As Karna ordered his chariot to be driven up to Arjun's, his face was equally calm. But I felt the storm of agitation that swept through him. He was not a man to deceive himself. He knew already that, having used up the Shakti, he could not defeat Arjun. He knew that Arjun was determined to kill him. But it wasn't the fear of death that shook him. Nor did his charioteer, Salya, the uncle of the Pandavas, manage to dispirit him by extolling Arjun's greatness. No. Karna was debilitated by his own knowledge. Because where Arjun faced a hated enemy, Karna was facing his younger brother.
Had Kunti realized this would happen? Had she told him her secret on purpose, so that when the moment arrived, he wouldn't be able to focus his entire will behind the arrows he let fly at the son she loved more?
Still, Karna was a true warrior—and a true friend. He gave the battle everything he had. He quenched Arjun's fire arrows with his storm arrows. He invoked the Bhargav astra, named after his guru, powerful enough to wipe out tens of thousands of warriors. When Arjun neutralized it with the Brahmastra, he invoked the Nagastra, the deadliest missile he had left. It turned into a poisonous serpent and sped toward Arjun. Who knows what might have happened if Krishna hadn't intervened? He spoke a word to the horses. They knelt in response, lowering the front of the chariot. The arrow passed through Arjun's jeweled crown, disintegrating it, but Arjun's life was saved.
I noticed with relief that the sun was setting. The duel would have to be called off until the next day. I let out a breath I'd been holding for so long that my lungs burned. My entire body ached with tension. But I'd been granted a reprieve! Tonight, I decided, I would do what I should have done much earlier. I would tell my husbands the truth about Karna. Many would hate me for doing this. Perhaps it would sway the outcome of the war against us. Still, I couldn't bear to watch my husband killing his brother without knowing what a terrible thing he did.
But as I waited for the commanders to give the signal for the armies to withdraw, Karna's chariot suddenly tilted sideways. One of his wheels was embedded in the earth—strange, for they were on high, hard ground. Karna jumped down to free it, but he failed. His face grew pale; his brow was beaded with sweat. He was remembering the brahmin's curse: You will die when you are helpless. No! He couldn't perish like this, so pitifully, without a chance to fight back! Still struggling with the wheel, he called out to Arjun to remember the code of honor and give him a moment to ready himself.
Before Arjun could respond, Krishna turned to him. “Don't do it! This is the man who instigated Dussasan to humiliate Panchaali in the royal court, in the sight of all! Did he think of honor then?”
No! I cried. No matter how terrible that incident had been, I didn't want to be the goad Krishna used to prod Arjun into killing Karna.
Rage flashed across Arjun's face, but he hesitated. He was thinking that he didn't want to be remembered as a warrior who attacked an unarmed opponent. He wanted people to know that he was powerful enough to kill Karna in a fair fight.
“He butchered your son, who was fighting off five other men. He approached him from the back and cut the strings of his bow,” Krishna continued. “What would the shade of Abhimanyu feel if he saw your misplaced mercy now?”
Ah, Krishna! He knew the exact note he needed to play upon the flute of our passions! Arjun's jaw hardened. He raised his bow. Karna saw the look on his face. He dropped the wheel and began to chant a mantra—a simple one to bring him a weapon, any weapon, but almost immediately he faltered. He realized what was happening. The cruelest curse, his dear teacher's, was taking effect. Your knowledge will fail, Parasuram had raged, when you need it the most. He knew his time had come. He raised his hand in a gesture that an observer might have taken as a plea, but I recognized it as one of forgiveness. Arjun released his arrow. It sped through the air like a comet, trailing unhindered fire. Just before it reached its mark, Karna smiled.
What did I feel, seeing Karna fall? Part of me was glad that the unbearable tension of the battle was over. Part was relieved that my husband had won, that he was safe. Part realized that we were now very close to achieving the vengeance I'd craved—though it gave me no satisfaction. Part was thankful that this dreadful war would now end—for without Karna, what hope did Duryodhan have? Part sorrowed that a great warrior and a noble soul had died. But the part that was a girl at a swayamvar facing a young man whose eyes grew dark with pain at her words, the part that didn't owe loyalty to the Pandavas yet, couldn't hold back her tears. Regret racked me. How might Karna's life have turned out if I'd allowed him to compete that day? If he'd won? The longing that I'd suppressed all these years crashed over me like a wave, bringing me to my knees. He'd died believing that I hated him. How I wished it could have been otherwise!
Vyasa writes: At the moment when Karna died, the sun plunged behind a cloud so dark that people feared it would not return. Despite the brutality of his death, his face held an enigmatic smile. A divine glow
left his body and circled the battlefield as though searching for something before it discarded this world. Some have doubted his words, but I can vouch for their truth.
But here's something Vyasa didn't put down in his Mahabharat: Leaving the field, the glow traveled to a nearby hill, where it paused for a moment over a weeping woman. Before it soared into the sky and disappeared, it grew into a great radiance around me. A feeling emanated from it that I have no words for. It wasn't sorrow or rage. Perhaps, freed of its mortal bondage, Karna's spirit knew what I hadn't ever been able to tell him.
When the glow faded, I was left with a strange comfort, a belief that this was not the end of Karna's story.
37
After the death of Karna, I didn't want to climb the hill again. I was no longer interested in the war. I didn't want anyone to realize this, so I continued to go up there. But once there I would lie o
n the ground and close my eyes and try to send my mind far away. I realized now that the main reason I'd accepted the sight from Vyasa was for the opportunity to watch Karna the way I never could in real life, to decipher the enigma that he was. Now I understood him—his nobility, his loyalty, his pride, his anger, his uncomplaining acceptance of the injustice of his life, his forgiveness. But the weight of this knowledge that I could not share with anyone was crushing me.
We'd hoped that with Karna's death the war would end, but Duryodhan refused to give up. How could he? As he declaimed to Aswatthama, the only friend he had left after Karna's fall: Having been emperor of the earth, having tasted life's pleasures to the full, having stamped on the heads of my enemies, how can I now go with joined palms to my hated cousins, begging for mercy? For once, I understood him and agreed. Any end other than a death-by-battle would have been an anticlimax to the Kaurava prince's furious life. I shut my eyes, but as I'd feared, the sight did not release me. And so I saw Salya, last of the commanders, fall to Yudhisthir's javelin. With his final breath he sent a blessing to his nephew, not knowing that in doing so he burdened him further with guilt. I saw the last of the Kaurava chariots explode, the last of the horses and foot soldiers die. Now only four warriors were left: Duryodhan, Kripa, Kritavarma, and Aswatthama. The wounded, heart-sore king entered a lake, chanting a mantra that would allow him to rest underwater for a time. But spies informed the Pandavas of this; they arrived at the lake and challenged Duryodhan to a final confrontation. I saw the Kaurava prince leave his sanctuary, impelled by the pride that had always been his downfall.
And so the last battle took place at Samantapanchaka, a place once considered holy but now laid waste by war. Around my husbands the land stretched sick and discolored, great, gaping holes torn into its side by the blasts of astras. The few remaining trees were leafless skeletons. There was no sign of the many birds and beasts that had roamed here peacefully just a few weeks ago. Only vultures sat on dead branches, waiting in eerie silence. This was what we had done to our earth.
Nakul said: “You know how Eldest Brother is, very noble and admirable, only sometimes he doesn't think things through. So he tells Duryodhan, You're alone here and tired out, and there's five of us against you, which isn't fair. Why don't you fight a duel with one of us—you can choose the person you want to fight, and you can choose your weapon, too. Whoever wins will rule Hastinapur.
“We stared at him, quite horrified. We knew that none of us except Bheem was equal to Duryodhan, not if he chose to battle with the gada, which of course he would, it being his favorite weapon. Krishna was furious. He told Eldest Brother, You're a fool. Millions of men have died in the last few days to protect you from Duryodhan. Your brothers have faced the greatest dangers to secure your victory. Panchaali has wept and prayed for this moment through thirteen years of hardship and humiliation. I myself have manipulated dharma to help you. Now you throw it all away with one grandiose gesture? You know that Duryodhan learned gada-yuddha from my brother Balaram, the world's greatest mace fighter. No one in the world can beat him at it. You should have just killed him when you had the chance.
“Things could have gone really badly, but we were saved by Duryodhan's arrogance. He said, Not one among the lot of you is a fit opponent for me, other than perhaps Bheem. I invite him to duel me. In this way, when I kill him and gain back my rightful kingdom, I'll have the satisfaction of having fought a good fight.
“ We breathed a sigh of relief, but our joy was short-lived. As soon as they began, we could see how good Duryodhan was, how lightly and gracefully he sidestepped Bheem's blows, how cannily yet viciously he struck. We remembered what our spies had reported: Years back, he'd had his armorers make him an iron statue of Bheem. Every night he practiced on it, and with every strike his hatred of our brother grew. He'd even had it brought to Kurukshetra. Today, he'd called upon all of that hate to fuel his strength. Our Bheem didn't have enough malice in him to counter that force.
“They fought for an hour. Two. Bheem was getting tired, I could tell. Duryodhan hit him so hard in the chest that he staggered and almost fell. Recovering, he hit Duryodhan on the shoulder with all his strength. It was a blow that would have shattered anyone else's bones. But Duryodhan didn't even wince. We remembered another report: Before the war started, his mother, Gandhari, asked him to come before her naked. (Out of modesty, though, he wore a loincloth.) She undid her blindfold and sent the power of her penances into his body, making invincible whichever part her eyes touched.
“What chance did Bheem have against that?
“Even Krishna was looking worried as he watched the fight. He whispered something to Arjun, who caught Bheem's eye and slapped his thigh. The gesture—it looked familiar. Then it came back: that shameful day in the sabha when Duryodhan had bared his thigh and invited you to come to him. Bheem's oath that he'd take revenge. And he did! He barreled ahead, thrusting his gada at Duryodhan. Duryodhan jumped high to evade him, but Bheem had been feinting. He whirled and struck, catching the tops of Duryodhan's thighs, and, with a sound like a lightning crack, broke them. The duel was over.
“We were delighted but dismayed as well. Bheem had violated the most important law of gada-yuddha, hitting Duryodhan below the navel. There was sure to be consequences. Indeed, the skies grew dark. The earth shook. You must have felt it, even here in the women's tent. Balaram—did I tell you he'd joined us?—was livid. He came after Bheem, threatening to kill him, and stopped only when Krishna grasped his arms and begged him to calm down. Before he left, he told him, Because you cheated so despicably, Duryodhan will be glorified and remembered as the best of fighters. He will reach heaven, whereas you'll face everlasting shame.
“Bheem lowered his head in deference to Balaram, but his back was stiff with stubbornness. He said, I stand by my action. I did it for Yudhisthir, whom Duryodhan cheated of his heritage, and for Panchaali, whom he insulted the way no woman should ever be. What kind of man would I be if I hadn't kept the vow I made for her?
“What did Krishna have to say to all this, you're asking?
“When Duryodhan cursed him for teaching us the unfair tricks by which we won the war, he smiled and said, I take care of my own—in whichever way possible. The moment when Panchaali gave up struggling with Dussasan and called on me to save her, in that moment your death warrant was signed. If there's sin in what I did, I'll gladly shoulder it for her sake.
“What happened? Why are you crying? Did I say something wrong? Now you're laughing? Ah, women! I'll never understand them!”
That night, following the ancient laws, we stayed in different places. Krishna and my five husbands lay in the vanquished Kaurava camp, as winners were expected to do. Dhri, Sikhandi, my five sons, and the handful of soldiers that had survived the massacre slept in the Pandava camp. I longed to join them. There was so much I wanted to say and to hear from each of them. Above all, I wanted to touch my boys, to feel their arms and legs and faces, to run my hands over their wounds. Only then would I fully believe that the horror of this war was over and that they'd survived it. I swore that I would be a better mother from now on, giving them all the attention they desired, repairing the relationship I'd sadly neglected these past years. But for one more night I had to be patient and remain in the women's tent.
All of the women were too excited to sleep, so late into the night we prepared for the victory feast. It would be tinged with sadness, yes, but at least this terrible war was at an end. Even Uttara was in better spirits. The baby had kicked for the first time today. We took that as a blessing sign. As I rolled balls of sweet dough for frying, I silently thanked the gods that amidst all this devastation, the people I cared for most (all except one) were alive. I was so much more fortunate than the other women: Subhadra, Uttara, Kunti, far-off Hidimba who by now must have received news of her only child's end. And Gandhari, who would soon be bereft of every one of her hundred sons. A dark thought uncoiled my mind: I who was a major cause of so much destruction had no
right to be so lucky. I talked and laughed louder and busied myself with the details of the feast, but it wouldn't leave me.
When at last I went to bed, I was overtaken by a dream unlike any I'd ever had. In it I was transformed to a man—who it was I didn't know, though I could feel his hopeless rage. Was it Duryodhan? No. I moved, slithering on my belly through the night to avoid detection. I made my way across a barren plain to a broken body and wept over it. It was the Kaurava prince—my prince, barely alive, still in agony. How unjustly had he been reduced to this pitiful state! I promised him revenge (that word so familiar on my parched tongue) and crept to the base of a tree in a frenzy of thought. I had no army, no chariot, no horse, no father to guide me (ah, they'd butchered him). My two companions, wounded as I, overcome by exhaustion, slept beside me. But despair would not let me rest. I stared into the tangle of branches overhead where I could see a nest of sleeping crows. As I watched, an owl materialized in the dark sky. It swept down, its wings like smoke. (Where had I seen it before?) It was as silent as the death it brought. It killed every crow in its sleep, then disappeared into the satisfied fog.
I clenched my jaw in glee. I knew what I must do. I shook my companions awake. When they saw my face, they feared I'd gone mad. Be calm, Aswatthama, they begged. But it was not a time for calmness. I told them my plan. By the horror in their eyes, I knew it was good. They resisted, but I reminded them of our oath to our prince. When I led the way, they followed, and I knew they would obey.
I awoke in the women's tent, screaming and thrashing. Failing to calm me, my attendants ran to fetch the other queens. Kunti declared I was possessed by an evil spirit and called for red chilies, which she burned over a flame, making us all cough. Subhadra splashed water on my face and chanted prayers. Uttara watched from the doorway, her arms wrapped around her belly, disquiet on her face. I pushed past them all, not caring that I was still in night-clothes, and shouted for a chariot, for the guards to come with me. My face must have convinced them of my urgency, for they rushed to fetch their weapons. Even Kunti fell silent. But it was too late. The night mists were lifting. I'd wandered too long in the maze of the dream.
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