The three men wept unabashedly, listening to the words of the crushed parody of a man who was all that was left of their beloved Prince. Ashwatthama felt that he was watching his father die all over again. At that moment, he and Duryodhana were kindred spirits, their souls conjoined in a shared hatred that was volcanic in its capacity to destroy. Ashwatthama spoke up, his voice turned harsh with the vehemence of the killing rage that had all but consumed the humanity in him. ‘Duryodhana! I promise you that vengeance will be ours. If I am truly the son of my father, I will find a way to make them suffer and rue the day they swerved from the path of good conduct and common decency. The Pandavas and Panchalas will meet the inglorious death they so justly deserve, at my hands. Give me your blessing for the task I have undertaken and may victory be ours!’
Duryodana was greatly consoled by Ashwatthama’s words which, in his utter desolation, gave him the hope needed to endure his last hours on earth. He sent Kripacharya for a vessel of water and sprinkling the sanctified drops on the head that had been commissioned to do murder, he installed Ashwatthama as Commander-in-Chief. Bidding farewell to Duryodhana, the three men then departed to make camp for the night and to discuss their plans for the morrow.
The trio retreated deep into a forest and decided to spend the night under a Banyan tree. Kripa and Kritavarma fell asleep almost at once, wearied by the happenings of that eventful day. Ashwatthama, however, could not sleep. He was too full of the turmoil that roiled through his innards, consuming all in its path with the inexorability of a corrosive acid in its quest to find an outlet. While he tossed about thus, Drona’s son happened to glance up at the spreading branches of the Banyan tree and espied crows’ nests that numbered in the dozens. The crows reposed peacefully with their wings spread protectively over the little ones in the nests. Their contentment made Ashwatthama resentful, and he glared balefully at the spectacle. Suddenly, a large owl flew soundlessly through the night and alighted purposefully on one of the branches. Swift and sure as a born assassin of the night, it suddenly attacked the sleeping crows, its talons merciless in carrying out its murderous task. Within minutes the place was littered with the carcasses of the slain crows. And the killer owl, pleased to have done a satisfactory night’s work, seemed to look down at Ashwatthama as though conveying some message of portentous significance.
Ashwatthama, in a blinding epiphany, suddenly realised that the owl had shown him the path he should take if he was to successfully keep his fell promise to Duryodhana. It was obvious to him that in order to triumph where Bhishma, his father, Karna, and Shalya, had all failed, he had to rely on deviousness and entirely abandon the moral high ground. In order to triumph against the Pandavas, aided and abetted as they were in their unscrupulous ways by Krishna, he too, had to think like them. As he mused thus, an ugly smile spread over his features, twisting them out of shape, leaving him looking like a monster escaped from the fantasies of a madman.
Anxious to put his plan into action, he woke his companions and related his experience to them, concluding with the words, ‘Like the owl that prevailed over its natural foes though they outnumbered it, we too, must mount an attack while the Pandavas sleep, and so do away with them once and for all. Tonight they will answer for their actions and I am the instrument of the Gods. Their punishment will be at my hand!’
Kripa and Kritavarma stared at him, unable to contain the horror and distaste they felt. Kripa had always considered his sister’s son to be a decent enough lad, even if he chose to keep undesirable company; but the virulent creature standing before him was barely recognizable – with eerily hollow eyes that had lost their humanity. Kripa, therefore said hesitantly, ‘Ashwatthama, surely you are not serious? What you are suggesting is without doubt the most foul deed ever contemplated and I dare not repeat it. As the Commander of an army of three, it is not unnatural that you should become desperate, but there is a right way to prevail over one’s enemies. And it does not include killing men when they are sleeping and utterly defenceless.’
‘I am not talking about killing men but monsters that would practice deceit and shirk the laws of fair combat, so that they may get their grasping hands on a Kingdom!’ replied Ashwatthama.
Kripa tried again to deactivate the poison that had blackened his nephew’s soul. ‘We are all too tired and emotional tonight, let us discuss this in the morning with cooler heads. You are young and your blood runs hot with the terrible things you have witnessed. It is not wise to act while your mind is in such a state of tumult.’
But Ashwatthama had made up his mind and would not even think of turning back from the path to hell that he had chosen. ‘I will not prevaricate. It is my firm belief that the owl was a messenger from the Gods. Now is the time for action, not for feeble speeches. Thinking too much is the enemy of action and I for one refuse to allow anything to hamper my resolve!’
Kripa was aghast and thought of the sweet little boy he once carried on his shoulders when his sister and Drona came to stay with him. Feeling sure that he was watching the prelude to perdition unfold before his very eyes, he made another feeble attempt to talk sense into the boy who had grown up to become a cold-blooded killer. ‘If your father were alive, it would have broken his heart to hear you talk of taking the lives of sleeping men. Think of him, of all the lessons he taught you, and desist from pursuing this evil plan of yours.’
It was the wrong thing to say. At the mention of his father, Ashwatthama once again felt all the pain and anger that was pushing him towards vengeance rise up within him in a tidal wave of emotion. ‘My father died of a broken heart! Those sons of a wanton whore, the Pandavas, told that noble soul that his only son was dead – all for the love of a Kingdom which their father had lost, along with his life, because of his preoccupation with carnal pleasures. And my father was tricked into laying down his weapons, for his heart had burst asunder with sorrow. Yudhishthira knew what he was doing when he repeated the lie to my father. And Dhrishtadyumna beheaded my father when he, having dropped his arms, sat in yogic meditation! If that were not enough, Bheema cheated in his fight with Duryodhana and left him in the dust to die. A Royal Prince! Do those curs deserve better than my noble father or my good friend? I will not stand here talking uselessly when there is so much to be done. The two of you may join me or leave as you please, but if you try to stop me, I will be forced to fight and kill you!’
Ashwatthama stormed off in the direction of the Pandava camp with predatory intent writ large on his face. Kripa and Kritavarma stared at his retreating figure, and for a moment they were irresolute. Then, feeling powerless, like pieces of driftwood unable to fight the tide, they allowed themselves to be carried away by the surging, implacable wave that was fate.
It was an evil hour, and the blackness of that night was complete. Ashwatthama’s prey were fast asleep, tired from their victory and unrestrained celebrations. The men had not only been a part of the greatest war the world had seen, but they were the victors! What stories they would have to tell their grandchildren! Great glory and fame had been achieved. The survivors feasted late into the night and drank themselves senseless. They laughed with the joy of being alive and wept for the ones who had not been fortunate enough to see victory. All were anxious to return to their homes, where they would be welcomed with the respect due to conquering heroes. There was singing and dancing, and above all else, there was the animated throbbing of life – but not for long.
Ashwatthama had reached the camp. He walked towards the entrance and stopped short, for it was guarded by a towering monster, clothed in the skin of slain beasts. Its eyes were bloodshot and flames poured from its mouth and nostrils. The creature barred his passage. Lesser men would have dropped to the ground, dead with fright, but Ashwatthama was unafraid, for that night there was none in the three worlds as dangerous as he.
Reaching for his bow, Ashwatthama sent weapon after weapon lancing through the dead of night to kill the thing that stood in his way. But the creature could not be harmed, and
simply swallowed all his weapons and licked its lips tauntingly. But Drona’s son was undeterred and decided to seek divine intervention. He started a sacrificial fire and began offering prayers to Shiva, the Destroyer. Weird beings emerged from the flames, stinking of mortified flesh and putrefaction. The smells intoxicated Ashwatthama and he sensed that the Lord was near. So great was his ecstasy that he offered his body to Shiva, by stepping into the flames. The Destroyer God stopped him and smiled down at him saying, ‘I know what is in your heart, and you will soon achieve what you have set out to do. This camp was under my protection because Krishna is my dearest follower; but the time has come for the inhabitants to depart this world. Go and do what you must and be prepared for the outcome of your actions!’
Ashwatthama was euphoric, and within seconds he had succeeded in entering the camp. He made his way with unerring instinct towards the tent where the man who had killed his father slept. He woke the King of the Panchalas with a hard kick to his kidneys. Dhrishtadyumna rose groggily and found himself dragged to the floor by an assailant who had grabbed him by the hair. The last remnants of his wine-induced stupor slipped away as he found himself staring into the implacable eyes of Drona’s son. But Dhrishtadyumna was a hard man and did not flinch in the face of certain death, even as Ashwatthama’s well shod feet crushed his ribs like dried twigs. He barely gasped as they tore holes through his viscera. He looked at his killer square in the eye and uttered his last words: ‘Not like this! I deserve a warrior’s death. Pick up your sword and slay me with it.’
The last thing he heard was Ashwatthama’s terrible laughter and the cruel words, ‘You killed your Guru, and you will get what you deserve – to be crushed under my feet like the vermin you are!’ And he pounded the life out of the wounded King lying at his feet in agony. Leaving the bloody pulp that was all that remained of the great Panchala warrior who had emerged from the flames, born from a father’s humiliation and destined to be the victim of a destroyed friendship, Ashwatthama went out to finish the gory mission he had started.
The sleeping inhabitants of tent after tent were sent in rapid succession to follow Dhrishtadyumna down the dark path that was life after death, as Ashwatthama made his way round the camp, stamping out all traces of life. The battle of Kurukshetra had been witness to an avalanche of violence that the world had seldom seen before, but the vilest of atrocities the great battle had unspooled could not equal the methodical and relentless slaughter that took place in the Pandava camp that night. Mighty warriors who had celebrated the gift of life a few hours ago, lay dead, not having the good fortune to return from the limbo world of sleep to the land of the living. Dhrishtadyumna, Shikandin, and the five sons of Draupadi, known as the Upapandavas, were all victims of Ashwatthama’s nocturnal massacre.
Kripa and Kritavarma had reached the spot and they set fire to the camp from all sides, because at that moment it seemed the most logical thing to do by way of an auxiliary offensive. Having performed their act of arson, they stationed themselves at the exit and knifed down anyone who tried to escape. They did their job with mechanical efficiency and shut their ears to the agonised sounds of the people dying within as the flames consumed them, as surely as a bereaved son’s hatred had done.
When the sun rose the next morning, Ashwatthama had finished his task. All the survivors of the war had been killed and the camp lay smoking and in utter ruin. The stench of burning flesh, warm blood, and excreta, hung over the place, forming an infernal miasma. The overwhelming silence was broken when Ashwatthama, Kripa and Kritavarma, began their revelry, screaming themselves hoarse with an exultation that bordered on hysteria. They had done a thorough job.
They rushed to tell the dying Duryodhana the good news. The Prince had little time left. He smiled through his pain as Ashwatthama related what he had done. With the exception of the Pandavas themselves, Krishna, and Satyaki, the rest of their army was gone. Duryodhana was pleased with this final blow that he had managed to strike from his deathbed. ‘Ashwatthama, you have succeeded where Bhishma, Drona, Karna, and Shalya, failed. I now die content. But it is too bad they were killed while they were sleeping...’ and the Prince departed the world of the living.
The three killers paid their respects to the departed soul of their Prince and then began preparations for their own departure. Kritavarma decided to return to his Kingdom and the loved ones who awaited him. In their arms lay his only hope of succour, if not salvation. Kripa wished to retreat to a quiet place and perform penances to cleanse himself of the offal that now clogged his soul in having aided and abetted in a deadly sin.
Ashwatthama hugged his uncle and watched him leave. He was alone now and apprehensive. His mind refused to ponder the consequences of his killing spree, but fear loomed large and left him trembling, for he was afraid of dying. He had not been afraid to take lives, but now, at the thought of his own life being taken, he was terrified. Taking to his heels, he ran towards Vyasa’s ashram, hoping to find sanctuary there and safe haven from the wrath of the Pandavas when they discovered what he had done.
Another man was rushing in the opposite direction. He was Dhrishtadyumna’s charioteer and the lone survivor of the horrors of the night. Even he did not understand how he had made it past the gaping jaws of death that had consumed so many. Weeping and distrait, he somehow made it to the temporary camp the Pandavas had set up, and hurling himself at Yudhishthira’s feet, choked out his tragic tale. The King, who had conquered the entire world, blanched on hearing the charioteer’s words and almost fell to the ground in a fainting fit. His brothers and Satyaki rushed to him and they clung together, lending what support and solace they could muster, to each other.
When they arrived at their destroyed camp in a daze, fresh sorrow coursed through them when they saw the scene of the massacre. Yudhishthira was the worst affected and was simply inconsolable. Throwing himself face down on a huge mound of ash, he wailed, ‘A few hours ago, I exulted because I had destroyed my enemies and won back the Kingdom that was stolen from me, as honour and dharma demanded. Even then my happiness was tempered with grief, as thoughts of all those who had died for our cause flooded my mind. My only consolation at the time was that it was finally over. The river of blood that flowed freely over Kurukshetra had finally been dammed. And yet, still more blood has been spilled on my account. The falsehood I uttered has been the cause of all this ruination. My beloved friends and sons are all dead, never to return... What will I say to Draupadi? How much more must she endure?’
While Yudhishthira gave vent to his grief thus, Draupadi arrived on the scene with Nakula, who had been sent to fetch her. Seeing the huge piles of ash that was all that remained of her sons, she collapsed. Bheema rushed to her side and tenderly held her as she lay unconscious in his arms. But even in that state, fiery anger surged through her, pushing the grief and despair aside and bringing her back to her senses. She shoved away Bheema’s arms and glared at her five mighty husbands. The five men who had proved to be the scourge of their enemies, quailed beneath that scorching gaze.
When she spoke, her voice alone could have flayed the skin off their backs. ‘I hear that I must congratulate all of you for winning back your Kingdom – while letting your sons and friends be killed in their sleep. As fathers you shall remain unmatched through eternity! You did not perform your duty to them while they lived; do so now, and avenge their deaths. That cowardly murderer, Ashwatthama, must be brought to his knees and it must be done immediately. I will not move from this spot till I hear the welcome news of his death.’ So saying, she sat down on the ground, with her feet drawn up in the Padmasana or Lotus position.
Yudhishthira tried to calm her, for what she had asked was impossible. She wished them to incur the dread sin of killing a Brahmin. He tried to talk her out of it saying, ‘Ashwatthama has gone into hiding, and must be deep in the jungle by now. It will be well nigh impossible to ferret him out.’
But Draupadi withered him with her scorn. ‘Then I suggest you get started, for
I will know no peace till he is killed. Search for him through all that is left of your lives on this world, if that is what it takes; but he must be found and made to pay for his crime. He killed my five sons and my noble brother, in their sleep! I want him to suffer the way he has made us suffer. Bheema! I entrust this task to you – do not let Yudhishthira deter you with his discourses on dharma. Find that assasin and kill him! And when you have done that, bring me the jewel he wears all the time on his head and I will know for certain that the deed is done.’
Bheema could never resist her and he turned at once to do her bidding. His brothers were about to follow him, galvanised into action by the passion of her hatred and need for blood to quench her overwhelming grief. As they hurried towards their chariot, Krishna approached Yudhishthira. ‘We must hurry! Bheema must not be allowed to fight Ashwatthama alone. The man is more dangerous than you think!’ Ushering Yudhishthira and Arjuna into his chariot, Krishna invoked his powers, raised the chariot, and sent it soaring across the heavens in pursuit of Ashwatthama, hoping to forestall Bheema.
As the chariot flew towards its destination, Krishna told the duo a story about Ashwatthama. Arjuna had been taught how to invoke the powerful Brahmashira astra by Drona, when he had rescued his Guru from the jaws of a crocodile. Ashwatthama, who had been watching sullenly from a distance, asked Drona to teach it to him as well. His father hesitated briefly, but as always where his son was concerned, he gave in. Having taught him the craft, he told his son, ‘Ashwatthama, always remember that the Brahmashira must never be used against mortals. It must be invoked only to counter the forces of evil. Also, the user must have the purest of intentions. To do otherwise is a grave crime against humanity and the consequences will be most dire.’
Arjuna Page 28