The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata

by Maggi Lidchi Grassi

  The night passed making plans and discussing them. A little before dawn I went to my own tent to snatch some sleep.

  I dreamt that we were boys again, racing to the river with Ashwatthama in the grey light of dawn to fill our pots, trying not to gabble the prayer to the Maker of Day. When I felt myself being shaken, I did not know where I was.

  “Eldest wants you,” said Krishna. I shook myself awake and we went to the royal tent. Eldest was subdued. He said he had heard that Ashwatthama had promised to end the war in ten days and that Karna had said he could finish it in five. This meant only one thing: that they intended to use astral weapons. This is what we had dreaded.

  I understood Eldest’s silent question and said, “Ordinary warfare and human valour must serve to wipe out the enemy. I have Shiva’s weapon which he himself used to annihilate life when bringing a Yuga to its end. We will not use such weapons.”

  The names of our chariot heroes rolled off my tongue, “Bheema, Sahadeva, Nakula, Abhimanyu, Dhrishtadyumna, Shikhandin, Drupada, Ghatotkacha, Satyaki, Yuyudhana, Yudhamanyu, Uttamujas, Sanka, Anjanaparvan, our Draupadi’s glorious sons—these are our weapons.”

  Courage surged through us. The tent was filling with generals coming in for last minute instructions, already bathed, garlanded, purified, and dressed in white. Smiling, Eldest stroked my head and clasped me in his arms.

  “And you, Jishnu, Fearless One,” he said. “It is no time for modesty.” The generals laughed and then stepped forward to offer worship to Eldest.

  The light was changing. I went to bathe before receiving blessings from the Brahmins and offering worship to my weapons.

  I said the Gayatri mantra to the Maker of Day and then, dressed in clean white linen, I set my polished diadem upon my head and donned my armour.

  “Sing the praises of Mother Kali,” said Krishna.

  I chanted:

  Thou art beauty, sovereignty, intellect, the sign of knowledge, modesty,nourishment, content art thou.

  Thou hast the sword, thou hast the spear,

  Terrible, thou hast the mace, discus, conch, bow, arrows, sling and iron club.

  Thou art pleasing, more pleasing than all the pleasing things;

  Thou art exceedingly beautiful.

  O Soul of All, how can I praise thee?

  Mother Kali appeared to me, flaming in the sky. She gave me her blessing. The rays that signal morning touched the plain at her feet.

  29

  It wasn’t the things I had done or the milk I had asked for that had led me to the wrong side. It was the things I hadn’t done…or done too late.

  By Bheeshma’s calculation it had taken me thirteen years to tell Karna and Duryodhana what I thought of them, to spew out what had raged in my breast at the dice game. A hot sword in my heart, or sometimes the dice like cubes of burning coal jiggled in my entrails to the tune of Dhritarashtra’s sickening incantation, “Who won? Who won?”

  Your jackal of a son, Dhritarashtra. The jackals won. Shakuni, Duhshasana, Karna, and your monstrous Duryodhana. And I said nothing. Nothing. Do you know what it feels like to say nothing for thirteen years?

  It is death. Only you do not die if you have a protective gem on your forehead. Ashwatthama’s immortal forehead. It doesn’t stop. It is, in the end, the forehead of a Brahmin, whatever its protective lumps and bumps, and under them lies the torment.

  When the battle starts, conscience sleeps; the arm takes over. I long for battle, long for the conches to tear their way into my heart and make my scalp horripilate; then the mind stops boiling and fire moves to the muscles. But it is not yet. So the question still lingers and the answer repeats itself: because he did all he did for me. My father left the forest because I had asked for milk; so fiercely did he love me that he went as a suppliant to Drupada.

  Had there ever been a time when I might have disobeyed him? No. There was a moment when I thought of doing so and then he called me to him and gave me his blessing before battle.

  “You have always been a good and obedient son, Ashwatthama. I know your friends are there,” he said, nodding in the direction of the Pandavas’ camp. It was the first time he had spoken of it. He smiled with all the tenderness I thought had been burnt out of him, and indeed it had been for everyone but me. This smile was one more link in the chain of great and small things that changed our destinies. My friends were there, but my father who smiled at me thus was here. It was he who had given me life, and who had left his ashram for my sake.

  The decision gave me no peace. I was no more reconciled to war than Yudhishthira must have been when he asked for five towns. I was weighed down by too many secrets and I carried too many world-destroying weapons.

  When Krishna was returning from his embassy without the five towns, without as much land as could be balanced on the point of a needle, I followed the chariot in which he rode with Karna into the forest. I wanted to deliver my message for Arjuna to him. Arjuna and his brothers were to know what I thought of that piece of Duryodhana’s oratory. When I overheard Krishna telling Karna that he was the eldest son of Kunti and thus the man Yudhishthira should be calling Eldest, my message was driven from my mind. Now, though, I was sorry not to have waited and spoken. Would Arjuna ever know? What would it mean to him by then? My mind had gone back to the whispers, the unfinished sentences I had heard in my childhood. My mother knew.

  I heard Karna tell Krishna that he did not want his place beside the Pandavas. With iron in his voice he swore Krishna to secrecy. I slunk away like a fox that has stolen a chicken big enough to choke him. What would I do with it? I asked myself over and over again.

  Nothing. If Krishna allowed Karna to keep his secret and fight for Duryodhana, who was I to do otherwise? If Krishna, who had exposed himself to the crude buffoonery of Duryodhana to win peace, honoured Karna’s secret, who was I to think I could avoid war by speaking?

  Krishna said ‘war’, but I was not Krishna. I was a man, and a Brahmin in the last. If I went to the Pandavas and said, “Karna is Eldest,” Yudhishthira would lay down his arms. Could even Krishna then have persuaded him to fight? I held in my hands the world and all these armies gathered from the four quarters of Bharatavarsha. One word, and I would see them disappearing over the horizon to the north, to the east, to the west, and to the south.

  Why did I say nothing?

  There would be time enough to debate this with myself. The only fact was that I did say nothing.

  Was it then that the worm of jealousy entered? After all that had happened? Was it that I had been excluded by everything from the world of the Vrishnis which was ever alive in Arjuna’s heart when past companionship was past? Was it that I had not won Draupadi? Was it rather that the war had to be fought because Krishna wanted it, because the earth had to be cleansed of her tyrants as he always said? With bitter satisfaction I guarded my silence. It was all that was left to me since, having failed to deliver my message to Arjuna, I could not even be sure that he knew I loved him.

  Armoured and in my chariot ready for battle, I listened to the conches screaming and the drums throbbing, and then I saw Krishna driving Arjuna’s chariot out towards us. Arjuna put up his hand to shade his eyes. He was looking at his Greatfather, not at Ashwatthama. What was he saying? Forever, Krishna was speaking to someone else and I was here in the eternal shadow. All the light and the glory and the right were on the other side and I was put away from them forever.

  30

  The two armies now stood waiting. We still had to meet to confirm the conditions of battle.

  A tent had been set up in no-man’s land. Krishna reined in the horses just as Duryodhana’s chariot pulled up. I handed Krishna down and we walked in with Satyaki.

  Duryodhana directed his gaze at Krishna. There was hurt in it. Just as I thought words would come from his mouth, he quickly turned his tormented eyes away. He was older, so I took the dust from his feet. He raised me by the elbows, took the perfume from my hair perfunctorily, but it was done and unseemliness
avoided. He enquired about Eldest’s health and I about that of Greatfather, Uncle Dhritarashtra, and the Acharyas. Could we, under different circumstances, have shared the kingdom? Behind Duryodhana stood Karna, silent and bitter, and Duhshasana silent and oafish, not quite knowing how to arrange his smile. We got through the business: our conch blowers, physicians, musicians, weapon suppliers, merchants and artisans, drum beaters, charioteers, animals, and, of course, the camp followers must not be attacked. Also to be left unmolested were soldiers surrendering, deserting, or those who had lost their armour, weapons, or nerve. No soldier unprepared or unwilling to fight could be attacked. Infantry must fight infantry, cavalry cavalry, elephant forces must fight elephant forces, and I, a chariot hero, would be fighting chariot heroes. When Greatfather falls, I will fight Karna, I thought. When Greatfather falls…my heart beat faster.

  Duhshasana reminded us that a man wanting to fight with words must be answered with words.

  “Yes, Duhshasana,” said Krishna. “A man wanting to use the fine edge of his tongue as a weapon must be answered in kind…” he smiled at Duhshasana, “and not with a bludgeon.”

  I hated the slanging matches and would leave them and the clapping of armpits to him and Duryodhana. I had always been more afraid of Karna’s tongue than of his arrows. Those who soften the blow with gentle words are deserving of victory, and I knew that such things kept the soldiers’ morale high. We had come to the end of our business. Agreeing on every point of battle etiquette had revived in us a fellow-feeling as though there had been no event between the first days of our discipleship under Dronacharya and this day of war. We parted almost reluctantly; another moment and we might have fallen into friendship.

  Our men watched for signs of victory everywhere and they were cheerful, for they had seen the flames of our sacrificial fire rise without smoke, darting to the right, while I saw to it that they heard the reports that those of the Kaurava army darted to the left. The cranes and the parrots still flew over us from time to time.

  Then, suddenly it seemed, the sun had risen. It was the signal. From many throats arose the cry, “Array, array,” and like an echo from the other side, “Battle array, array, array.”

  We were moving at last. In front of our troops on the biggest tusker rode Eldest. It was good to be fighting under Eldest. The men knew, like Virata and Drupada, that they fought for a good king, on the side of Dharma.

  In the second wave were the two Kekaya princes whose north-west kingdom was now squeezed between those of two of Duryodhana’s allies, Jayadratha and Madra. Dhrishtaketu, son of Shishupala, was there, and the king of Kasi, Drupada, and his son Shikhandin riding proudly beside him. I looked back and saw Virata, Dhrishtadyumna, and Kuntibhoja, our mother’s father. Behind each king, like walking hills, were ten elephants in spiked armour. The two drivers with their grappling hooks and the two swordsmen and even the spears of the spearman and the forks of the tridents were outlined against the morning sky. Duryodhana, too, had a perfectly organized and massive elephant force.

  The great division of the Kauravas stood in the van and at its head was Greatfather, dressed entirely in white. The white of his umbrella melted into the white of his high turban, and his white beard flowed into his white mail. He himself rose tall and straight from his silver car which glinted in the sunlight. High above him his standard bore the gold palmyra palm and the five stars. Behind him Shakuni, Shalya, Jayadratha, Vinda and Anuvinda, Sudakshina, the ruler of the Kambojas, and Srutayudha of the Kalingas, Jayatsena and Brihaballa of the Kosalas, and Kritavarman, all draped in black deer skins and mail, stood at the head of their respective akshauhinis. Above them, shining brightly was a mass of white umbrellas, banners, and standards, and as they deployed, the firmament rang with the sound of drums, tabors and cymbals, and with the clatter of car wheels. Their arm jewellery and gold-encrusted bows caught the light. Ashwatthama’s standard, the lion’s tail, moved forward until he was in the very front of all the divisions, a man for all emergencies. O Ashwatthama, Ashwatthama, I dreamt that we were boys and ran down to the river. Behind him came the standards of Uncle Shalya, Bhoorishravas, and Vikarna, who had championed us at the dice game, and Chitrasena, Srutayudha, Purumitra, and Vivimsati, the brothers of Duryodhana. They stood before Greatfather Bheeshma and behind Ashwatthama. High above all the standards and in the centre of the formation stood Duryodhana’s elephant device, worked in gems. Duryodhana himself, seated on the biggest tusker, was surrounded by his elephant force.

  We saw the great bird of the Kauravas taking shape. The elephant forces of Bhagadatta and the Avanti brothers and the king of Kalingas were the body. The kings who had come to the front in chariots were its head and the cavalry on either side were its wings. I looked for the standards of my Acharyas. Suddenly, I caught sight of Shakuni’s. He too rode the neck of an elephant and was followed by his mountain troops of Gandhara.

  Greatfather’s formation was admirable, afforded visibility on all sides and had great aggressive strength. It could attack in any direction. He had made the most of his superiority in numbers. The formation best suited to resist this formation and which did not require more men than we could afford was Indra’s thunderbolt. I placed Bheema at the top and Nakula and Sahadeva at the back, and in the central column Dhrishtadyumna was between Yudhishthira and Virata. The elephantry was placed behind Yudhishthira in vertical columns. I took no fixed position myself but asked Krishna to drive me from one side to the other to make sure that we had clear visibility. Because of our lesser numbers our flanks had to be kept less extended than those of the enemy formation.

  As I scanned our flanks, war music broke out tumultuously, conches screamed, cymbals and drums rose steeply in volume. As always, they did their work of making one’s blood beat with them, and the horns and the conches pierced them savagely and tore into us like goads. Above it all there rose the great roaring of a lion. It raised the hair on my body. It was Greatfather. Krishna blew Panchajanya. I made Devadatta scream above Panchajanya and immediately Bheema blew Maya’s Paundra loud enough to summon the ocean depths. Nakula and Sahadeva blew Sweet-Note and Jewel-Blossom. Dhrishtadyumna and Shikhandin and Virata, Satyaki and Drupada, Draupadi’s sons and Abhimanyu blew their conches with a blare that threatened the earth, and must have rent the hearts of the Kauravas. I turned to Krishna to give him my first direction.

  “Cousin,” I said, “I want to look at the enemy.” It was half-true. I wanted to see Greatfather’s face. Our high-stepping horses drew the chariot midfield so that we faced Greatfather and the Acharyas. Greatfather’s gaze was clear but, as always, detached. I looked and looked. Who was this? How strange. Had I really sat on his lap when I arrived with my mother and brothers from the Shatashringa forest after my father’s death? Because of his beard and his eyes that looked right through me, I had thought then he must be one of the sages who had accompanied us, but he wore a diadem. My mother had told me to call him father and he had turned my face with his great hand so that I was forced to look into his eyes. Afterwards, I knew his look, for what warrior yearns not for sons? He had closed his eyes and said, “Not father. Only Greatfather.” His voice had the gentleness of pain, but it was gentle nonetheless and I had felt his father’s love in my hungry heart. And now as I looked I wondered whether he remembered I had ever sat on his lap. How did it feel when you had given your whole life, your very manhood for peace to find yourself at the head of an army with half the world behind you ready to kill off the other half? How did it feel to have compromised and compromised? Greatfather, if peace was what you wanted, why did you not kill Duryodhana? Why did you let us be sent to the desert of Varanavata to be burnt? Why did you let Draupadi be insulted in the savagest way that has ever been devised by men? Why did you let us go into exile? I felt sorrow and shame for Greatfather. It was he and not Yudhishthira who had staked everything and lost.

  Greatfather! My heart expanded as though it must pull me asunder. He had loved us and taught us most of what he knew and the
rest he had had us taught by the Acharyas and Uncle Vidura. There was Dronacharya, so small and dark and fierce. How many times had I heard it said that he loved me more than his only son? He had cut off his best disciple’s thumb to honour his promise to me. Could I shoot an arrow into him or into Ashwatthama? I saw Duryodhana shaken out of the mango tree by Bheema and felt sorry now as I had not then. I knew that Greatfather and Dronacharya were tied by Dharma as we said we were; war with them was an absurdity and a sin and Krishna must surely know it. This vast array must be part of an illusion. I turned to Krishna.

  He gazed at me. The music was still crashing around us, but the drums no longer upheld my blood; it ebbed and what rose in me were tears. My vision blurred. My mouth was dry and I could not swallow. Gandiva was trembling. I changed it to my right hand. It trembled more. I had never known fear in battle. I had never needed to sit down in my chariot—I who had fought the demons for Indra and earned Matali’s praise. Now my knees buckled and I had to clutch at the tigerskin in order not to fall. I began stuttering.

  “What would victory mean?” I waited alone in endless silence. “I do not want this victory, Krishna.” There was still silence. “It means killing Greatfather, our uncle, our cousin-brothers, their sons who are our sons. And what for, Krishna? What for? A piece of earth?”

  Krishna made no sign that he had heard me but gazed beyond.

  “Who wants to be lord of the earth? No, Krishna. No, Never. I will not kill them. I could not kill them for all the three worlds, never mind a clod of earth. Let them kill me, Krishna.”