“It is as though we fight with wooden swords,” I said to Krishna. He did not answer but fixed his gaze on Bheema as he forged an opening toward Duryodhana, yelling all the way. “My mace thirsts for Duryodhana’s blood.”
Their elephantry descended upon Bheema. That day Bheema became our human astra. He leapt out of his chariot. Alone, he ran up to the elephants. A trunk sneaked out and swung him up. What we saw next was Bheema standing on its back, killing the gajarohas and the warriors. The heads of elephant warriors fell like exploded fruit. Bheema clubbed the elephants to death like a hunter. The elephants trumpeted in pain and turned to trample upon the Kaurava soldiers. Bheema was Rudra in his Dance of Death on a cremation ground; he whirled his massive mace above his head like Kala, Lord of Time, when a yuga ends.
With Satyaki in his wake, they made for Greatfather. The elephants huddled for comfort.
Bhoorishravas managed to intercept them. Duryodhana, with his brothers following, bore down on Bheema and Satyaki.
It was what Bheema craved. His wild and guttural laughter soared heavenwards. “This is not the dice game. Now show me your thigh, so that I can smash it as promised. I shall exterminate you, vermin.”
Fourteen sons of Uncle Dhritarashtra converged on Bheema. Alone, Bheema fought all fourteen, and still it was unequal. Like a great ape, he shook eight brothers from the Tree of Life. The others fled. The scream of Paundra set our conches off and mingled with the wails and moanings of the Kauravas. Greatfather’s voice cut through the conches and the wailing: “Advance! And teach the boor a lesson.” Bhagadatta came forward on his elephant. He had been moving in and now doubled his speed. We were too far to help Bheema. The earth shook when the elephant ran, his rutting juices streaming. Abhimanyu rallied all our sons. They moved to pincer Bhagadatta. Nothing stopped the elephant. Bhagadatta, outlined against the sky and made taller by his great diadem, stood aiming at our brother. He broke right through the pincer. We all were aiming now at Bhagadatta. He made a perfect target but Mother Durga must have shielded him; nothing stopped his beast. Bheema, aiming at his flagstaff, sat down with Bhagadatta’s arrow in his right chest.
“Bheemaaaaaa!” Eldest screamed. His mouth was open, but the voice was blotted out by Bhagadatta’s war yell. There was no stopping Bhagadatta and now no astra could be summoned. I kept on shooting at the elephant. “Father! Your Ghatotkacha!” a guttural voice behind us yelled. And then a scream that raises demons flew across the field. I turned to look and saw his vulture banner racing through the sky. Bheema’s son was here at last, marching into battle with his akshauhini, yelling wildly. With his flashing golden goad he spurred his snow-white elephant and followed by four others he thundered towards Bhagadatta. Within seconds five elephants were lunging at Bhagadatta’s mount. They plunged again and again. The Kauravas rushed in serried ranks to help him.
It was late afternoon of the fourth day and in Greatfather’s place I would have done the same. We heard the Kaurava conches sound retreat; ours blew victory. We yelled for joy. Our hearts exulted as we mounted Bheema and Ghatotkacha on the biggest cloud-grey elephant. Facing them in homage, the men danced backwards to the beat of nagaras and the clash of cymbals. Our very wounds stopped bleeding in the march towards the camp. It mattered not how many akshauhinis they possessed. We now had Bheema’s son as well as Bheema. It made us twice as strong as yesterday. We had victory. And we had…Krishna. We had Krishna. Had we been mad to doubt our stars and omens?
That evening in the tent Eldest was sober in his triumph for we had killed our cousins. The thought that we must kill the others, as Bheema vowed to do before each draught of wine, provoked Eldest to ask Krishna if he thought Greatfather might not negotiate for peace. Krishna shook his head. Still I hoped daybreak might bring messengers. It brought our spies.
Wild with grief, Duryodhana had asked Greatfather in his violent accusatory way why he had let his brothers die. He screamed that we were favoured. Greatfather loved us! He had not tried; Karna would have fought with all his heart. Greatfather listened.
After the war when Greatfather had left and Sanjaya spoke of the matter, I saw how Greatfather had looked into the distance where death, his only hope, attended. Greatfather became blunt. He pushed him out, shouting that peace was what could save his brothers and himself. That word would make our cousin paw the ground and cast his tortured eyes from side to side. Peace was a knife turning in his entrails.
Morning would bring the war drums and the conches and their Makara formation to try and wipe out yesterday’s defeat.
6
At dawn there was a murmur in my ear.
“Prince Arjuna.” It was Dhaumya our priest kneeling beside my bed, his strong features softened by the last flickerings of a ghee lamp. “I had a true dream,” he said. His high creased forehead glistened with fervour. “Give me permission to plan the vyuha.” I thought that it was I who dreamt. A warrior needs his sleep, so with closed eyes I waited for the dream to change or to say something. “I saw a hawk design such as I use for the sacrificial pit at funerals and you were on the neck. Prince Shikhandin and his brother were the eyes and Prince Bheema was the beak. Satyaki was the forehead. King Drupada was on the left wing and the Kekayas on the right. The queen’s sons and Prince Abhimanyu were on the back with the twins and Eldest bringing up the rear.” Funerals used the hawk shape for the sacrificial fire and Dhaumya knew it well.
That is how it came about that on the fifth day we deployed according to the vision of our priest.
As the conches screamed, an eagle flew over our heads and soared auspiciously towards heaven. The vision had been a true one.
Bheema shot out, not waiting for his men who streaked behind him. He raced towards the mouth of the Kaurava crocodile while Greatfather rained arrows on him. But Bheema was a tiger who had tasted blood. With his foot he pushed Vishoka in the back to whip his horses straight into the open jaws. Greatfather’s chariot went to intercept but had to swerve as Bheema’s horses charged right past. Greatfather approached shooting at us and I replied in kind. The arrows found their mark in chariots, men and animals.
“Mother Durga, save us!” The first cry of the wounded cut through the hissing and the whistling and the clash of steel on steel. Krishna just missed a physician’s chariot as we raced to follow Bheema. The Kauravas now knew that to kill Bheema was the only way of keeping the sons of Uncle Dhritarashtra alive. They surrounded him and we could hear only his shouts.
The russet horses of our guru were bearing down on us, but Satyaki who guarded us was quick to block him.
“Satyaki and his Sini insolence…” raged Dronacharya aiming.
“My guru is Arjuna. Who are you?” Satyaki laughed in Dronacharya’s face. Our guru’s arrow pierced Satyaki’s armour just below the collar-bone to stop the welling laughter. The moment he abandoned his offensive, he was hemmed in by Greatfather, Uncle Shalya, and our guru. But for Abhimanyu and the sons of Draupadi who joined the melee he would have gone to Yama.
Abhimanyu scattered uncle and then our guru, which made Satyaki laugh again. They had a light and teasing way of fighting.
“Sadhu! Sadhu!” rose from a hundred throats, from mine and Krishna’s too. Greatfather held his ground and then sowed death around our sons who went to meet him. We all rushed in. Shikandin got there first. The arrows stopped. And then we saw it.
Greatfather laid down his bow and stood immobile. He would not fight Shikhandin. Our guru rallied to protect him. And Duryodhana shouted, “Greatfather, I am coming!” Something blossomed in me: Greatfather’s death. Krishna shot forward. Inside me a voice said, “Greatfather, I am coming to release you.” He bent to take his bow.
“Now, Arjuna!” shouted Krishna. I shot a perfect arrow but Dronacharya’s sliced it. Greatfather was alive and laughing. I ducked his arrows as Krishna swerved this way and that. I shot volleys of my snake heads; each one was intercepted in the melee. Dronacharya darted back and forth to block the way to Greatfather.
; The fighting of this fifth day was so dense and desperate that afterwards we always compared it to the great war between the gods and demons.
Without help from Mother Durga we were too few to prevail against our cousins’ numbers. When they fought like this I hung my hope on Dhaumya’s vision.
We had avoided meeting, Ashwatthama and I, and anyone not knowing the truth might have thought we fled in fear from one another. Each time we saw him coming Krishna took a new direction and Ashwatthama’s charioteer was told to do the same. But on the fifth day Dronacharya sent his son in to protect Greatfather’s chariot wheels as Krishna positioned me to kill him. Ashwatthama gashed me in the shoulder with a half-moon arrow that could have taken off my head. I sliced his bow and with my next I pierced his wrist. A Kshatriya’s response to being wounded is exultation in his fighting; the sight of his own blood is strong wine. We were pupils of the greatest living weapons-master, a fair match and bosom friends. In the twinkling of a truti we were mortal enemies. My arrows left me with a will to kill, but as I caught the anguish on his face I saw again my friend. I left him to the sons of Draupadi. Krishna found an opening to where Bhoorishravas was duelling to death with Satyaki.
Satyaki’s greatfather Sini had once stepped upon the chest of the fallen father of Bhoorishravas. Sooner or later, one would have to kill the other. The gods themselves could not prevent it. And then we saw Bhoorishravas slump, pulling down his standard with him. Even in my triumph I knew that grief must follow: he was a gallant fighter and my father’s noble friend. The flower of Kshatriyahood was dying all around us.
Bhoorishravas had lost his consciousness but did not die then; he was taken off the field. When he came back it was to do what he had sworn to do—exterminate the sons of Sini. He fought each one of Satyaki’s ten sons and killed them in the time it takes to tell it. They fell as trees are felled by sudden lightning. As the last one toppled from his chariot, Satyaki met Bhoorishravas. They killed each other’s horses and wrecked each other’s chariots. As with a single mind they drew their swords and ran and leapt like tigers at each other. Some moments belong only to the gods, and even mortals know it. Nobody moved to intervene. There was no cheering. The sword of Bhoorishravas told the story of how a warrior placed his foot upon the chest of a fallen enemy. Satyaki’s sword sang out the death of fallen sons. Their great shields dazzled in the light and dinned war music. The dust rose flecked with blood.
We knew that Satyaki’s suffering would begin after the battle ended. When he fell, Bheema rushed to carry him away. A moment later Bhoorishravas fell and Duryodhana came to give him succor.
The western sky was red. I fought and killed until Greatfather’s conch recalled his troops. But all the time I thought of Satyaki. What fate is worse than losing sons in battle ten in a single day without one left to light your funeral pyre? Or so I thought until I learned that there is indeed something worse.
We entered Eldest’s tent in silence. And in the tent, met denser silence. Satyaki, pale and bandaged, lay on Eldest’s bed. I thought he might have died of shock and loss of blood. The surgeons were around him. One had his ear upon his heart. Another held his wrist. Two others stood aside. Bheema sobbed great heaving sobs; Nakula wept. I envied them. I could not reach my tears. Then like a bard, Bheema began to chant the story of ten youths waking from sleep, rubbing their eyes, and rising one by one, leaving mangled bodies to bathe their shining forms in the Yamuna. Donning fresh white linen, they garlanded themselves and one another, then set out for Indra’s Heaven. His voice was filled with heavings. He sang of how they looked around unable to proceed and leave us to our sorrow. No more could they return to earth for they had earned the hero’s throne in Heaven. No one may cheat Lord Yama of his booty. But unwilling to go on and leave their father thus, they stayed back suspended, waiting, smiling at our grief, laughing at this storyteller. The god of bards had stolen Bheema’s voice.
A long deep shuddering sigh escaped Satyaki, and at last the tears slid down into his hair. Eldest embraced Bheema. Satyaki leaned upon one elbow caressing Bheema’s cheek. We embraced, weeping, and looked into each other’s faces.
“If any sons remain,” I said to Satyaki, “they will belong to all of us. They will light all our funeral pyres.”
When the physicians’ potions closed Satyaki’s eyes in sleep, we left the royal tent to go to Krishna’s. Something lurked within the shadows. It seized my entrails with its darkness. The mood of grace was fragmented and I heard again the keening of the wounded. Satyaki would now have to challenge Bhoorishravas whose power we had seen today.
The thought of living on without Satyaki filled me with greatest anguish. I held it in until we reached the tent. I signalled to him to dismiss the two attendants, and then it burst from me.
“Krishna,” I said, “Satyaki is as good as anybody in a duel but Bhoorishravas has powers on his side. The sons of Satyaki were trained by you as Abhimanyu was. They were maharathas. I watched them duelling on the second day.” I looked at Krishna’s face, waiting for his concurrence.
He gazed at me and said, “Sit down, Arjuna. Do not throw yourself around, it wastes your energy.”
“I do not want to sit. Can you not see I cannot bear it? No man is closer to my heart than you and Satyaki. He was like Abhimanyu when you sent him to me. I still remember when he touched my feet and said that he had come to learn, I felt like Dronacharya must have done when I first went to him. I saw myself in Satyaki. I built the military academy in Indraprastha for lads like him, only there never was another Satyaki. I did not teach Abhimanyu or the sons of Draupadi. Satyaki allowed the father in me to be born.”
Krishna looked at me, then closed his eyes, and nodded.
“Arjuna, did you think that it was rhetoric when I said we came to give the earth a bloodbath? Where did you think the blood would come from? Tyrants rule the earth. When She feels their weight, rose water will not cleanse Her. Why did you think I went to Hastina to beg for peace, to beg for just five towns for you? When Karna and Duryodhana refused, the earth tilted with their refusal.”
I stared at him and then sat down. I apologized. He poured wine in my jar and then a little into his. I stared at it, then looking up I asked him if there were no magic he could add to it so that I might see once more the universe that he had shown me. Krishna smiled.
“This wine is not as good as that.”
“My universe is small. It is full of you and Abhimanyu and Satyaki.” I sighed, “and of your sister. Krishna, how I long for her now and how I had longed for her when we were in the forest. I longed for all of you. It was even stronger than when I left to go on pilgrimage. I did not know it then but it was you, Subhadra, and Abhimanyu calling to me.” Krishna nodded. “And they are part of you. When I was in the forest I could not speak to anyone about this constant ache. I told our Dhaumya that I must go to Dwaraka or lose my reason. He gave me mantras and said that if I left I would destroy the punya of our forest exile.” Krishna intently listened. “The mantras worked: I did not go. I am a Vrishni, Krishna, much more than a Pandava. And Abhimanyu is a Vrishni too. Watch him when he smiles or turns his head to think or pulls his sword out of its scabbard and runs his fingers over the blade looking inside himself. His hands are yours and Satyaki’s. Tell me one thing.” I was silent for a long while before I could ask my question. “Will Satyaki live?” When Krishna listened, he heard your silences as well as words with all his being. He came back with a long sigh. He ran both hands through his hair and stretched upwards.
“Do you think I love Satyaki less than you do?”
“No.” A shadow showed behind the silk. It moved and, with the movement, it grew arms and legs. It was a man and he slunk away. Krishna sprang out like a panther to the opening of the tent. I made to follow him but he was back again. The world of camps is full of spies. This time though it was only Krishna’s attendant.
“Satyaki? I cannot tell you,” he lay down and crossed his hands behind his head. He looked up at the poi
nted gathered ceiling as though the folds of silk would tell him something.
“Why not?”
“I do not know.” I opened my mouth wide to speak but nothing came. “No. I really do not know. You need not give me disbelieving looks.”
“I do believe you. But how is it that you do not know when you could show the universe to me?”
“I may as well say, Arjuna, why do you not know…you who saw the universe?”
“But it is not like that,” I said.
“Not quite. But I have told you once before—I am not Shakuni to change the dice. I play the game by the rules and must abide by them. I do not seek what is not shown to me. For that you have seers, astrologers, prophets, and dabblers in the occult crafts. We have not come for that. And what good would it do to know? If Satyaki were to die tomorrow and we learnt of it now, we would begin to cry and waste what may still be a restful night.” Then grace returned.
“I have a vision of you, Krishna, driving our chariot through the firmament with your jewel-handled whip, slashing the shadows into ribbons which dissolve. In this tent there are no shadows. Sometimes in my tent I cannot clear my nostrils of the stench of corrupted flesh. I wake up at midnight and the incense seems to steam from bones of corpses. It may be hard for you to understand. I suppose that never happens to you.”
“Suppose as much as you wish; I will tell you if it happens. Now if you like it so much in this tent, why not lie upon my bed and I will sleep on this. Go on talking if you will, or fall asleep which is the wiser thing since in the morning there is another day of war.”
“Dronacharya always says a war should last no more than three days. When it does it is time to call on astras.” There was no response. “One more question. Tomorrow is the sixth day. It begins to be a great accomplishment to stay alive, let alone defeat the enemy. Greatfather is alive. Lord Yama stands at his elbow. I am not stronger than Lord Yama. Yet I must kill him. Who holds the answer?”
The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata Page 43