The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata

by Maggi Lidchi Grassi

  7

  I walked towards the river. The sky was still deep blue and amethyst, spangled with friendly stars. Of all the hours of the day I love dawn best. I had begun to wait for her. On the first day I had fancied that if we perpetrated certain crimes the world would wait in darkness for a sun that would never rise. And so our hymns to Lady Dawn began to assume a special significance. She is the Sky-born Mistress of the Light, consort of Lord Surya. She is the promise of our lives and older than the night that she outlives. Her lord follows on her heels as a young warrior pursuing a maid.

  I clung to the stillness that precedes the sun, a silence in which nothing stirs and which enfolds the thing you cannot see but which is full of promise.

  At times the trees blocked out the sky so that you had to feel the dawn growing about you, a bride embellished by her mother, as the hymn says. And in the clearing she was indeed the maiden arriving at her trysting place night after night: Usha advancing carefully, without show, to drive malignity away. She could not but bring light. On the sixth day the goddess was a presence to me, fresh from her ablutions and conscious in her beauty. My heart sang to her that she surpassed all dawns that had come before.

  At dusk and dawn the gods of light and darkness clasp and kiss. Their war is lulled. At dawn the night surrenders. At first you cannot see the line dividing earth and sky. There is no good. There is no evil. But when the sun thrusts slowly through the eastern shadows, he brings a hum of courage, strength, and vigour. He drinks the stillness. I laid my angavastra upon the bank and stepped into the river singing benedictions.

  That is Fullness, this is Fullness.

  When Fullness is taken from Fullness,

  There is only Fullness.

  Om, Shanti. Shanti. Shantih.

  For the sixth day Eldest decided on the Makara vyuha that Greatfather had employed the day before. We helped him place the men. We formed the head with Drupada. The twins were its two eyes. Bheema controlled the jaws. The neck was strong with a necklace of Abhimanyu and the sons of Draupadi. The forces of Ghatotkacha, Satyaki, Eldest, and Virata comprised the massive back. The brothers Kekaya and Dhrishtadyumna’s fierce strike arm flanked them on the left; with Dhrishtaketu and Chekitana to the right. Kuntibhoja and Satanika were the feet, while Shikhandin with the Somakas, and my son by Ulupi, Iravata, became a wicked sting. We had never had a vyuha which was stronger or more meticulously and menacingly deployed. A special energy ran through it all, a ripple that charged soldiers on auspicious days, an ocean current through the heart. Flags waved and weapons blazed in the sun.

  I could have sworn that we would win yet we did not, Duryodhana’s word went out: “Get Bheema’s head!” So many men converged on him that Eldest ordered Abhimanyu to set out with his deadly Sachimukha vyuha. The golden peacock flags of Abhimanyu unfurled against the sky showed us the speed with which they moved. Bheema was our vital force, and also something else in our hearts no one could name. Abhimanyu stopped Vikarna’s arrows. Once, Vikarna’s lone voice rose in our defence when all was silent in the sabha. I had thought then that I would give my life for him, but now I longed to take his.

  Abhimanyu did it for me.

  Nobody was the victor on this sixth day. Each warrior had the same intent: to make an end of it before the conches blew. There are some sunsets when neither side may say “we won”, and the nights are troubled. There were so many slain we had to pick our way back through a slush of gore and mutilated men and animals. At times we had to stop while orderlies cleared a rough path for us. We reached the camp to find Eldest waiting. He greeted us with love and praise but looked beyond and asked of each returning chariot where Bheema was. When Vishoka came towards us with an empty chariot, Eldest went white and leapt at it. His cry of “Bheema!” pierced the sudden silence. It raised two blood-smeared warriors from the chariot’s terrace. Bheema and Dhrishtadyumna, spent and happy, had been stretched out there. Now Eldest grabbed his favourite brother and stroked his shaven plump cheeks and took the perfume from his head repeatedly. He wiped the blood away, then embraced Dhrishtadyumna and lastly Vishoka. “Always bring him back,” he said.

  In childhood Duryodhana used to say you could do anything you liked provided you had the weapons to enforce it. He cheated at our games and lied. He stole the wives of servitors and got their husbands into trouble. He fed Eldest’s dog with herbs that made it vomit. His weapon then, of course, was Uncle Dhritarashtra. The king was blind in more ways than one, or else he feigned ignorance. Yet, when Bheema shook him from the mango tree, and he sat upon the ground and wailed while Bheema held his sides and laughed, his defencelessness was appalling. “I am the king’s son,” he would blubber. “He is my dependent.”

  “Even a king’s son is not any less for falling on his bottom,” I would say. But nothing could console him. He always ended crying: “I hate him and will kill him. I hate him worse than pompous Eldest who thinks he can be the king.” And he would run to tell his father. We learned how seriously he meant it when he poisoned Bheema before he reached the age of twenty, and then again to celebrate his twentieth birthday. And yet again, when with his father’s help and that of Kanika they tried to burn us in our sleep.

  There is a lesson that each one of us must learn in life. It took me endless years and Krishna’s love to learn mine. Duryodhana never found the one that had been set for him. It was that strength of numbers and power of weapons and gem-encrusted thrones would not avail him in the end. He was so glad of Krishna’s akshauhini that he hardly noticed we had Krishna.

  Even today I knew that if confronted with Duryodhana after his day’s defeat, I would—just like Greatfather—have tried to comfort him.

  “You see,” Greatfather told him gently, “your akshauhinis do not really count. They are the mechanism that another force controls. And that is what prevails.” He held him in his arms and stroked his head. “Life offers you an opportunity to save the world. If you treat for peace the Pandavas will take you to their hearts and share the kingdom with you. All they want is five small towns. On you, Duryodhana, depend millions of lives. It is a sacred trust. It is what being king is all about. If you decide this night to give five towns away, you will be remembered for your nobility, wisdom, and compassion. Kshatriya wives and children will line the streets when you return. They will garland you and strew the roads with flowers and sprinkle them with rosewater. Do you prefer to face the mourners and the orphans, that is, if you return at all?”

  “I am no coward. If I cannot rule, I do not wish to live. I shall not return.” There followed the longest silence of the war.

  “My child,” Greatfather said at last, “you have chosen. Do not be disheartened. I promise you that we shall fight with the strength of both our arms. Even so we cannot win. You cannot hold the world back. Krishna is the charioteer that draws the world towards its light. He is the sun itself. You cannot fight Lord Surya. Yet we are warriors and shall play our role. We shall win the warriors’ heaven though we miss the light of Krishna.” Duryodhana could only say: “Yes, that is right, Greatfather. We shall die like heroes if we must but do see to it that everybody does his best. We may still win. They all respect you. You are as good as Krishna.” It must have been that smile of Greatfather’s, the one he wore when we gave amusing but absurd replies as children.

  Greatfather promised him a Great Mandala vyuha such as he had never seen. It was the only way, Sanjaya told us, to get Duryodhana to sleep. Uncle Dhritarashtra had always promised him the moon.

  It was later that I saw that Greatfather had not chosen. He had been chosen to show that even strictest Dharma would not serve for it was a Dharma that was dying. Even at its noblest it could not survive. Greatfather’s throne sat on the cusp of what was old and what was new. He was faithful to his vows and not his vision, and so bore his anguish.

  “This war will change the world,” Krishna would say. “After the war, in the Kali Yuga, we will remember Greatfather and wonder if such men have truly lived on earth.” I ha
d always loved Greatfather and now I once again revered him. In his dilemma no smaller man could thus have triumphed.

  Krishna ordered all the universes for me. He showed me, too, the part that Dronacharya played. And Ashwatthama. And though I could not see it yet, the part that would be mine.

  Greatfather marched towards the west at dawn, leaving the sun behind him. We heard his chariot wheels. When we looked towards the sun, a shining array emerged from it, a circle of great painted elephants netted in gold, with warrior gods on them. It slid over the land towards us. As the music stilled, the elephants slowed down and stopped as though to show what had happened. At a word from their commander, the elephants, trained to perfection, raised their right forelegs, paused, and then moved again. Behind each animal rose seven chariot banners. Beside each chariot Greatfather had deployed seven horsemen. For each horse soldier there were ten bowmen. The formation looked impenetrable.

  Greatfather’s conch released the arrows that came at us like driving monsoon rain and then a cruel hail that felled our men in thousands. The blood ran down Krishna’s sides, and I could hardly breathe. I later saw four arrows had pierced my armour. I was sure the war was lost.

  “Arjuna!” Krishna called. The urgency of his voice gripped my heart. “Your special weapons!” His words sent lightning down my arms and legs and unfroze my brain. A mantric silence rose in me, and formed the image in my head. It left me with a snap and burst into a shower. Each of our arrows cut through another coming at us as though to meet its mate, then multiplied to kill the Kaurava bowmen. Yelling in terror the archers dropped their bows. The army scattered. Under our rain of darts men and chariots crashed together, elephants lumbered backwards, crushing their foot soldiers. The horses, smelling panic, reared and neighed. Had I not had the power in me I might have lost my senses with the sound of ten thousand horses whinnying in terror. Their army turned to whimpering children. The fighting stopped before the sun had fully risen. The enemy was routed. Our flutes began to skirl and drums to pound a rousing rhythm. Men threw turbans up into the sky and danced and hugged each other.

  Greatfather, we were told, had restored Duryodhana’s courage. Greatfather had him call to all the men that Great Bheeshma, son of Shantanu, would fall upon Arjuna in full strength, and that he must be guarded at all costs. Greatfather knew what he was doing. This revived Duryodhana’s spirits. And even as he spoke, the mandala began to shape again as though his words were forging it.

  Greatfather came thundering towards me. I thought that it was now that I must kill him but the whole of Duryodhana’s army rushed to his support. Every time I drew my arm back thinking “Now”, I was cut off; someone had screened him and my arrows went to other men.

  Shikhandin found an opening and sped towards Greatfather.

  Greatfather turned away and those who guarded him drove Shikhandin back. While I fought to hold off Greatfather, Dronacharya sped unchecked through our front lines killing Virata’s horses and his charioteer. Virata leapt into the chariot of Shankha, one of his two remaining sons. They tried to hold our guru back, but he killed Shankha.

  There was no time to think of Shankha or Virata; Bhagadatta took our minds off everything. He and Supratika crashed into our lines like water through a broken dam. It looked to me as though Supratika were filled with soma juice. Though his sides were thick with arrows, he did not feel his wounds. So many men were busy helping me to keep Greatfather back, so many more fought with our guru and his followers, that when I saw Supratika charging we called for Ghatotkacha. He raced towards them, his round bald head a beacon to the cavalry that streaked behind. But when the cavalry saw what Supratika had done to its front lines, it turned and fled. Ghatotkacha with chilling screams hurled his shakti at the elephant, but Bhagadatta splintered it in midair. His name was shouted. Triumphant yells mingled with laughter.

  “I will build a golden sabha for you,” Duryodhana shouted. Bhagadatta did not seem to hear. His ears were closed to all of us and his strong features did not move. His eyes under his tall diadem narrowed to listen to the elephant. Ghatotkacha was forced to jump and run to us. This was the first time Bheema’s son had known defeat and, seeing the fiercest of our men take flight, the Kauravas sent up their triumph to the skies while Bhagadatta rammed his elephant into our ranks. Our men were forced to flee, splintering our formation.

  My arms were pulled so taut I thought they might fall off. I looked to see if shadows lengthened as a starving hunter follows prey. Just before the dusk came we heard the jackals howling and I could sense the spirits of the dead roaming the field, looking to help their comrades, encouraging souls to leave their shattered bodies. Others seemed to nudge their corpses, fighting to reagain their breath. They were so thickly gathered that they caught you by the throat.

  At last in Eldest’s tent we mourned Virata’s sons and praised their exploits and the twins who had defeated Uncle Shalya. We praised Ghatotkacha while our wounds were bathed. I cannot now remember who said that since we had survived the seventh day, we would live on forever. But amongst us it became a saying: when anyone fell ill who had lived through Kurukshetra he would be reassured: “You survived the seventh day.” Worse days were to follow, but as sometimes happens, the power of the saying was our mantra of protection. We washed ourselves and donned fresh clothes. Then bards and minstrels played and sang to us of home and no one spoke of war. But each one of us had become a Virata. Inside, we bled for him and for Satyaki.

  That was the night that poor blind Uncle Dhritarashtra asked Sanjaya to use his sight to see why the Pandavas were not losing.

  Supratika’s depredations had continued after sunset. Many in sleep had seen him lift his hennaed foot above their heads, and woken as it pounded them out of sleep.

  In my mind Supratika was the immediate peril, and I said so. But Bheema said that that was nonsense; it was Duryodhana who must be killed. Our Bheema was not known for strategy. A spurt of astonished laughter escaped my lips.

  I remember saying that Duryodhana had barely killed a dozen soldiers and a half and maintained it was Supratika who terrified the men.

  “And me,” said Dhrishtadyumna with eyes stretched. He had the sort of honesty that Draupadi was made of. Bheema, laughing immoderately, cuffed him, and snorted, “Let Eldest speak.”

  For Eldest, the death of Greatfather was what we had to put our minds to.

  “Who will remain to do it?” I said. “We will be memories of shadows in dust once Supratika has done his rounds again.”

  “I agree with Arjuna. The elephant must go,” said Drupada. “When they hear the drumming of Supratika’s feet together with his trumpeting, my men lose courage. I feel it draining from them.” There was a murmur of agreement.

  “Why do you worry of Bhagadatta, Uncle Arjuna? Ghatotkacha will much more terrify enemy,” and he showed his Rakshasa teeth. So it later proved. Ghatotkacha cast his fearsome grin at me and I had to hug him.

  “What do you say, Virata?” Eldest asked with courtesy. Virata pulled himself out of his thoughts and while we waited for his words, I watched the ghee lamp play upon the gravity of his features. His eyes were turned inward. Now he spoke slowly and in a low voice that had grown old with unshed tears.

  “There is some power in Supratika.”

  “Nobody speaks of killing Bhagadatta whom it is easier to kill,” Dhrishtaketu said. “If he dies, the elephant will not survive him for they are as twins joined by a single heart.” Eldest assented with his head.

  “May we have your counsel, Mahatma?” Eldest asked. Krishna smiled at me with eyes still closed and said, “Bheema is right.” My mouth opened in outrage. Krishna opened his eyes and they were fixed on me as though they had been studying me even while closed. When Krishna smiled like that a light played on my heart and I had no protest. “The war will end only with Duryodhana.”

  “Excuse me, Krishna, but surely you do not forget that arrogant suta will step in who is twenty times the warrior and devilish to boot,” Drupada sai
d. “Who was it goaded Duryodhana at the dice game?” He leant forward towards Krishna, his eyes bulging. Eldest put out a soothing hand and laid it upon his. “We know, Father-in-law. We know how much your family had to suffer from that game of dice.” And Drupada subsided.

  “If Duryodhana dies, Karna will not fight,” said Krishna conciliatingly. “His cause is Duryodhana. It is Duryodhana he loves with all his heart, and not the Kauravas. Certainly not Greatfather, nor Dronacharya, nor Duhshasana. His life belongs to Duryodhana.” He turned to Eldest, “and, of course, you too are right, Yudhishthira. Greatfather must be slain. His spirit holds the Kauravas together. When he departs the Kali Yuga will rush in. Their men will not be bound by Dharma. They will desert in tens of thousands.” He turned to me. “Nor do we want, as Arjuna eloquently says, to be flattened memories in the dust.”

  “Well, what comes first?” said Nakula, practical as ever. “Let us do all things at once.”

  Greatfather still had greater numbers and would deploy them in the Oormi vyuha, the ocean that could spread out and engulf us. The waves could move like snakes and form a coil to squeeze your life out. Eldest directed me to form the Sringataka vyuha. Its horns were organs of attack. Defence was something we could ill afford.

  When people ask me now about the eighth day, I remember Iravata, my son by Ulupi, who died. But that happened when the Lord Surya had passed his zenith. In the first fighting Bheema killed eight more of Duryodhana’s brothers. He had another sort of strategy than ours of which he himself knew nothing. And then he rushed at Greatfather and killed his horses and his charioteer. Duryodhana with his brothers moved to block him. It was what Bheema dreamt of. He dispatched eight brothers with terrible efficiency and, roaring, raised the bloody mace for everyone to see. Duryodhana went to Greatfather and, frantic, in the midst of battle, complained that he had promised.