“Where is he?” I repeated. They turned their heads to weep or stare mutely, and Krishna pressed my hand. In the end, it was the grief of Eldest that saved me from my own. He blamed himself, for he had sent the boy to penetrate the Chakra vyuha.
When Eldest grieved like this the only one who could speak to him was our Greatfather Vyasa. He would not come by chariot. We had sent a bullock cart for him which gave me time to hear the story that I did not want to hear. I knew it in my heart. I tell it now not as I heard it then but as it comes to me today.
There was but little time between his marriage to Uttaraa and the war. You do not take a boy out of his marriage bed to speak of warfare and yet at times we sat with Krishna of an evening and spoke of vyuhas and our plans in case of war. Abhimanyu had been trained by Krishna in the Dwaraka school.
His Uncle Balarama taught him all that he had known of the mace and wrestling. I would tease him then and say he was to leave that sort of thing to Uncle Bheema and Great-uncle Shalya. Abhimanyu was tall and broad, broader than his father and almost one hand taller. And always smiling; always, always smiling. You could not make him cross by teasing him. And when he drove his chariot it brought to mind his mother, how she had held the reins when I eloped with her. Krishna had taught them both. Krishna and Satyaki taught him everything but the mace and wrestling. He was Krishna’s son as well as mine. Being so, he knew so many things that I had still to learn. I knew this with a sort of shyness as though he were my guru. Yet I wanted him to know that we Pandavas were warriors of the finest steel, all taught in Dronacharya’s great academy of Hastina. I told him of our acharya’s contribution to warfare that had enabled men to fight from greater distances. The warrior of the future, he would say, must be half Brahmin; tactics were everything. I had wanted him to know I was my guru’s favourite. I told him I would give him Dronacharya’s knowledge and started then and there with vyuhas. The mantras would come later when we had time alone. When many years ago, before the exile, my guru had drawn the Chakra vyuha in the sand for me, did it sow the death of Abhimanyu? It helped to think it was a karma that nothing could or would avert. I tried to reason thus with Eldest. He continued to insist it was his fault; when they saw the chakra forming, Abhimanyu said he knew the secret of its entry but not how to get out. The Chakravyuha presents its seven petals like an open flower; its long hollow stem or corridor beckons the enemy. But an extended horizontal line obstructs the entry to the circle. If you can penetrate the central stem and speed your elephants and chariots down between the walls this passage offers, you may, if Mother Durga smiles on you and with much daring and some fortune, capture the prizes tucked within. Today the prizes had been Karna, Duryodhana, and Jayadratha. Jayadratha, who had tried to abduct Draupadi in exile, held the second entrance.
You need to get your main strength in and scatter the protective petals while you swallow the central figures or else the flower turns its petals inward and devours you like blooms that trap the insects they attract. The vyuha is a trap, but whether for its maker or its guest one never knew, as Dronacharya always used to say.
“One never knows,” I was about to say to Abhimanyu in Virata. “You have to leave a wedge of soldiers sticking in its gorge”; but these last words and those that I should have told him of the exit never left my tongue.
Dronacharya let him in and whipped around to follow, leaving Jayadratha to block Bheema and Eldest, Satyaki, and all their men, a team that nothing should have stopped. Laughing, Jayadratha told them between arrows that they would never see my boastful whelp again. Those words would call his death to him.
We later understood why he was so sure. Jayadratha had been wounded in his pride and passion by Bheema’s shaving of his scalp before his wedding. He spent a year of stern tapasya to gain the boon of our deaths from Shiva Shankara. The boon he was granted was that he would kill one Pandava in battle, if only Krishna and myself were not involved. Thus he had wrought the trap with Dronacharya’s help, and that of the Trigartas. When they told me of it, rage burst from my throat in a voice that I did not know was mine.
I swore on Shankara Shiva and by all my weapons that I would kill Jayadratha on the morrow or walk into the fire. They told me later Eldest’s face blanched. Bheema shook me by the shoulders: “Arjuna, take that back, swallow it! They will be guarding Jayadratha. He is the sort of jackal who slinks to get a woman when no husband can protect her. And when he hears about your vow he will be tucked away where nobody can get at him. You think we want to lose you on the day after the death of Abhimanyu? All of us have lost our sons, Satyaki and Virata, Drupada and Dhrishtadyumna. And others will be lost. If we lose you too all is in vain. We lose the war as well and we cannot slay their killers. Now take your vow back.”
Bheema crushed me in his arms. Some gave a murmur of approval, but Dhrishtaketu and Nakula and some others who knew that such a vow can never be retrieved looked on in silence. My brothers and our sons turned to Krishna, as though he could undo my vow.
I said to Krishna hotly: “You know better than to ask me to rescind my vow. I swore by the sacred fire and my weapons.” And touching water then, I swore again. There was a sound of lamentation as if I were already dead. It only raised my mettle. What use had I for life?
Weeping, Krishna promised them that while he lived I would not walk into the fire.
We learnt the manner of Abhimanyu’s dying. I remember every word they told me. Old Sumitra, Abhimanyu’s charioteer from Dwaraka, had told him he was not ripe to take on such a task. His words had been: “The Brahmin fox has special weapons. I would not even drive your father so blithely right into the jaws of this ugly monster Dronacharya has devised. And you, my son, are not yet dry behind the ears.”
Another Kshatriya lad might have sworn to kill all those who challenged him. But Abhimanyu smiled and said, “I may not be, but destiny will not wait out another year or two.” I saw the brilliance of his last great ride across the field.
I saw the way he held the bow that I had made for him.
I saw his smile. His smile was not one of bravado. His smile was like the sun, it scorched his enemies but warmed his comrades. His courage and nobility went far beyond the Kshatriya code. It had to do with Krishna and his training and, of course, Subhadra. When Krishna said that the Kshatriya race must be wiped from the earth, I found it difficult to see the land without its sword arm. But Abhimanyu was a different sort of Kshatriya. The Kshatriya qualities in him were the seed of what I knew must live and flourish in the age to come.
As for the manner of his death, it was so foul that crowds of Kauravas deserted. It was from them we learnt he was attacked by seven seasoned chariot warriors at a time—Karna, Duryodhana, and his son Lakshmana, the two acharyas and Kritavarman, Krishna’s Vrishni cousin. Ashwatthama was there too. Karna killed his horses and then shot him in the back. In the back! When Abhimanyu had lost all his weapons, he seized a shattered chariot wheel and, raising it above his head, he rushed at Dronacharya. My guru splintered it with arrows, so Abhimanyu took another one and rushed at Ashwatthama. Ashwatthama jumped aside and fled afar. We knew that it was not from fear. Finally, it was Duhshasana’s son who clubbed him to his death. A Kaurava man who had deserted told us that when Abhimanyu lay dying Jayadratha strutted towards him boasting of the accomplishments of his boon and kicked his head until his brains fell out; he would have told us more, but the others stopped him.
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I could not sleep that night. Krishna was right. My oath was rash and sprang from the boaster in me, from vanity as much as grief and pain. Silence would have honoured Abhimanyu more and not endangered us. Bheema was right too: Jayadratha had a coward’s streak in him. Intelligence was pouring in. He wanted to run home and said as much to Duryodhana under the pretext that if I did not catch him, I would have to keep my oath and walk into the fire. That was what I should have thought of. I was not to be allowed to challenge him. Dronacharya devised a new vyuha, its sole purpose was to tuck him out of reach, as
Bheema said.
What vanity was in me still! It is a Kshatriya’s sacred duty to kill the slayer of his sons or father or brother, but I had not thought of others and their safety. I had not even thought of Krishna who was my charioteer and shared my fate. I was not thinking of my brothers. Neither was I thinking of our larger purpose; we were here to win the war and restore Eldest to the throne.
As I slipped into a nightmare I saw Abhimanyu’s head being clubbed. I woke with hands heavy as ice and called out to Krishna.
I knew that he had assumed the burden of my safety and had told Daruka that he ought to rush his chariot to us if his conch called the Rishabha notes tomorrow. Did Krishna mean to fight? Again I fell into a dream, this time of Bheema hammering in vain upon the entrance that Jayadratha guarded, hammering upon the boon that Shiva granted him of Abhimanyu’s life. My spirit rebelled and brought the horrors crowding in. Repeating mantras, I drove away the visions till sleep came with dreams of Krishna.
From far away I saw him ride towards me in his white horsed chariot driven by Daruka. As the chariot slowed before me, I rose and joined my hands in salutation. I offered him a seat of excellence inset with jewels and covered by the finest cloths of gold.
“Do not become trapped by your grief, Arjuna. Life is still here and you still have much work to do. Grief could well defeat you. It is the ally of your enemy.”
I told him of my doubts: “The sun sets quickly when you need it most and they will hide my enemy.” Then, as it is in dreams, I heard the sacred name of Shiva’s weapon, Pashupata. “Remember Shiva now and you will slay your enemy tomorrow with the Pashupata.”
I bathed and donned white linen. With concentrated mind I touched my fingers to the water, sat upon my kusha mat, and concentrated my thoughts upon Shiva. At the auspicious hour I saw Krishna and myself sailing through the sky, and in the blink of an eye we reached the sacred foot of the Himavat mountain where sages live in caves. We flew over them and Krishna held me up by my left arm until we reached the white mountain of the north and looked down on the lake of lotuses and Mother Ganga. We saw the regions of the Mandara Mountains blossoming with flower and fruit against transparent crystal stone. Warblers sent their notes from the ascetics’ retreats. Krishna and I saw the sacred spot known as the horsehead and roaming on the mountain, we saw above the tree line a place of lunar rays and wondrous forms. At last we landed on Kailasa where Shiva dwells. We saw him lost in meditation but I dared not gaze. I looked instead at Pinaka, his bow which sat beside him, and seemed like him to meditate. We touched our heads to the earth uttering the eternal words of the Veda:
To him who is unvanquished,
To the blue-haired one.
To him who holds the trident, to him of celestial vision.
To him who is the Hotri,
To him who protects all,
To him who is of three eyes,
To him whose vital seed is the fire.
When we had done, I dared to look at the great god, he who pervades the Universe, who creates it and destroys it. I gazed upon him and saw that at his feet lay all the offerings I had made to Krishna. I knew I had to speak but could not. How could I voice my wish for the celestial weapon? I hoped it would be Krishna that would speak for me but he did not. Shiva opened his eyes and smiled at me. What his smile said was, “I know why you have come and you are both welcome. You shall have it but you must go on to where it is, the Lake Celestial whose waters are pure nectar, within which, Krishna, you will find my bow and arrow.” Then his attendants accompanied us to sacred Lake Manasarovara, bright as the sun. As I wondered if there were a mantra to be said I saw a terrible serpent and then another with a thousand heads. Each spat fire. We stretched our hands toward them, joined them in salutation, and then approached the serpents, singing hymns in praise of Rudra.
We waited with bent heads. The serpents rose up and danced about each other with the fiercest grace and gradually they lost their serpentine form. They coiled about each other like flower stems, then separated in a dance. One was divided into two and joined again into a bow. The other turned into an arrow, spitting fire. They came to us and rose into our hands. We took them back to Shiva. His body opened up and from his side emerged an ascetic with burnt copper eyes. His throat was blue, his hair was red. We looked upon the Refuge of Asceticism. He showed us how to hold the bow and fit the arrow to the string. He stretched it to his ear. We watched most carefully the placing of his feet and how he drew the string. I heard the mantras in my inner ear. The ascetic let the arrow fly back to the lake. It entered in without disturbing the water. He threw the bow back after it. It sailed three yojanas across the sky and dove down clean into the crystal water without a sound and without causing so much as a ripple.
“Let it be even so,” I said, my heart full of surrender. I knew that the great god Shiva had granted me my need, the accomplishment of my vow. I felt my hair rise on my neck and I prostrated myself before him.
When morning came I woke without a fever. My wounds had closed and after our ablutions we went to Eldest’s tent. Eager to tell him of my dream, I waited while servants brought him jars of fragrant sandal water that priests had purified with mantras. While his physicians smeared his wounds with herbs, I told him of my vision.
He took the long white cloth and gazing at me, tied a turban round his streaming hair. He held out his arm for sandal paste and bent to take the garlands. When I finished he joined his hands in prayer and turned to face the east. Having sacrificed the sacred wood and poured the ghee into the fire, he came toward me and embraced me. Then our commanders came, Dhrishtadyumna, Bheema, Satyaki, Dhrishtaketu of the Chedis, Drupada, Shikhandin, the twins, Chekitana, Yuyutsu. Uttamaujas and our sons by Draupadi were there. He told them of my dream and said: This very day, by the grace of the great god Shiva, we shall send the one who obtained the boon to kill Subhadra’s son on the journey from which no traveller returns.”
Krishna said to Eldest: “Tonight Arjuna’s hands will touch your feet as usual. All will be as usual, save that Jayadratha’s head will have fallen from his body.” Krishna saw the yearning in Satyaki’s face to come with us but he ignored it. “You stand in place of Satyajit. Guard the king.”
Bards and musicians sang auspicious hymns for us and panegyrists wished us victory and good days. The horses understood and frisked a little as they trotted. A breeze blew from behind. The omens augured well.
“For you, my son,” I said and blew his notes on Devadatta.
They sounded clear and deadly.
Perhaps I leaned upon my dream too much. Today their vyuha was partly petalled like the chakra. Within this was the Sakata, the needle that was protected by the greatest Kaurava warriors, and within, far at the back of this innermost formation, within the needle’s eye, hid Jayadratha. The drums and cymbals started up. There was a first line of defence before we came to Dronacharya and we had cut through this before the sun climbed from the east. Duhshasana’s forces scattered; and wounded and terrified, he fled to the entrance of the Sakata. We let him go but when we came to Dronacharya I raised my bow and bowed my head in salutation as when waiting to be allowed into his house. You cannot do away with habit. The acharya barked a little laugh.
“You seek entrance, do you? Well, first defeat me.” He laughed the way he did when I amused him; but now death lurked within the sound. I had forgotten how his chest was broad and strong and how he would build walls with arrows that mine could not penetrate. We spent the forenoon trying to pierce the needle’s eye. Then he descended like a hailstorm that tore our white umbrella, dented diadems, ripped my finger guard, and pierced our armour. At last my arrow cut his bow and another hit his charioteer. But we could not get beyond him.
Krishna turned to face me. “Look at the sun.” Our shadows had no length. All around the red dust rose, fine and silky to the gaze but leaving grit inside our eyes and mouths and nostrils. If we continued thus, at midnight Jayadratha could still be waiting. Before I knew it, Krishna shot
us past my guru.
“Arjuuuuuuuna! Arjuuuuuna!” his cry galloped behind us as though I cheated him of something. I heard him in my dreams for many years after the fourteenth day: Arjuuuuuna, Arjuuuuuuna. As though he meant to tell me something, some last instruction left unspoken. I looked around and saw him snatch his bowstring to his ear. I could not think that he would kill me, but Krishna shouted: “Duck!” The arrow cut the air above my head. Had it meant to kill me? Our chariot wheeled and wheeled about, just missing those who blocked my way to Kritavarman. Krishna rushed straight to the horses that came towards us, then as they plunged and swerved, our horses galloped past them and this was how we got as far as Kritavarman, Satyaki’s half-brother, who was almost a match for him.
“One of the seven, Arjuna,” one of the seven who killed our son. Our man had followed us but our wheel protectors had been blocked. My fury mounted. I sent my arrows into Kritavarman’s armour. He was Krishna’s cousin and Balarama taught him how to wear his armour. My arrows found no chinks in it. Our guru knew what he was doing when he placed Kritavarman here. He stood relentless as a fortress, rallying his men.
The Great Golden Sacrifice of the Mahabharata Page 49