Mahabharata

by Carole Satyamurti

  and months had grown acclimatized to waiting

  so that each camp had become a makeshift town

  with its own rules and customs, almost home-like,

  now sensed in the vibrations of the air

  and self-important scurrying of runners

  that battle was approaching. Blacksmiths’ fires

  were bellowed to white heat, whetstones were tested,

  spears and arrows sharpened, armor burnished

  until it dazzled like the sun itself.

  Even the animals got wind of it.

  Elephants fretted, straining at their tethers,

  swinging their great heads from side to side;

  horses rolled their eyes, their nostrils flaring

  in longing for the freedom of the gallop.

  Just as bees, preparing for mass flight,

  seethe and sing, making the hive throb

  with anticipation, so the troops

  milled about in what seemed wild confusion

  but, in fact, was highly organized,

  every man concentrating on his tasks.

  In each camp, the shout went out, “Form up!

  Form up!” And in the din of chariot wheels,

  of roaring elephants, of drums and conches,

  the hosts of foot soldiers formed their divisions,

  then marched about, practicing fierce war cries,

  joking, trying out armor and weapons.

  Yudhishthira convened his war council

  and asked Krishna to give them a report

  on his mission to Hastinapura.

  Krishna described his negotiations,

  the diplomatic twists and turns—but nothing

  of his private talk with the suta’s son.

  “That man Duryodhana does not want peace.

  He scorns the law and, drinking in the words

  of Karna, he thinks he has won already!

  Only Vidura stands up to him.

  The villain is wronging you. There must be war.”

  Leading each of the seven Pandava armies

  was a great and experienced warrior:

  Bhima, brave and bull-like Pandava;

  Drupada, the father of Draupadi;

  Dhrishtadyumna, her brother, born from fire;

  Virata, who had sheltered the Pandavas

  during their final year of exile, now

  joined to them by marriage; Chekitana,

  long-standing ally of the Pandavas;

  Shikhandin, elder son of Drupada;

  and Satyaki, Krishna’s friend and kinsman.

  Which of them should be commander-in-chief?

  There was much discussion. Finally,

  Yudhishthira appointed Dhrishtadyumna.

  Krishna urged deployment of the troops

  with all speed. Since every hope of peace

  lay in ashes, only slaughter remained.

  Balarama, Krishna’s brother, refused

  any part in this war between kinsmen.

  He had taught the mace both to Bhima

  and to Duryodhana, and could not bear

  to contemplate the death of either man.

  With heavy heart, he prepared to set out

  on a pilgrimage, along the Sarasvati.

  The young princes took their leave of Draupadi,

  who stayed in Upaplavya with the women

  of the household and their maids and servants.

  Like a slow-moving landmass, the force set off—

  hundreds of thousands of armored infantry,

  tens of thousands of bullock carts, laden

  with food, equipment, every kind of weapon,

  making for the plain of Kurukshetra.

  With them went servants, cooks, surgeons, craftsmen,

  attendants and camp followers. Rank on rank

  of glossy horses, harnessed to forty thousand

  fine chariots, came next, and then war elephants,

  tusks sharpened to lethal points, all trained to stay

  calm in the cacophony of battle.

  Yudhishthira led his armies onward

  day after day, until at last they reached

  the river Hiranvati at Kurukshetra,

  where he chose the site for their encampment,

  avoiding cremation grounds and holy shrines.

  The river ran clear and sweet, and provided

  easy fording places. Yudhishthira

  ordered that a deep defensive moat

  be dug round the cantonment, where there were

  tents erected for the noble warriors,

  well supplied with firewood, food and water.

  In each tent stout bows were placed, and plentiful

  stocks of iron-tipped arrows, shields, cuirasses,

  javelins and animal fodder. Everywhere,

  artisans were plying their essential trades.

  Enclosed, tethered, elephants by the hundred

  were jacketed in plates of spiked armor.

  Yudhishthira confided to Arjuna

  how he quaked with dread—that things had come

  to this, as though no effort had been made!

  “Brother,” said Arjuna, “you heard the message

  our mother sent through Krishna; she is right.

  It is our dharma and our destiny

  to battle for what is right.” Yudhishthira

  could not disagree. He would perform

  his duty as the king, and yet it seemed

  as though a nightmarish, impersonal

  force was driving him inexorably

  toward a precipice . . .

  On the plain around Hastinapura,

  stretching far, far into the distance,

  the vast allied forces of the Kauravas—

  eleven armies—waited in readiness.

  Fragrant smoke from a hundred thousand fires

  curled upward, hovering as a murky haze

  above the city, before dispersing slowly.

  For many weeks, the bustle of preparation

  had been a constant hubbub in the background

  of the citizens’ quotidian lives.

  Now that the point had come for girls and women

  to part from their sons, their brothers and husbands,

  were they struck, as if for the first time,

  by what it meant—that their dear beloved

  might never clasp them in his arms again?

  That his voice, so ordinary a strand

  in the fabric of their daily lives,

  might become a sound bitterly yearned for

  so that, for years to come, a distant voice

  resembling his would make them turn their heads

  and weep?

  Now Duryodhana appointed

  the commander-in-chief of all his armies.

  He asked Bhishma, incorruptible,

  distinguished warrior of enormous skill,

  to take that post. “You must know,” said Bhishma,

  “that the Pandavas are very dear to me,

  just as you are. But I have pledged to fight

  in your cause. I am experienced

  in all the various battle formations;

  I know how to deploy an army, how to

  plan a battle, I have at my command

  weapons which could empty the world of people.

  But I shall be judicious. I will be

  commander-in-chief—but on this condition:

  either I must fight first, or Karna must.

  The driver’s son always seeks to rival me;

  I will not ride out with him.”

  Then Karna spoke:

  “There is no way I will fight while Bhishma,

  that spawn of the river Ganga, is alive!

  When he is cut down, I will take up arms

  and battle to the death with Arjuna.”

  “You must also understand,” said Bhishma,

  “that though I will exert my every nerve,

  summon all my expertise t
o kill

  the Pandava forces, I will never fight

  Shikhandin.”

  “Why is that?” asked Duryodhana.

  “Because he was once a woman,” Bhishma said,

  “and I will not fight a woman. He was born

  as Shikhandini, daughter of Drupada.

  And in her former life, she was Amba

  whom I abducted, together with her sisters,

  as brides for my brother, Vichitravirya.

  When Amba revealed that she was betrothed

  to another suitor, I allowed her to leave.

  I shall tell you what happened to her then.

  “Having chosen King Shalva as her husband

  before I carried her off, she traveled,

  with my blessing, to his court. But he refused

  to take her as his wife, regarding her

  as my cast-off. Useless for her to plead

  that there had never been any question

  of marriage with me. He spurned her with contempt.

  “Heartbroken, she sought refuge in the forest.

  Brahmins advised her, ‘Go back to your father,’

  but she knew she would only be despised.

  Then she sought out Rama Jamadagnya,

  the great weapons teacher and ascetic—

  he who taught me everything I know

  about the arts of war. She begged him piteously

  to kill me, whom she saw as the sole source

  of her bitter grief. Rama ordered me

  to marry her myself, but I would not break

  my vow of celibacy.

  “Furious,

  Rama challenged me, and he and I

  battled for many days. Each of us

  invoked our powerful celestial weapons,

  so that the mountains trembled and the sky

  was red with boiling flame. Each of us

  received agonizing wounds, but neither

  could prevail over the other. Finally,

  Rama’s ancestors urged him to withdraw,

  and he told Amba he had done all he could

  and advised her to seek my protection.

  But pride would not allow it. She passionately

  wished me dead.

  “Meanwhile, King Drupada,

  longing to avenge himself on Drona,

  and having no strong son at that time, prayed

  to Lord Shiva for a son. ‘You shall have

  a son in female form,’ replied Shiva,

  ‘and you must content yourself with that.’

  “After severe austerities, and making

  heartfelt pleas to powerful gods, Amba

  set fire to herself and, with her final breath,

  vowed that she would have revenge on me.

  She was reborn as Drupada’s daughter.

  He and his wife named her Shikhandini

  and reared her as the son they had always wanted.

  She learned the skills and manners of a prince

  and became accomplished in the arts of war,

  taught by Drona in his weapons school.

  When the time came, Drupada married her

  to the daughter of the king of the Dasharnas—

  whereupon she could simulate no longer.

  Grossly insulted, her father-in-law sent

  brahmin envoys, articulate in insults,

  to challenge Drupada, giving notice

  that an invading army would be dispatched

  if Drupada’s son was, indeed, a woman.

  “What could be done? Drupada started praying.

  His wife said, ‘Piety is well and good

  but you also have to use your wits.

  Decide what you should tell your councillors,

  then worship the gods to your heart’s content.’

  Drupada and his queen devised a plan:

  the king would claim that his wife had deceived him—

  only now did he know his son was a girl!

  “In despair, and fearing for her parents,

  Shikhandini fled far into the forest,

  to starve herself to death. But a yaksha

  granted her a boon—for a fixed time,

  but long enough, he would become a woman,

  and give her his masculine attributes.

  Thus transformed, and full of confidence,

  she went back to Kampilya, her father’s court,

  and revealed the good news to her parents.

  Now, truly, she was Prince Shikhandin.

  “To test the truth of things once and for all,

  and meanwhile gearing up for an attack

  on Panchala, the wrathful Dasharna king

  brought an inspection party to Kampilya:

  several gorgeous women. They were escorted

  to Shikhandin’s apartments. Hours later,

  they emerged smiling, fully satisfied:

  Prince Shikhandin was indeed a man.

  Drupada breathed deeply, then ordered up

  a sumptuous feast for his visitors

  before they happily made their way back home,

  the two kings, henceforth, on the best of terms.

  “Sorrowfully returning to the forest,

  the prince prepared to honor his agreement

  with the helpful yaksha, and take back

  his female body. But the yaksha told him

  that, since they had last met, he had been cursed

  by Kubera, the short-tempered yaksha king,

  and must remain a woman until Shikhandin

  should meet his death on the field of battle.

  The prince was filled with joy and gratitude.

  “Now he leads an army for the Pandavas

  and has marked me as his adversary.

  But, because he was born as a woman,

  I will not fight him. Fate must take its course.”

  Duryodhana had appointed generals

  from among the experienced warrior kings,

  and consecrated them with ceremony.

  Advised by Bhishma, he had rated them

  according to their skill and experience.

  When it came to Karna, Bhishma judged him

  as second-rate. Karna was furious,

  “Left to myself, I could destroy the army

  of the Pandavas in a mere five days!”

  Bhishma laughed at him. “You prove my point.

  You are rash and silly. Victory

  can never be achieved that easily.”

  As brahmins performed Bhishma’s consecration

  bloody rain fell, and disembodied voices

  were heard; jackals howled ferociously

  and meteors streaked across the glowering sky.

  To solicit blessings, Duryodhana

  lavished gold and cattle on the brahmins,

  and, strengthened by their ritual benedictions,

  he marched to Kurukshetra with his armies.

  There, with Karna, he measured out the camp

  on the west side of the plain, on pleasant ground,

  where there was easy access to fresh water.

  Even the smallest details of provisioning

  had been anticipated—spare axles, ropes,

  banners and pennants, spades, horns, every weapon

  one would expect. Even bells and rugs

  had been thought of, and bunches of fresh herbs

  to tie onto the chariots, to ward off evil.

  With the tents erected and arranged,

  the camp looked as rich as Hastinapura.

  Uluka, son of Shakuni, was told

  to take a message from Duryodhana

  to Yudhishthira, a ritual taunt:

  “Now is the time to prove yourself a man!

  You lost at dice, you saw your blameless wife

  dishonored, you endured long years of exile

  and lost your kingdom—who would not be angry?

  But angry words are one thing, courageous acts

  are another. Are
you brave enough

  or are you impotent, you and your brothers?

  Can Bhima drink the blood of Duhshasana

  as he swore to do in the gaming hall?

  Will you have your much vaunted revenge

  or are you all hot air? Join battle with us:

  either rule the earth by defeating us

  or be killed and go to the heaven of heroes.

  “In fact, you stand no chance—how can you beat

  Bhishma, that mountain among warriors,

  or Drona, master of the Brahma weapon?

  Even though Krishna always takes your side,

  even though you have the bow Gandiva,

  I won your kingdom, and for thirteen years

  I have enjoyed it. I shall enjoy it still

  after I have killed you and all your kinsmen.

  And when you flounder, helpless in the flood

  of mighty Kauravas, when all your friends

  lie dead around you, then you will regret

  taking up arms against me and my brothers.”

  The Pandavas, hearing these boastful words,

  were enraged, pacing up and down, their eyes

  red with fury. Seeing this, Krishna

  spoke to Uluka: “Leave this place at once,

  gambler’s son, and say this to Duryodhana:

  ‘Be careful, villain! Even though Arjuna

  has appointed me his charioteer,

  and even though I said I would not fight,

  a time may come when, as a last resort,

  I shall scorch your forces like a field of straw.

  Meanwhile the Pandavas are in good heart,

  as you will learn tomorrow.’”

  Arjuna,

  Wearer of the Diadem, added, “Go,

  gambler’s son, say this to Duryodhana:

  ‘You may think me too compassionate

  to kill Bhishma, when the moment comes.

  I assure you, I shall kill him first;

  pelted by my arrows, he will topple

  from his chariot while you look on, appalled.

  And that is the start. You are about to reap

  the bitter harvest of your wickedness.’”

  VI

  THE BOOK OF BHISHMA

  32.

  THE SONG OF THE LORD

  “How did they fight, those ancestors of mine?”

  asked Janamejaya. Vaishampayana,

  with the blessing of Vyasa, told the king

  how, on the eve of battle, the two sides

  agreed a covenant, a code of conduct,

  rules of engagement properly laid down.

  Warriors should fight their counterparts—

  horsemen against horsemen, infantry

  against opposing infantry. Stragglers

  should not be killed, nor should anyone

  in retreat, or who had lost his weapon,