Mahabharata

by Carole Satyamurti

  launched a fierce assault on Duryodhana.

  Nakula did battle with Vikarna,

  the two warriors fighting as furiously

  as two bulls horn-locked over a herd of cows.

  Bhima fought with Shalya, and with many

  valiant heroes of Duryodhana’s force.

  His roars terrified the troops.

  Drona,

  skilled in the art of reading omens, knew

  this day was inauspicious. He had heard

  the jackals howling, seen the sun obscured

  by a dull crimson mist. The Kauravas

  would not have fortune on their side that day.

  Sensing that Bhishma was in serious danger

  from Arjuna and Shikhandin, Drona sent

  his son and other heroes to protect him.

  Bhishma was fighting like a man possessed;

  his chariot was like a blazing fireball,

  unleashing devastation near and far.

  He was not giving up his power; it must be

  taken from him. His nemesis, Shikhandin,

  managed to wound him, but not mortally;

  he was too well defended. Bhishma laughed.

  He invoked a fiery celestial weapon

  and aimed it at Arjuna, but Shikhandin

  rushed between them, and Bhishma called it back.

  Several times Arjuna, with Shikhandin,

  tried to move closer to the patriarch.

  Each time, he was deflected by a challenge

  from a formidable Kaurava warrior.

  Bhishma battled on but, more and more,

  he felt how futile was the woeful slaughter

  he was engaged in. He was prepared for death.

  Seeing Yudhishthira nearby, he said,

  “This body has become a burden to me.

  If you love me, see that Arjuna

  attempts to kill me soon.” Yudhishthira

  mobilized his forces to converge

  entirely on Bhishma. The Kauravas

  did the same, and the ensuing battle

  was the most terrible of the war so far.

  How did it end? Bhishma knew the Pandavas

  could not be killed with Krishna to protect them.

  Otherwise, he could have used such skill

  as would have defeated them single-handed.

  He thought of the boon given him by his father

  many years before: that he would not die

  except by his own decision—he would choose

  the moment of his death. Now, Bhishma thought,

  the proper time for him to die had come.

  He heard the voices of celestial beings

  —Vasus, his brothers—calling from above.

  “Do as you have decided, best of Bharatas;

  withdraw your mind from violence.” A shower

  of fragrant flowers rained down on Bhishma’s head

  as if to show the approval of the gods.

  The sun was sinking in the western sky.

  Bhishma told his charioteer to drive

  straight into the heart of the Pandava force.

  There he stood, tall, calm and beautiful,

  hands together, bow unflexed by his side.

  He was smiling. Duhshasana was with him.

  Ambidextrous Arjuna, half sheltered

  by Shikhandin, shot with either arm,

  inflicting massive damage. Shikhandin, too,

  shot many arrows into the patriarch

  and destroyed the large and lovely standard

  that, all along, had inspired the Kauravas.

  Bhishma murmured to Duhshasana,

  “I feel the arrows traveling toward me

  in one straight stream; these are not Shikhandin’s.

  My vital organs are being pierced, as if

  by a bolt from heaven—not by Shikhandin.

  These shafts that cut me like the cold of winter

  must come from Arjuna, not from Shikhandin.

  Only he can inflict such pain on me.”

  Now Bhishma, as if in a final gesture,

  as if he could not bring himself to die

  passively, despite his resolution,

  hurled a spear at Arjuna, who blocked it

  and cut it in three pieces. The old warrior

  took up a sword and gold-edged shield, and started

  to climb down from his chariot. Arjuna

  smashed the shield to fragments. Then it seemed

  that the entire army of the Pandavas

  was shouting joyfully and vengefully,

  “Throw him down! Capture him! Cut him to pieces!”

  shooting at Bhishma an arrow shower so dense

  that soon his body was entirely hidden

  by arrows sticking out at every angle.

  His chariot was awash with blood. He staggered.

  He toppled over, headlong, to the ground,

  his head toward the east and, as he fell,

  the earth shook, and everyone who saw him

  screamed, “Bhishma the invincible has fallen!”

  Trumpets and conches blared from your nephews’ side.

  Seeing him fall, the hearts of everyone

  lurched with him. His body did not touch earth

  but was suspended, as if on a bed,

  by his exoskeleton of arrows.

  A shower of rain refreshed him, and he heard

  voices lamenting. Rishis disguised as geese

  flew overhead, crying to one another,

  “Why should this mighty, great-souled warrior

  die here, now, at this inauspicious time?”

  “I am alive,” whispered Bhishma through his pain.

  “I know the sun is on its journey southward.

  I will postpone my death.”

  A strange sound

  filled the battlefield—the sound of stillness,

  of nothing happening. All stood motionless,

  having no appetite for battle now.

  Some wept, some fainted, some extolled Bhishma,

  some cursed the order of kshatriyas.

  The Pandavas were glad, relieved, and yet

  the disappearance of the patriarch

  seemed unthinkable. He has been present

  all their lives—affectionate, wise counselor,

  principal link with the ancestral past.

  When news of Bhishma’s fall reached Duryodhana

  he was stunned beyond all telling, deathly pale.

  Drona could hardly catch his breath, and fainted,

  falling, unconscious, from his chariot.

  Warriors on both sides laid down their weapons

  and clustered around Bhishma. He greeted them,

  then asked that a headrest be found for him—

  his head was hanging down uncomfortably.

  Many fine, luxurious pillows were brought

  but he refused them all. “These are too soft.

  I need a pillow for a hero’s head.

  Arjuna, find me something suitable.”

  Arjuna took up his bow Gandiva,

  consecrated it, and shot three arrows

  into the ground, at just the right height

  to hold up Bhishma’s head. The patriarch

  was pleased, “This is a pillow for a warrior!

  This is how a fallen kshatriya

  should be supported on the field of battle.

  I will rest until the sun is journeying

  toward the north, after the winter solstice.

  Then I will relinquish my last life-breath.”

  Surgeons came, skilled at removing arrows.

  Bhishma honored them, but then dismissed them.

  “I am content. I have reached the highest state

  available to a kshatriya. In time,

  I wish to be placed on a funeral pyre

  and burned with these arrows still in my body.”

  Later, Krishna spoke with Yudhishthira.

  “I rejoice t
hat fortune has favored you,”

  said Krishna. “It is through you and your grace,”

  answered Yudhishthira, “that we succeed.

  With you as our refuge and our guide, nothing

  is impossible!” Krishna smiled at him.

  The following morning, there was no battle.

  Both Pandavas and Kauravas attended

  the son of Ganga. Around his bed of arrows

  throngs of people jostled—the kind of crowd

  that might be gathered at a holy site—

  pushing for a glimpse of the great man.

  The pain from Bhishma’s wounds was agonizing,

  and he burned with fever. “Water! Bring water!”

  Pots of cooling, citrus-flavored water

  were brought at once, but Bhishma rejected them

  and called for Arjuna. The Pandava

  took his bow and, consecrating it,

  shot into the earth a well-aimed arrow.

  Up gushed a fountain of pure, sparkling water

  of heavenly scent and taste. All who saw it

  trembled in awe.

  Bhishma quenched his thirst.

  He praised Arjuna, so that Duryodhana

  heard every word. “Most excellent of warriors,

  performer of feats of which the very gods

  are incapable. Just as the eagle

  is to other birds, as Mount Himavat

  is to mountains, so are you to archers.”

  Then he said to your son, “Listen to me—

  you’ll never defeat this man; even the gods

  together with the asuras could not do it.

  I beg you—make peace with the Pandavas.

  Divide this prosperous kingdom as before.

  Too many brave men have already died;

  think now of the thousands upon thousands

  who could still return to their far-flung homes,

  seeing their wives and children lit by joy,

  who otherwise will sleep their final sleep

  here in the choking mud of Kurukshetra.”

  Having said this, Bhishma became silent.

  To rise above the torture of his wounds,

  he closed his eyes and moved into a state

  of profound meditation. Duryodhana,

  having heard him, frowned, turning away

  like a dying man refusing medicine.

  Later, when the crowds had dispersed, Karna

  went to where Bhishma lay, and sat quietly

  at the patriarch’s feet. Apprehensive,

  choked with tears, he spoke. “Best of Bharatas,

  I am Karna, son of Radha—Karna

  whom you have always looked upon with hate.”

  Slowly, Bhishma opened his clouded eyes

  and reached out to Karna like a father.

  “Come, my young rival, I know who you are—

  Vyasa told me. You are not Radha’s son,

  but Kunti’s. I feel no hatred for you.

  If I have been harsh, dismissive even,

  it was because you were so full of pride,

  so scornful of true worth. I know your virtues,

  your military prowess, your devotion

  to truth, your generosity with alms,

  your loyalty—though it is unfortunate

  that you attached yourself to such company,

  becoming hard and envious yourself.

  You set your face against me—that is why

  I have been harsh. And also to avert

  family discord. But all that is over;

  now I feel only goodwill toward you.

  I only wish that you could find it in you

  to join with your true brothers, the Pandavas.”

  “Bhishma,” said Karna, “that is impossible.

  Having for so long enjoyed the wealth

  and friendship of Duryodhana, I cannot

  betray him now. For him, I will abandon

  my wife, my children, everything I own,

  my life itself. Besides, I have done so much

  to antagonize the Pandavas,

  and I am incapable of giving up

  my fierce hostility to Arjuna.

  I know he is invincible, and yet

  I am resolved to conquer him in battle.

  With a cheerful heart, I shall go to fight him.

  I ask your approval for my enterprise,

  and beg that you forgive me for anything

  I may have said to you—whether from anger,

  brashness or a lack of due respect—

  that gave offense. I beg you, pardon me.

  “Death is not the worst. A kshatriya

  should not die feebly, stewing in his bed.

  I must do what is right.”

  “Go then,” said Bhishma.

  “You shall have my blessing on your choice.

  For years, I have done all within my power

  to prevent this futile war, and I have failed.

  Fight your necessary fight with Arjuna.

  Fight him calmly, with no pride, no anger.

  Through him, you will certainly attain

  the afterlife a kshatriya deserves

  who dies in battle, firm of heart and mind.”

  Karna knelt to receive Bhishma’s blessing.

  Then he went back to Duryodhana.

  VII

  THE BOOK OF DRONA

  37.

  DRONA LEADS THE KAURAVAS

  Janamejaya said:

  “After the great Bhishma was cut down

  and the news was carried to Dhritarashtra,

  how did the blind king survive the sorrow?

  Tell me in detail, Vaishampayana.”

  Vyasa’s disciple spoke:

  Hastinapura. Endless days of waiting.

  For the blind king, life seems to be suspended

  as he sits and waits, waits for Sanjaya

  to come with further news from Kurukshetra.

  He mourns the bitter loss of the great Bhishma—

  how can the Kauravas prevail, deprived

  of the patriarch? They must be floundering.

  But even now, even though Bhishma lies

  dying on his painful bed of arrows,

  Dhritarashtra entertains some hope

  that his son will yet defeat the Pandavas.

  At last Sanjaya arrives with recent news

  and the news is worse than nightmare—great Drona,

  who had succeeded Bhishma as commander,

  has been struck down. The master is no more.

  When Dhritarashtra heard from Sanjaya

  of the death of the supreme weapons master

  his limbs turned to water and he fell

  fainting to the ground. The women with him

  rushed to lift him up, and gently placed him

  on the throne, weeping, fanning him

  until he began to move. When he revived

  he cried to Sanjaya, “Dead? Impossible!

  Greatest of warriors, the man who taught

  generations of fine kshatriyas

  everything they know of the arts of war

  cannot be dead! It must have been some chance,

  some freak accident. Oh, Sanjaya,

  I foresee a time when you and I

  will have to kneel before Yudhishthira

  as abject supplicants with our begging bowls.

  It is clear that, struggle as we may,

  the gods’ design, pitiless time, propels us

  where it will. It is as if I too am dead,

  as if Mount Meru had collapsed, the sun

  fallen from the firmament . . .

  “But tell me

  how it came to this. Who brought himself

  to kill that peerless brahmin? Dhrishtadyumna?

  But why was he not stopped? Why was Drona

  not protected by his friends and allies?

  Yet—who could stand against the might of Krishna

  and those he prote
cts, for he and Arjuna

  are Nara and Narayana incarnate,

  one divine soul split between two bodies.

  Oh, how is my son bearing this disaster?

  What’s to be done? Who has replaced Drona?”

  Seeing that, even now, Dhritarashtra

  was hoping for victory for the Kauravas,

  Sanjaya described the dire events

  that culminated in the death of Drona.

  When Bhishma lay down on his bed of arrows

  never to rise again, the Kauravas

  were utterly bereft. They were like a boat

  foundering far from land on violent seas.

  Their thoughts turned to Karna—he was the hero

  who could save them from terror and defeat!

  “Karna! Karna!” they cried. The driver’s son

  came to them at once. The time had come

  for him to play his part. He addressed the troops.

  “The Kauravas have lost their great protector,

  their pinnacle. If the patriarch, towering

  like a mountain, can be thrown like this,

  should we not reflect on the impermanence

  of all things? Surely all of us are drifting

  toward the jaws of death, all transient.

  Considering this, all that remains is duty.

  Why should we be afraid? I am ready

  to take up the burden left by Bhishma.

  “Bring my bright armor, sparkling with gold and gems;

  heft it onto my shoulders. Bring my fine bow,

  my quivers, my belt patterned like a serpent.

  Bring out my horses, my well-fashioned chariot,

  my standard, adorned with blue lotus flowers.

  I will fight with all my reserves of strength

  in the cause of noble Duryodhana.

  I shall crush his enemies, or else

  I shall sleep soundly on the field of battle.

  Either is honorable.” When they heard this

  the Kauravas, heartened beyond measure,

  sent up a great cheer.

  Then Karna went

  back to the place where Bhishma lay, his eyes

  closed in meditation. A small awning

  had been erected over him, to shield him

  from the sun’s relentless rays. Karna wept

  to see that paragon of mind and spirit,

  that prince of warriors, foremost Bharata,

  reduced to this. Karna approached him humbly

  with joined palms. “It is I again, Karna,

  come to seek encouragement. I know

  the power residing in the Pandavas.

  Who could defeat Arjuna if you,

  with all your skill, all your celestial weapons,

  could not prevail? Yet I must believe