Mahabharata

by Carole Satyamurti

  together with elephants and cavalry.

  The battle was fierce at first, but gradually,

  having been in the field throughout the day

  and into the night, both armies lost their verve

  and were drooping with weariness, staggering

  blind with sleep around the field. Arjuna

  decided that the Pandava troops should rest

  and Drona called a halt for the Kauravas.

  Some lay down on the backs of elephants,

  some on chariots, but most collapsed

  on the bare ground, sleeping like the dead,

  or as if they lay upon their lovers’ breasts.

  The full moon rose, cool as a white lily,

  casting a silver light, dispelling darkness.

  Misty at first, its light grew ever brighter

  until the field stood out in stark relief.

  It woke the troops, who stretched their limbs, yawning,

  then made ready to resume the fight.

  Duryodhana was tense and discontented.

  He spoke to Drona in a peevish tone:

  “We should have attacked while they were sleeping

  but you were kind to them, and now—you’ll see—

  they’ll rise up even stronger. You always act

  for their benefit, and not for mine.

  With your mastery of celestial weapons

  you could finish off their entire army

  at a stroke; and yet you favor them.”

  Drona grew angry. “It would be ignoble

  to use such weapons on the rank and file,

  yet even this I am prepared to do

  for your sake. But you forget Arjuna.

  You forget that, once he is roused to fight,

  no one can overcome him.”

  “That’s fear talking,”

  scoffed Duryodhana. “Karna and I

  together with Duhshasana and Shakuni

  will kill Arjuna today.”

  “Good luck!”

  said Drona scornfully. “Only a fool

  would talk as you do. But by all means try it!

  Fight with the foremost hero of the Pandavas

  and die as a virtuous kshatriya.”

  Dawn was breaking on the fifteenth day.

  The opal sky was reddening in the east

  and soon the sun, like a great copper disc,

  lifted itself above the far horizon

  and cast its image on the nearby river,

  the river that reflects experience

  in its quiet waters, that witnesses

  joys and tragedies, triumphs and horrors,

  and keeps them to itself, flowing onward

  imperturbably toward the sea.

  Sunlight fell on the carnage of the night,

  on bodies pitiful in death, their attitudes,

  even their faces, strangely similar

  as if, already, they had been reduced

  to mere substance, meat for scavengers.

  Sunlight fell on Karna’s radiant face

  while he stood deep in prayer, as every morning.

  Now he knew who his true father was

  he worshiped him with even more devotion.

  Sun fell on the diminished infantry

  as each man too, his hands joined together,

  made obeisance to the lord of light.

  Hungry, thirsty, they rubbed their aching limbs

  and grumbled to each other. Yet already

  they were looking round for their commanders,

  shouldering their weapons, their blood stirring

  in anticipation of heroic deeds.

  Useless to list each and every duel.

  It was as if the war was a kind of dance

  where partners changed in endless combinations

  and squared up to each other, jeering, wounding,

  but often with an inconclusive outcome.

  Drona focused on the Panchalas

  and killed three of Drupada’s brave grandsons.

  Enraged, Drupada, backed by Virata,

  unleashed an assault on his old enemy.

  With a couple of well-directed arrows,

  Drona killed them both. Then Dhrishtadyumna,

  shaking with grief and rage, uttered this vow:

  “May the merit of all my piety

  be lost to me; may I be consigned to hell

  if I do not send my father’s murderer

  to the realm of Death before this day is out!”

  A major battle centered around Drona

  with Dhrishtadyumna leading the Pandavas

  and Drona reinforced by Duhshasana.

  It was a fair fight; no improper means

  were used on either side—no poisoned arrows,

  or ones with rusty tips, or barbs, or ones

  with many-pointed heads, or made of bone,

  or arrows that pursued a crooked course,

  awkward to extract. Bhima grew angry

  at the lack of progress, and he charged

  through the enemy lines, making for Drona

  although he was protected.

  Duryodhana,

  seeking to give support to Drona, joined in

  and was about to fight with Satyaki

  when a sudden memory struck him—childhood,

  when he and Satyaki were the dearest friends.

  They paused and gazed at one other, smiling.

  “A curse on war, my friend,” said Duryodhana,

  “a curse on anger, folly, greed, revenge!

  We were dear friends once, yet here we are,

  aiming our deadly weapons at each other.”

  “That was then,” said Satyaki with a laugh.

  “We are no longer playing around in school;

  we’re warriors now.”

  “Where did those times go?”

  said Duryodhana, “and how did this war

  overtake us? It seems we can’t escape

  the web of time.”

  “That’s how it’s always been,”

  Satyaki said. “We are kshatriyas

  and warfare is our way. If I am dear to you

  kill me at once, and I shall happily

  proceed to the realm where virtuous warriors go.

  I do not like to see this tragedy—

  friends murdering friends.” Then the Vrishni

  launched into an attack on Duryodhana.

  The two wounded each other bitterly

  yet still they smiled, and still they fought each other.

  Karna rushed to support Duryodhana,

  but Bhima blocked him.

  Then Yudhishthira

  urged the Panchalas and the Matsyas

  to attack Drona together. They fought hard

  but Drona so fiercely staved off their attack

  that soon they had to go on the defensive,

  struggling against defeat. Arjuna,

  who could have pressed his teacher hard, held back

  from fighting all-out with him.

  “Come, Arjuna,”

  said Krishna, “things are serious. What we need

  is rather less scruple, much more stratagem.

  Drona cannot be overcome in battle

  but if his son were dead, then, I think,

  he would not fight. Therefore, let someone tell him

  that Ashvatthaman has been overcome.”

  Neither Yudhishthira nor Arjuna

  liked this plan. But Bhima took his mace

  and killed a mountainous bull elephant

  named Ashvatthaman, with one blow to the head.

  “Ashvatthaman has been killed!” he yelled.

  Drona heard, and his head swam with the shock.

  But then he thought, “This must be a false report.

  Ashvatthaman is too skilled a warrior

  to be overcome.” And he renewed

  his powerful assault on Dhrishtadyumna,

  though without success.

>   He was desperate

  to obliterate the Panchalas.

  He invoked the Brahma weapon, becoming

  a whirlwind of destruction, killing thousands

  of Panchalas with that celestial astra.

  To direct a weapon of mass destruction

  at ordinary mortals was unrighteous,

  as Drona knew. There appeared before him

  a group of rishis from the celestial realm

  who censured him. “Drona, you are a brahmin,

  well versed in the Vedas, devoted to truth.

  It ill becomes you to act so cruelly.

  Your time on earth is very nearly over;

  lay down your weapons.”

  Drona was chastened.

  He thought again of the voice he had heard shouting

  in triumph: “Ashvatthaman has been killed!”

  Knowing Yudhishthira would not speak untruth,

  he called to him, “Tell me, is my son no more?”

  Krishna spoke quietly to the Pandava:

  “Drona is quite capable of destroying

  your entire army. To prevent that

  you know what you must say. To speak untruth

  in order to save lives is not a sin.

  Do it, Yudhishthira!” Reluctantly,

  but earnest in his longing for victory,

  Yudhishthira called back, “Ashvatthaman

  [the elephant] is indeed dead!”

  Until now,

  Yudhishthira’s chariot had always glided

  a handsbreadth off the ground. After this deceit

  it became earthbound.

  Drona was seized

  by profound despair. He felt ashamed

  of what he had done with the Brahma weapon.

  Now, he almost lost his mind with grief

  at the loss of Ashvatthaman. Dhrishtadyumna,

  who had long thirsted after Drona’s life

  to avenge the insult to his father,

  rushed forward with his blazing bow drawn back

  and aimed at Drona. “Yield, wicked brahmin,

  I was born to kill you!”

  Drona rallied

  to resist the Panchala, but his weapons

  would not obey him as before. Nonetheless,

  he tried. He still had much of the old skill,

  and made things difficult for Dhrishtadyumna.

  The battle became general. But the Panchala,

  with fixed resolve, was dodging around Drona,

  sword in hand, now leaping on his chariot shafts,

  now darting beneath the horses—a marvelous

  sight to see.

  Drona was reckless now.

  He rushed into the thick of the Pandavas

  knowing that he would die, indifferent,

  inflicting enormous harm on all around.

  And always Dhrishtadyumna followed him,

  mounted on Bhima’s chariot. “Quick, my friend,”

  said Bhima, “no one but you can kill the teacher.”

  Then Bhima, grabbing Drona’s chariot shaft,

  said, “Drona, you have abandoned dharma.

  Although you are a brahmin, you have pursued

  the calling of a kshatriya, for gain,

  and for your only son—who now lies dead

  somewhere on the field. You should be ashamed.

  Because of men like you, kshatriyas

  are being exterminated.”

  Hearing this,

  Drona laid down his bow and other weapons

  and, seated on his chariot, composed himself

  in yoga, in profound meditation.

  As he sat, seemingly still alive,

  his soul was liberated from his body

  and traveled to the domain of the blessed.

  Some men saw his spirit flying upward

  like a meteor, merging with the firmament.

  Dhrishtadyumna, unaware of this,

  took his sword and raised it high in triumph.

  Although the Pandavas cried out in horror,

  he hauled the seated Drona from his chariot,

  grabbed the old man’s hair, cut off his head

  and flung it on the ground contemptuously

  in front of the Kauravas, who backed away

  in dread. And when they looked for Drona’s body

  they could not find it among the headless trunks

  lying in their thousands all around.

  Bhima roared and slapped his arms like thunder.

  Leaderless, the Kaurava foot soldiers,

  seized by terror, weeping, fled the field,

  scattering like a flock of frightened birds.

  Each intent on saving his own life,

  men stumbled wildly over one other,

  and animals, infected by the panic,

  stampeded, so that many men were trampled

  or crushed, or sliced in half by chariot wheels.

  Many crowded round Duryodhana

  seeking direction, but he was so shocked

  he was incapable, and turned away.

  Even Karna and Shakuni took flight.

  “The Kauravas are totally destroyed!”—

  that was the cry everywhere. The troops

  dropped their weapons and armor as they ran,

  convinced they would not now be needing them.

  In a far part of the field, Ashvatthaman,

  fighting still, caught sight of the main army

  fleeing headlong, and he was astonished.

  He ran to Duryodhana. “What’s happening?

  I’ve never seen the men behave like this.”

  Duryodhana could not bear to tell him.

  Kripa, weeping, forced himself to speak.

  “Ashvatthaman, your father is no more.

  He was fighting against the Panchalas,

  and his troops were suffering many casualties.

  So then Drona invoked the Brahma weapon

  and killed the enemy by the thousands—

  he was fighting like a fit young warrior,

  not like the ancient brahmin that he was.”

  Then Kripa told him the entire story.

  Ashvatthaman almost lost his senses

  with grief and rage. He cursed Yudhishthira

  for his duplicity. Then he attempted

  to console himself, knowing that his father

  was now certainly in the heavenly realm.

  Then he became distraught again, to think

  that Drona had died undefended, while he,

  the son who should have been his father’s mainstay,

  his principal protector, was elsewhere.

  But he railed most against Dhrishtadyumna:

  that he, a former pupil of his father,

  could have treated Drona so brutally.

  He swore revenge on all the Panchalas.

  He swore revenge on all the Pandavas.

  He swore that he would use celestial weapons,

  of which he, like his father, was a master,

  to grind his enemies into the dust.

  Hearing these brave words from Ashvatthaman,

  the Kauravas were heartened, and began

  again to gather weapons, fasten armor,

  harness horses to the chariots, prepared

  to rally to the banners of their chiefs.

  At a distance, the Pandavas picked up

  the sounds of battle-readiness, and wondered

  who would lead the Kaurava forces now.

  “It must be Ashvatthaman,” said Arjuna.

  “Protecting Dhrishtadyumna will be hard,

  but we must try. The brahmin must have heard

  how his father was unrighteously killed

  after he had laid aside his weapons.

  Dhrishtadyumna was wrong. I tried to stop him

  but not hard enough, and for this fault

  I’m overcome with shame.” Bhima was furious,

  “You sound like a hermit living in the woods,


  or like some priest! You are a kshatriya!

  The task of a kshatriya is to rescue

  others from harm. That means he must also

  protect himself. You sound like an ignoramus.

  You have done nothing you should be ashamed of.

  Fix your mind on all the humiliations

  we endured at the hands of Duryodhana.

  We went into this war to be avenged,

  yet now you seem half-hearted, almost scared

  of what Ashvatthaman can throw at us.

  Well, I am not afraid. If necessary,

  I can destroy that brahmin single-handed!”

  Dhrishtadyumna, too, vented his anger

  at Arjuna. “Answer me this! Name me

  the six duties of a brahmin. I’ll tell you—

  performing sacrifices, teaching, giving,

  assisting at sacrifices, receiving gifts,

  and study. Which of these did Drona follow?

  He was too occupied with martial skills

  to observe the dharma of his own order.

  He himself acted shamefully; he was killed

  by trickery—what’s wrong with that? I killed him,

  but I was born expressly to avenge

  the insult that man offered to my father.

  He used the Brahma weapon improperly.

  Why should he not be killed by any means

  available to us? Why, you killed Bhishma

  through strategy. You should be offering

  congratulations, not reproaching me.

  I have only one regret—that I did not,

  instead of throwing his gray head on the ground,

  toss it among the dead untouchables!”

  There was a shocked silence. No one spoke.

  Then Krishna’s cousin Satyaki burst out,

  “Is no one going to strike this evil man

  for what he just said? As if his sinful act

  were not bad enough! You say that Bhishma

  has been killed by Arjuna. But in fact

  Bhishma’s death will be of his own choosing,

  and Shikhandin was the true instrument.

  Wretched Panchala! Just let me hit you

  with this mace, and you can return the stroke—

  if you’re still standing!”

  Dhrishtadyumna smiled.

  “Strong words, Satyaki, but I forgive you.

  Reflect on all the wrongs the Pandavas

  have suffered at the hands of the unrighteous

  Duryodhana. Just think about the death

  of Abhimanyu. On this side of the balance

  there is Drona and, yes, the defeat of Bhishma.

  But sinfulness cannot always be countered

  by narrow virtue. Ends justify means.

  Being yourself unrighteous, nonetheless

  you would rebuke those of us who are honest.

  You are a sinful wretch from head to toe.