Mahabharata

by Carole Satyamurti

  that Kunti should be brought news of his death.

  He knew she would then come to the battlefield

  and tell his brothers who he really was.

  He asked a second boon. In his life,

  he had been unable to gain the merit

  of feeding others, since no one would want

  hospitality from a driver’s son.

  He asked Krishna that in his next birth

  he should have that chance. Krishna blessed him

  and granted his wish.

  Sanjaya went on:

  When Karna fell, the fighting was suspended

  and warriors of both sides gathered round

  in disbelief. Some of them were awestruck,

  some were fearful, others sorrowful,

  sobbing in grief, according to their natures.

  The Pandavas were wild with exultation.

  They blew their conches, shouted, waved their arms

  and flapped their garments, dancing in delight.

  Bhima roared and slapped his arms in triumph.

  Arjuna, his vow fulfilled, relinquished

  hostility for Karna. Yudhishthira

  felt he had been reborn, and had to look

  and look again at the body of the man

  he had so long feared. “What good fortune,”

  he exclaimed, “has today delivered

  victory! Krishna, today I have become

  king of the earth, together with my brothers,

  and it is thanks to you.”

  Duryodhana’s troops,

  in disarray, milled around aimlessly

  like horses without riders, or like boats

  bobbing directionless on a choppy sea.

  Grim, sorrowful, Shalya drove Karna’s chariot,

  now freely moving, away from the scene of death.

  Duryodhana was shocked past all expressing.

  Tears poured from his eyes. But seeing his men

  leaderless, he gathered his resolve

  and rallied them. Then, for a little while,

  battle resumed between the two armies.

  Many of the warriors fled the field.

  Duryodhana fought bravely, and attempted

  to bring them back. “What is the use of running?

  The Pandavas will pursue you everywhere.

  Better to fight bravely and die with honor.”

  Reluctantly, with faces pale as ash,

  the men turned, and obeyed your son’s command.

  Shalya turned Duryodhana’s attention

  to the hideous sights of the battlefield:

  the bloody corpses of men and animals,

  the chaos of war’s paraphernalia.

  “You yourself are the cause of all this horror.

  The sun is hanging low over the hills;

  let the troops retire for the night.”

  Later, Duryodhana gave way to grief.

  “Alas, Karna! Alas!” he cried, and stood

  weeping beside his friend, who lay surrounded

  by hundreds of gently glowing oil-filled lamps.

  IX

  THE BOOK OF SHALYA

  44.

  DEFEAT FOR DURYODHANA

  “Tell me what happened after the death of Karna,”

  said King Janamejaya. “I never tire

  of hearing of my ancestors’ great deeds.”

  Vaishampayana continued to recite

  island-born Vyasa’s epic poem.

  After hearing of the death of Karna,

  Dhritarashtra spent his time in dread,

  braced for the most crushing news of all.

  It was not long coming. Sanjaya arrived

  stumbling, trembling, weeping as he approached,

  to tell him, first, of the deaths of Shalya

  and Shakuni. Then, that his last son,

  his cherished Duryodhana, his first-born,

  had fallen, felled by Bhima!

  So appalling,

  so harrowing was the news that the whole court

  collapsed unconscious from the shock of it—

  as if they themselves, in sympathy,

  embraced Earth in the final swoon of death.

  Slowly, they revived, speechless with distress.

  “Ah!” wept Dhritarashtra, “this heart of mine

  must be made of adamantine rock

  that it does not shatter in my breast!

  But I always knew this day would come,

  cursed with the eyesight of insight as I am.

  “When sly Shakuni tricked Yudhishthira,

  trapped in the ill-fated gambling match—

  then, Sanjaya, I lost hope of victory.

  When Draupadi was dragged into the hall

  and treated like a common prostitute—

  then, Sanjaya, I lost hope of victory.

  When I heard that Arjuna had obtained

  the Pashupata weapon from Lord Shiva—

  then, Sanjaya, I lost hope of victory.

  When I was told that Duryodhana

  had been saved from gandharvas by Arjuna—

  then, Sanjaya, I lost hope of victory.

  When I heard that Krishna was supporting

  the Pandavas in this horrific war—

  then, Sanjaya, I lost hope of victory.

  And when I heard that Bhishma had fallen—then,

  then, Sanjaya, I lost hope of victory.

  “And yet, Duryodhana, my most loved boy,

  how confident you were of victory.

  You described to me our powerful allies,

  how they would dedicate their lives and wealth

  to your cause. How Krishna would not fight.

  How the Pandava force was dwarfed by ours.

  So I imagined the Pandavas would die.

  Now, thinking of the death of all our heroes,

  and all my sons—what can this be but fate?

  “Oh, come back to me, my Duryodhana,

  prince of princes, so loving, so proud-hearted!

  How could you abandon me in my blindness?

  Who will be my refuge in my old age?

  Who will greet me when I wake, calling me

  ‘lord of all the world’? Who will embrace me,

  who will love me now? How could you die

  with so many strong kings to protect you?

  So many brave men slaughtered for your sake,

  and all five Pandavas alive, unharmed!

  What else can this be but the work of fate?

  There is nothing left for me in this life

  but to pass my last days in the forest.

  “Tell me how it came about, Sanjaya.

  What happened after Karna had been killed?”

  Sanjaya continued his narration.

  In the evening of the seventeenth day,

  a deputation went to Duryodhana

  led by Kripa, urging the stubborn prince

  to sue for peace. Duryodhana refused.

  “I understand you speak to me as friends,

  but your suggestion is impossible.

  What we have done to harm the Pandavas

  has lit a fire that cannot be extinguished

  while I live. How can they forgive us?

  Even if they could (I know Yudhishthira

  is compassionate), how could I exist

  beholden to the Pandavas? I have lived

  as a prince on my own terms; I have ruled

  righteously—my household is well cared-for,

  I have been generous and just. I have conquered

  many kingdoms. Now nothing remains

  but to die fighting gloriously in battle—

  an end befitting a kshatriya.

  Only through death can I discharge my debt

  to those brave warriors who have died for me.

  I cannot preserve my life fully aware

  that they have given theirs to serve my cause.

  And what kind of life could I enjoy,

  bereft of b
rothers, kinsmen, friends, my kingdom—

  knowing that every breath I draw, I owe

  to Yudhishthira? No! I who have been

  lord of the earth will make my way to heaven

  by fair fight. It will not be otherwise.”

  At dawn next day, Shalya was consecrated

  as commander. He mounted his chariot,

  its battle standard bearing a golden furrow,

  and made a speech to his diminished forces.

  The Kaurava troops cheered and beat their drums.

  Compared with the uproar on the war’s first day,

  the warriors’ shouts rang thin and pitiful.

  But still, those who were left were in good heart.

  The two armies marched out. Battle began.

  Unnecessary for every dreadful detail

  to be rehearsed in full. I need only say

  that, by the time the sun had reached its zenith,

  the war that pitted cousin against cousin

  was at an end. Almost every Kaurava

  was stretched out dead or dying on the field.

  At first, Shalya had seemed unbeatable,

  a powerhouse of destruction. But Yudhishthira,

  having the end securely in sight, perhaps,

  fought the Madra king ferociously

  and after a lengthy duel, fairly fought,

  he cut down Shalya. This was the opponent

  Krishna had marked out for him to kill,

  his personal share of the victory.

  The ruler of the Madras, arms outstretched,

  fell facedown, embracing his own shadow,

  clinging to the earth like a dear beloved.

  The Pandavas cheered, “Now that Shalya’s dead

  Duryodhana’s fortune has deserted him!”

  The Kaurava troops fled; the Pandavas

  flew after them. Then turning, rallying,

  the Kauravas fought back. Duryodhana

  was backed by Shalva, chief of the mlecchas,

  who inflicted damage on the Pandavas,

  mounted on a great war elephant

  of quite exceptional strength and bravery.

  The elephant attacked the chariots

  of many warriors, snatching them up like toys,

  dashing them onto the ground in splinters.

  But Satyaki, with Bhima and Shikhandin,

  managed to head it off, and Dhrishtadyumna

  gave it the coup de grâce with his heavy mace

  and then cut off the head of the beast’s master.

  Dhritarashtra and Gandhari listened,

  their faces drawn, their eyes brimming with tears

  as Sanjaya described what happened next.

  Duryodhana fought with despairing courage,

  the way a man fights standing on the brink

  of oblivion. Almost all his brothers

  had been killed by now. His remaining wish

  was for this catastrophe to finish,

  but finish in a blaze of bravery.

  Arjuna, too, was eager for the end.

  He still marveled that Duryodhana

  had chosen war, despite the good advice

  he had received from all his counselors,

  listening instead to Karna—as if born

  to bring about the destruction of the world.

  Now, hurling himself into the midst

  of the enemy, Arjuna fought on.

  He encountered the rump of the Trigartas

  and killed them all, with their king, Susharman.

  Sahadeva slaughtered Uluka, then

  Uluka’s father, Shakuni the gambler,

  after a bitter fight with every weapon,

  parting his head cleanly from his shoulders.

  His troops fled in confusion, but Duryodhana

  shouted, “Turn back! Face the Pandavas!”

  Bhima attacked your few remaining sons

  until Sudarsha, the ninety-ninth brother,

  was felled. Duryodhana’s great fighting force

  was finished, almost down to the last man.

  Just three great chariot warriors remained—

  Kripa, Ashvatthaman and Kritavarman.

  “How many were left of the Pandava force?”

  asked the blind king.

  “Two thousand chariots,

  seven hundred elephants, five thousand horses

  and ten thousand troops, led by Dhrishtadyumna.”

  “And what did my Duryodhana do then?”

  Sanjaya went on:

  Duryodhana, his chariot smashed beneath him,

  took his mace and fled on foot toward

  a lake some distance off. The lake was called

  Dvaipayana. The words of Vidura

  came back to him—his wise uncle had known,

  long ago, how events would turn out,

  even before the fateful, fatal dice game.

  He was blind with tears. I followed him

  but, on the way, encountered Satyaki

  and Dhrishtadyumna. “No point in sparing this one,”

  said the Panchala, jeering. Satyaki

  raised his sword and was about to kill me

  but Vyasa appeared and stayed his hand.

  After I had given up my weapons,

  Satyaki, laughing, sent me on my way.

  I hurried after Duryodhana

  and found him weeping. “Sanjaya,” he said,

  “tell my father that I have nothing left,

  nothing in the world worth living for.

  I shall immerse myself in this deep lake.”

  Then, by enchantment, making himself a space

  deep within the lake, and sealing the surface,

  Duryodhana sank and disappeared from view.

  Presently, I encountered Kritavarman

  approaching with Kripa and Ashvatthaman,

  bringing their horses to the lake to drink.

  I told them what Duryodhana had said

  and pointed out the place where he had vanished

  beneath the water. “Alas!” sighed Ashvatthaman,

  “Perhaps he did not know we were still alive.

  The four of us could have fought on, even now.”

  The three companions and I went back to camp.

  The whole place was in panic. In muddled haste,

  everything was being dismantled—tents

  taken down, equipment roughly bundled

  and loaded onto carts. Duryodhana’s wives,

  sobbing and terrified, were setting off

  back to the city with their aged servants.

  Scared by rumors of Pandava reprisals,

  even local farmers left their fields

  and hurried toward the city for protection.

  Yuyutsu, who had fought for the Pandavas,

  now set off to return to Hastinapura,

  anxious for your welfare. He met Vidura,

  who was overjoyed to see him. “Thank the gods,

  Dhritarashtra has one son still alive

  to give him comfort in his terrible grief!”

  Duryodhana’s three remaining friends

  hid beside the empty Kaurava camp,

  and watched as Yudhishthira and his brothers

  came looking for Duryodhana, searched the site

  but, failing to find him, went to their own camp.

  Once the Pandavas had gone, the three men

  hurried to the lake, and called the prince.

  “Come out, Duryodhana, and fight the Pandavas.

  The four of us can take them by surprise

  and quickly overcome them.” Duryodhana

  answered from the depths of the lake. “My friends,

  I thank you, but this is not the time to fight.

  You are tired, and I am badly battered.

  Tomorrow, for sure, we’ll fight the enemy.”

  Ashvatthaman tried to change his mind.

  “If I do not kill our enemies

  this very night,�
� he cried, “then may I never

  enjoy the fruits of my pious sacrifices.”

  It happened that some hunters were nearby,

  men who had been bringing Bhima baskets

  of fresh meat every day. They overheard

  the conversation and, anticipating

  a fat reward, they approached the Pandavas.

  Bhima and his brothers were delighted

  and relieved to have news of Duryodhana.

  Word spread quickly, and Yudhishthira,

  with a group of followers, rode out

  toward the seemingly deserted lake.

  Their chariot wheels caused the earth to tremble

  and Duryodhana’s three friends, in alarm,

  knowing the prince was safe, crept quietly

  behind a tree a little distance off,

  where they settled down to rest for a while.

  The Pandavas arrived at the lakeshore.

  “That wretch is skulking underneath the water

  by some trickery,” said Yudhishthira.

  “No one can reach him. But he won’t escape me!”

  “Ways and means,” said Krishna. “Against tricksters

  you have to use trickery of your own—

  that is how the gods themselves have conquered

  slippery enemies. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Duryodhana!” Yudhishthira called out,

  “Why are you hiding like a low criminal?

  Because of you, an entire generation

  of noble warriors has been wiped out,

  yet you seek to preserve your worthless life.

  Come out and fight! You are a kshatriya!

  Furthermore, you are a Bharata.

  People speak of you as a great hero—

  you’ve always boasted of your bravery.

  But here you are, lurking in fear, avoiding

  the battle you yourself have brought about.

  All these days, you have seen your friends and kinsmen

  slaughtered in your cause, yet you thought yourself

  immortal. How little you understand!

  Where is your pride? Where is your courage now?

  Do your duty, man, come out and fight.”

  Duryodhana replied from the lake’s depths.

  “You are wrong. I am not afraid of you.

  I did not leave the battle to save my life.

  I was alone, wounded, without a chariot,

  deprived of driver, weapons, followers.

  For this reason only, I wanted rest—

  not from fear, or grief, only fatigue.

  Why don’t you yourselves rest for a while.

  Then I shall certainly rise up from this lake

  and fight—and destroy every one of you!”

  “We have rested enough,” said Yudhishthira.