Mahabharata

by Carole Satyamurti

  How will we two, an aged couple, live

  destitute of children? And how will I,

  who have been king myself, now bend the knee

  as a mere lowly slave to Yudhishthira?”

  Krishna became aware, through intuition,

  that Ashvatthaman, still alight with anger

  at the manner of Drona’s death, was plotting

  an attack on the Pandavas and their friends.

  He took hasty leave of the royal couple

  and quickly traveled back to the battlefield,

  to join his cousins on the riverbank.

  After Krishna’s departure, Dhritarashtra

  turned to Sanjaya. “What did my son say

  after he had fallen to the ground,

  felled by Bhima?”

  “Sir,” said Sanjaya,

  “he asked me to tell you, his sorrowing parents,

  that he regrets nothing. He has lived his life

  as a kshatriya should; and he has died

  in unfair fight, and in full confidence

  of heavenly reward. He feels for you

  and for his sister, and fears for your fate.”

  “Tell me what happened then,” said Dhritarashtra.

  “Your son’s surviving friends,” said Sanjaya,

  “learned that Duryodhana was lying helpless.

  Quickly, they came to him, and were enraged

  and grief-stricken to hear how he had been

  cut down unrighteously. Writhing in pain,

  drenched in blood, that tiger among men

  looked like a wounded beast, dusty, disheveled.

  Ashvatthaman broke down in tears to see him.

  ‘Death comes to us all,’ whispered Duryodhana.

  ‘Do not grieve for me. I am fortunate.

  I have never swerved from the true path

  of a kshatriya. I shall be rewarded.

  You all strove to your utmost, but destiny

  cannot be thwarted.’

  “Ashvatthaman cried,

  ‘It is not over! The dastardly Panchalas

  murdered my father. But, even more than that,

  I burn with rage at what has been done to you.

  I swear that before dawn, in Krishna’s presence,

  I will send your enemies to Yama’s realm.

  Bless my intention, Duryodhana.’

  “Your son, highly pleased, asked for water

  and had Kripa consecrate Ashvatthaman

  as commander. Drona’s son embraced

  Duryodhana, and the three survivors—

  Kripa, Kritavarman and Ashvatthaman—

  left him lying there to pursue their mission.”

  X

  THE BOOK OF THE NIGHT ATTACK

  45.

  MASSACRE BY NIGHT

  Sanjaya continued:

  The three companions set out toward the south.

  The sun was low, the air slowly cooling,

  and as they neared the enemy camp, they heard

  sounds of rejoicing and loud merriment,

  raucous singing, and the bray of trumpets

  that froze their hearts with dread. Probably

  Dhrishtadyumna, Drona’s murderer,

  was drinking with his friends.

  Night came on.

  The firmament was luminous with stars,

  like an expanse of beautiful brocade.

  Skirting the camp, they found a gloomy wood,

  dense with tangled vines, and hid in it

  to rest in the shelter of a banyan tree.

  Wounded and exhausted as they were,

  they lay down to sleep. But Ashvatthaman

  could not settle—not for the hard ground,

  but for thinking about Dhrishtadyumna,

  and of the manner of Drona’s cruel death.

  He, Ashvatthaman, had unfinished business:

  to avenge the father who had given him life.

  The Panchala’s death should be his by right.

  Anger was a tight knot in his chest.

  Looking around, he saw a nearby tree

  where a gang of crows was roosting, huddled up,

  their heads under their wings. Then, silently,

  a huge, yellow-eyed owl glided down

  and set about killing the sleeping birds

  (for owls are the mortal enemies of crows),

  tearing off wings, snapping necks and legs,

  so bloody fragments splattered on the ground

  encircling the tree. The monstrous owl

  appeared well satisfied with the night’s work.

  Ashvatthaman, struck by what he saw,

  began to think what he might learn from it.

  Surprise was everything. Those crows felt safe,

  sleeping on their perches. Ashvatthaman

  knew there was no possibility

  that he could overcome his enemies

  in a fair fight—if he attacked openly

  he would be foolish as a mindless insect

  cremating itself in a candle flame.

  Yet—if he could catch them unawares . . .

  He woke his uncle Kripa, and Kritavarman

  and explained his plan—to kill the enemy

  as they lay sleeping. “That would only be

  the natural consequence of what they’ve done,

  grossly flouting dharma, and now—hear that—

  carousing in their camp without a care!”

  Kripa replied, “I’ve listened to what you say;

  now hear what I think. All outcomes are produced

  both by divine will and human effort.

  Success does not come through the gods’ will alone,

  nor by effort only, but both together.

  We work to till the soil and plant the seed

  and heaven sends rain—or else it does not.

  Some foolish people, seeing a well-tilled field

  parch for lack of rain, conclude that effort

  is a waste of time. The wise know better—

  effort usually bears fruit, but sloth

  never does. The man who prepares the ground

  and then worships the gods, seeking their blessing,

  cannot go wrong.

  “The wise also know this:

  that a man who consults his elders, listens,

  and follows their advice may well succeed.

  One who, moved by his desires and passions,

  ignores the elders often comes to grief.

  That is what happened to Duryodhana;

  he would not drop his stubborn sinfulness

  and now we all suffer. This calamity

  has stupefied my mind. I think we should ask

  Dhritarashtra, Gandhari and Vidura

  their view of your proposal. We should follow

  their advice—and if we should not succeed

  in whatever course they set us on,

  then it must be the gods who will decide.”

  Ashvatthaman answered impatiently:

  “When we are young, matters look different

  from how they seem in old age. Surely, then,

  all we can do is follow our own judgment,

  shaped by the circumstances of our lives.

  I was born a brahmin, but through ill fortune,

  and the decisions taken by my father,

  I find myself living as a kshatriya.

  I cannot go back. I have to take the path

  my father—and you, uncle—trod before me.

  “I am proud to be a warrior, and tonight

  I shall carry out my plan. Before long

  the Panchalas, with wicked Dhrishtadyumna,

  will have shed their armor, unyoked their horses,

  and settled to what they think is well-earned sleep.

  I shall kill them all!”

  “Wait until morning,”

  urged Kripa. “I am very glad to hear you

  so set upon revenge. But at daybreak,

&
nbsp; when we are rested, all three of us can rise,

  don our armor and attack the Panchalas.

  I have celestial weapons; so do you.

  We’ll have the great advantage of surprise

  and, united as we are, we shall surely win

  and you will dance like the blessed Indra

  after his slaughter of the asuras!

  But for now, we should bide our time and sleep.”

  Ashvatthaman’s eyes were red with anger.

  “How? There are four impediments to sleep—

  rage, grief, desire and an overactive mind.

  Any one of these will baffle sleep;

  I suffer from all four! No, I’ve decided.

  I cannot bear another hour lying here,

  my guts twisting, thinking of my father,

  and of Duryodhana, so vilely killed.

  My plan is good, and I shall act on it.”

  “It is my view,” said Kripa, “that a person

  in the grip of passion is in no state

  to understand what’s right and wrong behavior.

  Listen to me, son, do not act rashly.

  Slaughter of sleeping persons is unrighteous.

  The same applies to those who are unprepared

  for battle, who have laid aside their weapons.

  So far, your life has been exemplary;

  if you commit this shocking act, it will be

  like a splash of blood on pure white cloth.”

  “You may be right, uncle,” said Ashvatthaman.

  “I want to act well, but the Pandavas

  have made a mockery of righteousness

  time after time. Why don’t you censure them?

  My mind’s made up. And if I am reborn

  as a worm, or some other lowly creature,

  so be it. Dhrishtadyumna slew my father

  as if he were a sacrificial beast.

  Today I’ll do the same to him—in that way

  he’ll not attain the heaven reserved for heroes

  who die in battle.”

  Having little choice,

  his two companions fastened on their breastplates

  and followed Ashvatthaman toward the camp.

  As they walked along, their doubts dissolved

  and they began to glow with rage and fervor

  like ritual fires well nourished with ghee.

  Arriving at the camp gate, Ashvatthaman

  saw a towering figure in the way,

  a terrifying vision. He blazed with light,

  and round his hips was draped a tiger’s hide

  dripping with blood. For his upper garment

  he wore the skin of a black antelope.

  A snake was wound around his upper arm.

  Thousands of lovely eyes adorned his face

  and flames seemed to be leaping from his mouth

  from which sprang innumerable Krishnas

  each holding a conch, a discus and a mace.

  The whole sky seemed imprinted with his image.

  Fearless Ashvatthaman shot showers of arrows

  at the being and, finding those useless,

  continued his attack with spear and sword,

  with mace and dagger—struggling, battling

  with every ounce of strength, until at last

  all his weapons were exhausted. Still

  the huge presence barred his way, unmoved.

  Panting with impotent rage, mystified,

  Ashvatthaman thought of Kripa’s words.

  Perhaps this was a sign that if he blundered

  off the path of dharma, he would become

  lost in a trackless wilderness of sin.

  Perhaps the gods would frustrate all his efforts.

  “Yet I have also heard, the worst misery

  afflicts a man who, out of fear, abandons

  a great goal he has set out to achieve.

  On the other hand, would this apparition

  be blocking me unless I were meant to fail?

  What can I do? I can’t fight divine will.”

  He walked about, despondent, indecisive,

  until at last his mind turned to Lord Shiva

  and he resolved to seek the god’s protection.

  He stood, hands joined in reverence, head bowed,

  and prayed to Shiva, speaking his many names.

  A golden altar sprang up in front of him

  on which a blazing fire crackled and spat,

  a fire that seemed to spread across the sky

  and fill the universe. And then a vision

  of every kind of creature, every species

  of unearthly being seemed to appear,

  some terrible, some lovely beyond words—

  headless monsters, rough-skinned pachyderms,

  malevolent sprites, and female deities

  so beautiful it made him gasp to see them.

  These beings roared, muttered, groaned, and sang

  hymns of surpassing sweetness, praising Shiva.

  They had come to honor Ashvatthaman,

  to test the quality of his resolve—

  and to be present for the coming carnage.

  Ashvatthaman faced the flaming altar.

  “O Lord Shiva, accept me as sacrifice,”

  he prayed, “accept my most sincere devotion!”

  And the son of Drona walked into the fire.

  A tremor in the air, a rushing wind,

  and the great god Shiva stood before him,

  smiling. “None is dearer to me than Krishna.

  For him, I have protected the Panchalas.

  But their time has now run out.” And with that,

  Shiva gave a sword to Ashvatthaman

  and entered his body. At once, the brahmin

  was filled with energy. There was nothing

  he could not accomplish!

  Kritavarman

  and Kripa were waiting for him. They agreed

  that Ashvatthaman would enter the camp alone

  while the other two would guard the gates,

  killing anyone who sought to flee.

  Unafraid, but walking cautiously,

  Ashvatthaman stole into the camp.

  All was silent. It was the darkest hour.

  Knowing where to go, inspired by Shiva,

  he found his way to Dhrishtadyumna’s tent.

  Before him lay the prince of the Panchalas,

  sprawled on linen sheets scattered with fragrant flowers.

  He woke him with a kick, and Dhrishtadyumna

  knew him at once. Ashvatthaman seized him

  by the hair, wrenched his head back and ground his throat

  beneath his foot. The Panchala fought, struggled,

  tearing at Ashvatthaman with his nails,

  but the brahmin’s arms were the arms of Shiva.

  “Kill me with a weapon!” cried Dhrishtadyumna,

  “so I can reach the heaven reserved for heroes.”

  “Villain! There is no heaven for such as you,

  one who kills his teacher!” And Ashvatthaman,

  with naked strength alone, butchered his victim

  as a sacrificial animal is killed.

  The violent noise woke Dhrishtadyumna’s guards

  but they froze, appalled at what they saw.

  At the sound of screams and women’s shrieks,

  the whole camp was thrown into a panic,

  men shouting, running wildly in the dark

  not knowing where the danger was, or who—

  man or ogre—was attacking them.

  Elephants ran wild, horses stampeded

  raising dust, deepening the darkness.

  Some men grabbed swords and, seized by mortal terror,

  lunged at anything that moved. In this way

  Panchala caused the death of Panchala.

  Ashvatthaman stalked along the paths

  and alleys of the camp, entering tents,

  swiftly slaughtering every warrior<
br />
  he found, with the sword Shiva had given him.

  Many hundreds died. Drona’s vengeful son,

  emissary of death, showed no mercy.

  The flaming energy and fiery zeal

  of fire-born Dhrishtadyumna had entered him.

  More than a man, more, even, than a god,

  it was violence personified that whirled,

  howling in triumph, through the camp that night.

  Learning of the death of Dhrishtadyumna,

  the five courageous sons of Draupadi

  were amazed. “This never could have happened,”

  they exclaimed, “if our fathers had been here!”

  They tracked down Ashvatthaman, and began

  to shower him with arrows. Drona’s son

  rushed at them with his celestial sword

  and killed all five, one after another,

  with hideous disfigurements. Shikhandin

  pierced Ashvatthaman in the forehead

  and was rewarded by being split in two.

  Next, all the young Panchala princes

  were massacred with Shiva’s blazing sword,

  among them, Drupada’s remaining grandsons.

  Some men, by chance, managed to reach the gateway

  and ran out, sobbing with relief—to find

  Kripa and Kritavarman ready for them.

  Most were unarmed, having sprung bewildered

  from their beds. They quickly met their deaths.

  The assassins lit fires in three places,

  which quickly spread, encircling the camp

  with flame, making it even easier

  for Ashvatthaman to do the thorough work

  of the sacrifice, mad with blood-lust.

  Violence and time. This holocaust

  was like the entire Kurukshetra conflict

  compressed. On many nights during the war

  men had dreamed they saw a dark-skinned crone,

  embodiment of all-destroying time,

  smeared with red, her mouth agape, her eyes

  seeping blood. In her hand she held a noose,

  or halter perhaps, for leading men away.

  This dreadful goddess now appeared to them

  in solid form. They knew her for what she was:

  their hideous escort to the afterlife.

  The sky began to lighten. In the east,

  streaks of orange and red grew ever brighter.

  At last the camp was hushed, inhabited

  only by corpses and by carrion-eaters

  slinking among the shadows, getting bolder.

  Ashvatthaman walked out of the gate,

  his clothes caked with blood, and the bloody hilt

  of Shiva’s great sword stuck fast to his hand.

  He was at peace. At last he had assuaged

  the wracking grief he had felt for Drona’s death.