Mahabharata

by Carole Satyamurti

  He joined his two companions. They exulted

  at their good night’s work.

  In that moment

  they felt that the achievement was all theirs.

  Yet, in truth, only because Lord Shiva

  had made them his instrument; only because

  Krishna had allowed it, had they succeeded.

  Effort had joined hands with the gods’ design.

  “But,” asked Dhritarashtra, “if Ashvatthaman

  was capable of such an outstanding feat,

  why did he wait until the war was lost,

  and my son lying helpless on the ground?”

  “It was because he feared the Pandavas,”

  said Sanjaya. “Had your nephews been present

  this great slaughter never could have happened.”

  Sanjaya continued:

  The three hurried back to Duryodhana

  and found him lying as before, attempting

  to repel rapacious carnivores that sidled

  ever closer. His groans of agony

  were fainter now, blood frothing from his mouth.

  The three men wept with pity and outrage

  to see him, wept for you, his bereaved parents,

  who soon would have no sons left in the world.

  “Oh, woe,” said Kripa, “even this great warrior

  is brought down by time. Look, his golden mace

  that has never failed him, that was his friend

  in every battle, is now lying by him

  as a loving wife lies down beside her lord

  when he prepares for sleep. Alas, this prince

  to whom brahmins could always look for food

  will soon himself be food for scavengers.”

  They wiped his bloody face with their bare hands.

  Then they told him all that they had done

  and made him happy. “Blessings on you all!

  You have achieved what even my great Karna,

  even Bhishma, even your own father

  could not accomplish. We will meet in heaven.”

  Having spoken, he gave up his life.

  And at that moment, best of Bharatas,

  the power which, for eighteen endless days,

  enabled me to witness every detail

  of the war, and bring you news of it—

  my divine vision—was suddenly withdrawn.

  Dhrishtadyumna’s driver was the only man

  who had escaped the carnage, slipping past

  Kritavarman in the dark; and he it was

  who brought the dreadful news to Yudhishthira.

  The Pandava fell to the ground in shock.

  The five brothers huddled together, weeping,

  lamenting the loss of all their stalwart sons,

  Draupadi’s children. “Ah!” cried Yudhishthira,

  “if our kinsmen had only been more watchful

  Ashvatthaman never could have breached

  their guard, to murder them so savagely.

  So brave they were! And such outstanding warriors

  that they survived all eighteen days of war—

  only to perish now like helpless sheep.

  They are like travelers who, having sailed

  the treacherous oceans and come back to port

  without mishap, drown in a shallow stream.

  “Now we who were victorious have been vanquished,

  and our defeated enemy has conquered.

  What does victory mean if what it brings

  is the searing loss of all we cherish most?

  Is it not just defeat by other means?

  And how will our beloved Draupadi

  bear this bereavement? How can she survive it?

  Her father already killed; now two brothers

  and all her beautiful, courageous sons!”

  Yudhishthira sent Nakula by chariot

  to Upaplavya, to fetch Draupadi.

  Then, with his other brothers and Satyaki,

  he went to the camp. Seeing crows and vultures

  tearing at the bodies of their children,

  they all collapsed, fainting, on the ground.

  When Nakula brought Draupadi, next morning,

  she hurried to the place where her five sons

  lay lifeless and, crouching, cradled in her arms

  each bloody, mutilated boy in turn.

  “O my precious one, how can I live

  and never see your handsome face again;

  never hear your laughter in the distance;

  never feel the warmth of your strong arms

  as you embrace me?” She rocked to and fro,

  then she, too, collapsed, undone by grief.

  Bhima lifted her. Weeping, shaking,

  she addressed Yudhishthira in anger.

  “I hope you are happy with your victory,

  your capture of the earth. I hope you enjoy her

  after the slaughter of our shining sons,

  the flower of youth, heroic kshatriyas.

  Perhaps you will sleep undisturbed by thoughts

  of Abhimanyu and these other children.

  But I tell you now, Yudhishthira,

  if you do not make Ashvatthaman pay,

  if you do not rip his life from him

  together with the lives of his wicked friends,

  then, starting now, I shall sit and fast to death!”

  “Draupadi,” said Yudhishthira, ashen-faced,

  “all your sons have lost their lives with honor—

  even now, they must be enjoying heaven.

  You should not grieve. You understand dharma.

  You know that the life of a kshatriya

  is shaped for war from earliest infancy.

  As for Ashvatthaman, our spies tell us

  he has fled into the forest, like a cur.

  We shall pursue him with all possible speed,

  but if he is caught and killed as he deserves,

  how shall we prove to you that he has perished?”

  “I have heard,” said Draupadi, “that Drona’s son

  was born with a jewel on his forehead.

  When you bring me that jewel, when I place it

  on your own head, Yudhishthira, only then

  will I decide to live.” She turned to Bhima,

  “Bhima, you have always been our refuge—

  think of Hidimba, and the time you saved me

  from that lustful wretch in Virata’s city.

  Now, wreak vengeance on wicked Ashvatthaman!”

  Bhima seized his bow, mounted his chariot

  driven by Nakula, and galloped off

  along the route taken by Ashvatthaman.

  When Krishna learned of this, he was dismayed

  and said to Yudhishthira, “You should realize

  that you have put your brother in great danger.

  Ashvatthaman has a deadly weapon,

  capable of destroying the whole world—

  the Brahmashiras weapon. Years ago,

  Drona gave that weapon to Arjuna,

  knowing he could be trusted. Ashvatthaman

  was jealous, and kept pestering his father

  to give it to him too. Drona, reluctant

  because he knew his son lacked Arjuna’s

  calmness and discipline, at last gave in.

  ‘But,’ he warned, ‘it never must be used

  against human beings.’

  “Some years later,

  during the time of your forest exile,

  Ashvatthaman came to see me. ‘Krishna,’

  he said, smiling at me, ‘I have the weapon

  called Brahmashiras. I will give it to you.

  Please give me your discus in exchange.’

  He had no idea what he was asking.

  I told him to keep his weapon, but to take

  whatever of mine he wanted. Delighted,

  he seized my discus—but he could not lift it,

  try as he might. Then I said
to him,

  ‘Ashvatthaman, even Arjuna,

  foremost of warriors, wielder of Gandiva,

  he who is my dearest friend on earth,

  he to whom there is nothing I would not give,

  even my wives and children—Arjuna

  has never asked of me what you just asked.

  My precious son Pradyumna, my dear brother

  Balarama, my cousins, my close kin

  have never asked of me what you just asked.

  Tell me—what use would you make of it

  if I gave you my discus?’ He replied,

  ‘I was going to fight you with it—then

  I would be the world’s greatest warrior.’

  That’s how wrongheaded Ashvatthaman is!

  He is very cruel, impulsive, angry—

  and he has the Brahmashiras weapon.

  Bhima must be protected.”

  Immediately

  Krishna leapt onto his chariot, yoked

  to superb horses garlanded in gold.

  Above him flew his celestial standard,

  bright with gems, depicting the fierce eagle,

  Garuda, enemy of snakes. Arjuna

  and Yudhishthira sprang up beside him.

  This swiftest of all chariots caught up

  with Bhima, but failed to stop him charging

  toward Ashvatthaman.

  Drona’s son

  had sought refuge in Vyasa’s hermitage.

  The Pandava party tracked him down at last

  sitting piously beside the Ganga

  dressed from head to foot in brahmin’s garb,

  surrounded by Vyasa and other seers.

  Bhima roared, “Stand up and fight, you villain!”

  and the ground shuddered as he advanced.

  Ashvatthaman quickly called to mind

  his dreadful weapon. He picked a blade of grass

  and inspired it with the proper mantras.

  “For the destruction of the Pandavas!”

  he cried, and then the blade of grass became

  a raging furnace.

  “Arjuna,” urged Krishna,

  “it is time to use that celestial weapon

  given by Drona, to neutralize all weapons.”

  Arjuna jumped down, lifted his bow,

  and, speaking softly, wished well to Drona’s son

  as well as to his brothers and himself.

  With his mind on the welfare of all beings,

  he prayed aloud: “May Ashvatthaman’s harm

  be neutralized by this!” He loosed his weapon.

  It seemed as though the entire universe

  was consumed by flame; thunder roared

  and meteors crashed to earth. The whole world trembled.

  Then the great rishis Narada and Vyasa

  spoke up angrily. “What kind of rashness

  is this?” they exclaimed. “Bhishma and Drona,

  who knew such weapons, never mobilized them

  in battle, even when faced with their own death.”

  Arjuna agreed to withdraw his weapon.

  “But if I do, Ashvatthaman’s weapon

  will destroy us and the three worlds. O rishis,

  you must find some way to protect us all.”

  To withdraw such a powerful weapon

  was almost impossible. Only one

  who had observed extreme austerity,

  who had gone through the discipline and vows

  of a devout ascetic, had the power.

  Arjuna was such a man; he withdrew

  his weapon. Ashvatthaman could not do it.

  His weapon was directly dedicated

  to the destruction of the Pandavas.

  Vyasa reproved him, “Although Arjuna

  could have used his weapon before this,

  he has never done so, out of concern

  for the innocent who would be harmed by it.

  You must call your dreadful weapon back.

  And give that jewel of yours to the Pandavas

  that they may spare your weak, misguided life.”

  “This jewel,” said Ashvatthaman, “is more precious

  than all the combined wealth of the Bharatas.

  He who wears it will never suffer fear.

  Holy one, although I hate to lose it,

  I will obey you. But I am powerless

  to stop the Brahmashiras. All I can do

  is to redirect it into the wombs

  of the Pandava wives, killing their offspring

  and making them barren.”

  “Then you must do it,”

  said Vyasa.

  Krishna addressed Ashvatthaman.

  “Once, a brahmin at Virata’s court

  told Uttaraa, Abhimanyu’s widow,

  that she would bear a son, called Parikshit,

  a son to carry forward the Bharata line.”

  “That will not happen,” shouted Ashvatthaman,

  “however much you love the Pandavas!”

  “I assure you, this will indeed come true,

  despite your weapon. I shall see to it,”

  said Krishna. “As for you, accursed wretch,

  you will bear the fruit of your sinful acts.

  Infamous as the murderer of children,

  for three thousand years you will walk the world

  a joyless outcast, afflicted by disease,

  with no soul to talk to, passing your days

  in gloomy forests and dreary desert tracts.

  Parikshit, well schooled in the Vedas,

  practicing pious vows, skilled with all weapons,

  will rule in righteousness for sixty years.”

  “Let it be so,” said Vyasa. “Ashvatthaman,

  this is what comes of living out your life

  as a kshatriya, despite your brahmin birth.”

  Grim-faced, Ashvatthaman gave his jewel

  to the Pandavas. Without a word, he turned

  and slowly walked away among the trees

  to begin his solitary banishment.

  The Pandavas rode back to Draupadi

  where she sat, fasting. Bhima said to her,

  “This jewel is yours. The murderer of your sons

  has been defeated. Grasp life again. Recall

  kshatriya dharma. Think of those words of yours

  when we were in the forest, how you said,

  ‘Since the king wants peace, I have no husband.’

  You wanted war, you thirsted for revenge.

  Now we have slaughtered every Kaurava.

  I have drunk Duhshasana’s blood, avenging

  that villain’s act in violating you.

  We have exacted full dues from our foes.

  We let Ashvatthaman keep his life,

  out of respect for our teacher, his dead father,

  and because he is a brahmin. But that life

  will hardly be worth living.”

  Draupadi said,

  “I only wished for adequate revenge

  for all our injuries; that we have obtained

  in full measure—and at terrible cost.

  Now, despite my grief, I shall cease my fast.

  I wish well to the teacher, and his son.

  Bind this gem on your head, Yudhishthira.”

  The king did so, seeing it as a gift

  from his dead teacher.

  Later, he asked Krishna,

  “How could our sons, mighty kshatriyas,

  have been easily killed by Ashvatthaman

  whose skills were much inferior to theirs?

  And valiant Dhrishtadyumna? And Shikhandin?

  How could that have happened?” Krishna explained

  that Shiva had afforded his protection

  to Ashvatthaman. “Those who died perished

  through Shiva’s power; they were the great god’s share

  of the sacrifice that was the bloody war

  of Kurukshetra.” And he then described

  Shiva’s con
tribution to creation.

  Their talking went on far into the night.

  XI

  THE BOOK OF THE WOMEN

  46.

  DHRITARASHTRA’S GRIEF

  “After all was lost,” said Janamejaya,

  “what did Dhritarashtra do? And what

  did wise Sanjaya say to the blind king?”

  Vaishampayana said, “I will tell you . . .”

  Having lost all who were dearest to him,

  what could the father of a hundred sons

  do now? What kind of life remained to him?

  So rich in children only a month before,

  his line secure, a treasury of sons

  to keep his memory alive, he now

  stood destitute, as though they had never lived.

  He was reduced to a stupor of distress.

  His blind eyes leaked and dripped like a cracked cistern;

  his soft hands trembled uncontrollably.

  Sanjaya was stern. “Why do you sit there

  self-absorbed, weltering in misery?

  Grief, feeding greedily on itself,

  never brought any good. Do something useful—

  see that all those fathers, husbands, sons,

  all those kings and followers whose flesh,

  thanks to you, now mixes with the mud,

  at least receive the proper funeral rites.

  Enough self-indulgence!”

  “Unfeeling man,

  you are too severe!” moaned Dhritarashtra.

  “I’m like a husbandman who has long watched

  his orchard grow, mature and bear ripe fruit,

  who now has all his sturdy trees destroyed

  by lightning and the howling desert wind.

  Oh, I am like a blasted tree myself,

  one that in its scanty sap preserves

  a longing for the green that once played round it.

  I shall be broken-hearted until death.

  “And, in addition, I have lost my kingdom.

  How can you expect me not to grieve?

  I had the best advice—I took no notice.

  Now I have paid. A curse on my bad judgment.

  I must have done great wrong in previous births—

  I don’t remember. I suppose it’s fate.

  Was ever a man more unfortunate?”

  Sanjaya was unmoved. “Never mind ‘previous’—

  you’ve had enough shortcomings in this life

  to explain your woe. When Duryodhana

  swaggered about in his youthful pride

  you offered him encouragement, not sense.

  You failed to show him the path of principle.

  Nothing but war would do for that foolish man.

  Seduced by the splendor he had promised you,

  you were greedy, too avid for gain.