Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (46 page)

were fourteen of Duryodhana’s brothers.

Abhimanyu and the sons of Draupadi

supported him, as he wiped out an entire

elephant division, inexorable

as death personified, his mace swinging,

dripping with blood and flesh. The dead animals

looked like a range of hills, and their riders

lay slumped over their necks, like fallen trees.

Meanwhile Dhrishtadyumna, Satyaki

and Ghatotkacha killed tough adversaries.

Then Duryodhana rallied his divisions

to attack Wolf-belly, and succeeded

in smashing him into unconsciousness.

Seeing this, the powerful Ghatotkacha

flew to his father’s aid, wild with fury.

Master of sorcery, he took the form

of a monster, riding a giant elephant.

He engaged with Bhagadatta; and Bhishma,

seeing that Bhagadatta was struggling,

called a halt for the day. The Pandavas

surged back to their camp in exultation.

Dhritarashtra sighed. “Oh, Sanjaya,

you tell me constantly about the Pandavas,

how splendid their skill, how immense their courage,

etcetera, etcetera—how is it

that you never give me a grain of comfort,

never speak of my poor son’s success?

Is there no end to the sorrow I must bear?

I feel as if I’m foundering in an ocean

with only my two arms to bear me up.”

“Your memory is selective, majesty.

But it is true that you will have to hear

the dire consequences, as they unravel,

of your weakness, greed and faulty judgment.”

Dhritarashtra was pacing up and down,

restless and fearful. At last he burst out,

“The Pandavas are indulged by the gods—

luck favors them, or perhaps it is some trick.

We have always been unfortunate.”

“Not luck, not tricks,” said Sanjaya, “but virtue

favors them. Simply—they are in the right.

Your sons are sinful; and victory favors

the righteous.

“Now I shall describe to you

how the war continued. But, out of pity,

I shall spare you some of the worst details.

As the relentless killing goes on and on,

day after day, I shall conjure for you

only the main events—though I could make you

listen to stories of such suffering

as would detain us for a hundred years

and still there would be more to tell, and hear.

Think of all time’s patient increments

that go to make a single human life;

and think about the casual waste of it—

that, O king, multiplied by millions,

is what your fatal failures have achieved.”

Duryodhana, grieving for his brothers,

went to Bhishma. “How can this have happened?

You, Drona . . . so many great warriors,

well armed, well prepared, are fighting with us—

your joint prowess is unparalleled.

Yet the Pandavas ride all over us.

Explain all this to me.”

“What is the point,”

said Bhishma, “of explaining it to you

when I have tried so very often before?

For the final time—it will be impossible

for you to overcome the Pandavas

while Krishna Vasudeva is their guide.

He is Narayana, lord of the universe,

born in human form to protect the earth,

to rid it of its demon infestation;

and Nara, his companion, is Arjuna.”

Bhishma told Duryodhana the story

of how, once, in a meeting of the gods,

Brahma had begged the supreme lord, Vishnu,

to take birth in the human world, to save it

from the demons who were oppressing it.

Vishnu consented, and was born as Krishna,

Yadava prince. And Bhishma recited

an ancient hymn of praise to the supreme lord.

Duryodhana began to feel a deepening

respect for Krishna and for the Pandavas.

Bhishma went on, “He blesses his devotees.

The ignorant take him for a mere mortal.

You should know the dark one for who he is,

and realize you never will defeat him,

nor those whom he protects. Do what is right,

otherwise you will certainly be destroyed.

Truth and wickedness are at war within you.

To save yourself and all the loyal warriors

who have pledged themselves to you—pull back!

Give the Pandavas their half of the kingdom

and live in harmony.”

But Duryodhana

made no reply. To give up at this point

was impossible, however many died,

however many brothers he would lose.

However much he knew, knew increasingly,

that he could never win, Duryodhana

grimly refused to countenance this knowledge,

and banished it, like a dreaded messenger

he could bury in his mind’s deepest recess.

He listened in silence. Then the two warriors

went their ways, and retired for the night.

On the fifth day, Bhishma arrayed his men

into the form of a huge crocodile.

The army of the Pandavas was a hawk

with giant wings outspread. At its beak

rode Bhima. Shikhandin and Dhrishtadyumna

were its eyes, and Arjuna, with Krishna,

rode at its neck, his celestial bow

held high so his troops could see it, and take heart,

his monkey banner flying fierce above him.

At first, in the ensuing battle, Bhishma

grasped the initiative, but then the Pandavas,

led by Bhima, penetrated deep

into the mouth of the crocodile array,

inflicting horrifying casualties.

In agitation, Duryodhana called

to Drona: “Guruji! You wish me well.

Bend every effort to defeat the Pandavas—

I rely on you.” Straight away, Drona

rushed at Satyaki, Krishna’s kinsman,

and fought him furiously. Then Bhima joined them

and soon the greatest warriors of both sides

were drawn into a skirmish so confused

that the spectators on the nearby hill

and the gandharvas watching from the sky

could not distinguish one side from the other.

Bodies and limbs were scattered everywhere

adorned with ornaments—glittering jewels

once buried in Golconda’s lavish mines

or scooped from deep under the Himalaya

now re-mingled with the reddened earth.

The choking dust cleared slightly. Arjuna

could be seen rushing against Bhishma,

with his bow
Gandiva
like a lightning flash

cutting through dark clouds in the firmament.

His arrows showered down on the Kauravas

and men and animals became confused.

Vast elephants plucked drivers from their chariots

and thrashed them against the ground repeatedly

as if they were broken branches, hair tossing

like leaves, until they were formless pulp.

Many duels between the greatest warriors

took place that day, in the midst of chaos.

Just before night, Satyaki, mighty warrior,

having killed ten thousand Kauravas,

was forced into retreat by Bhurishravas.

Immediately, Satyaki’s ten sons

leapt forward to challenge him. “Bhurishravas,

fight with us now, singly or together.

Whoever wins will achieve great renown.”

“I’ll fight and kill the lot of you at once,”

said Bhurishravas. And, indeed, he did,

bringing burning sorrow to their father.

The day came to an end with the slaughter

of twenty-five thousand Kaurava troops.

They had been sent forward by Duryodhana

with the objective of killing Arjuna

but before they could come close enough

to aim at him, they were utterly consumed

by the scorching onslaught of the Pandava.

At sunset, fighting finished for the day

and the armies of both sides withdrew.

During the hours of darkness, the two camps

were silent. There was no carousing now.

The men were too exhausted by their struggle,

their part in the rolling juggernaut of war

that held them in its vast machinery.

Now, they slept. Only the bark of jackals,

the muffled footfalls of the night sentries,

were heard.

But as dawn broke on the sixth day

a hum arose, that grew to busyness

and then swelled into a cacophony.

No fear, no hesitation, no dark thoughts.

Only resolve, and exhilaration

as the armies girded themselves for battle:

the clash of armor plates being fastened

around restless elephants and horses,

conches braying, cymbals, drums beating,

marching feet forming up for battle

into their vast arrays.

The Pandavas

formed as a crocodile; the Kauravas,

a crane. Then, with embroidered standards flying,

parasols raised over chariots,

the two armies set upon each other

and soon inflicted large-scale loss of life.

All this Sanjaya told Dhritarashtra.