Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (48 page)

Bhishma disposed his troops in a square array,

himself in the front rank. Yudhishthira

rode at the head of the Pandava army

flanked by his brothers and by Abhimanyu.

As the armies surged toward each other

accompanied by all the din of war

dreadful portents were noticed all around:

the sun was dimmed, winds blew, huge birds of prey

hung over the field with raucous screams.

The elephants and horses, sensing menace,

rolled their eyes, and pissed and shat in terror.

Each side longed for today to be decisive;

they were sick of deadlock. Abhimanyu,

with all the energy of youth, sprang forward

and, like a swimmer entering the ocean,

plunged deep among the Kauravas, advancing,

dealing death on every side of him.

All who saw him marveled at his skill.

Duryodhana sent in the rakshasa

Alambusha to attack the sons of Kunti.

The Pandavas severely wounded him

so he became unconscious for a while.

But, recovering, the ogre roared with pain

and rage, swelling to twice his normal size,

and destroyed the bows, standards and chariots

of many of the Pandava ranks, forcing

their withdrawal. Swiftly, Abhimanyu,

slim and agile, challenged the bulky monster

and the fight that followed was like the one

between the gods and demons in ancient days,

illusion pitched against celestial weapons

and sheer martial skill.

At last, Alambusha,

pierced with many arrows, created darkness,

reducing the whole field of men to blind,

stumbling impotence. Calm and undeceived,

Abhimanyu invoked the solar weapon,

bringing brilliant sunlight. Then the ogre,

his tricks exhausted, gave up the fight and ran.

Exhilarated, Abhimanyu turned

back to attack the Kaurava battalions,

killing men by the thousand.

Now, Drona

and Arjuna were fighting one to one.

How could they do this with a firm intent,

summon the resolve to inflict harm,

when they had been so dear to one another?

The warrior code was paramount, outweighing

every tie of loyalty and love.

So it was that they perfectly displayed

the highest pinnacle of martial craft,

and each admired the skill shown by the other.

Meanwhile, Bhishma was heavily engaged

with waves of Pandavas, whom he dispatched

with ease, though Virata and Drupada

pierced him with many arrows. Dhrishtadyumna

also wounded him, and then Shikhandin

shot more than twenty arrows into him.

Bhishma’s blood flowed, but though he destroyed

Drupada’s bow and wounded Dhrishtadyumna

he ignored Shikhandin. Duryodhana

ordered reinforcements to shield Bhishma—

thousands of horsemen led by Shakuni—

which, wounded though he was, enabled him

to inflict more harm. In the general battle

which followed, bewildered men and animals

ran around, aimless, looking for direction,

as bodies were dashed, bleeding, to the ground,

heaped up, to be crushed by chariot wheels

and trampled by milling troops. It was soon clear

the Pandava force was disintegrating

under Bhishma’s strong, relentless onslaught.

Krishna cried to Arjuna: “Your vow!

The time has come for Bhishma to be killed,

before he utterly destroys your army.

Make your words true!” Arjuna looked anguished.

“The alternatives seem terrible to me—

to end up in hell, or win the kingdom

by killing those whom I should honor most.

Nevertheless, guided by you, I’ll do it.”

Krishna drove the chariot forward. Bhishma

let loose at Arjuna a stream of arrows

and Arjuna aimed, deflecting all of them

and splitting Bhishma’s bow. The patriarch

quickly strung another, but Arjuna

smashed that one too. “Very well done!” cried Bhishma,

and taking another finely crafted bow,

he rained Arjuna’s chariot with arrows.

Krishna, with great skill, avoided them

as he steered the horses round in circles.

The exchange continued, more like a display

than a fight to the death. Keen-eyed Krishna,

perceiving that Arjuna was holding back

while Bhishma was so ruthlessly attacking

the Pandava troops, could no longer bear it.

For the second time, leaping from the chariot,

whip in hand, only bare arms for weapons,

Krishna rushed furiously toward Bhishma

and all who saw him gasped, as if Bhishma

were dead already. Krishna looked beautiful,

his yellow silk robes streaming out behind him

as he ran, his smooth skin dark and glowing

like lapis lazuli. When Bhishma saw him

he raised his bow and, with a fearless heart,

said, “I am ready. Strike me down in battle

and I shall die in tranquillity and joy.”

But Arjuna grabbed Krishna and held him back,

seething as he was with rage. “Stop, Krishna!

I will not let you make your vow untrue—

this burden is mine, and mine alone.

I swear I will do whatever it may take

to destroy the enemy.” Without a word,

angry still, Krishna remounted the chariot.

Bhishma resumed his battle with the Pandavas,

inflicting death on an enormous scale,

creating panic and the wildest chaos

until, as evening came, they fled the field

like confused cattle, floundering in mud.

The troops found no protector on that day.

In the Kaurava camp, there was rejoicing.

Bhishma was worshiped for his feats. Calmly

he retired to his tent in solitude.

The Pandavas had been put to rout. Grieving

at the loss of so many brave warriors,

Yudhishthira called his generals together.

All were despondent at the day’s events.

Yudhishthira was in despair. “Oh, Krishna,

I am the cause of all these tragic deaths.

Bhishma is unbeatable—he crushes men

as an elephant tramples a bamboo grove.

He is like a fire licking up dry grass.

I value life; I am wasting it.

Tell me what I can do, within the bounds

of the duty laid upon me by my rank.”

Krishna said, “I understand your sorrow.

But Bhishma is not invincible. Arjuna

has greater skills in war than other men;

he can kill Bhishma if he will decide to,

or, if he is reluctant, I will do it.

I am your friend and kinsman—natural, then,

that I should fight for you. But Arjuna

swore to us in Upaplavya, that he

would kill Bhishma—the time to act is now,

if he wishes not to be called a liar.

It is a question of resolve, not skill.”

Yudhishthira agreed. “But listen, Krishna,

I do not want to be responsible

for causing you to break your vow. Your presence

is priceless to me. You will not need to fight.

Before the beginning of this dreadful war,

Bhishma told me he could not fight for me,

but he could advise me. The time has come

to speak to him again. He was our father

when we came fatherless to Hastinapura.

Even now, I believe he wishes us well.”

After divesting themselves of their armor,

Yudhishthira and his brothers, with Krishna,

walked to Bhishma’s tent. Bhishma received them

lovingly, and with the greatest joy,

asking them in what way he could serve them.

Yudhishthira said, “Grandfather, you know

everything. You stand high on your chariot

radiant as the sun. Today, your skill

brought devastation to our troops. Tell me,

how may we defeat you?”

“While I am alive,”

said Bhishma, “you cannot obtain victory,

so you should strike me down without delay

and save yourselves days of useless carnage.

This is what you must do. I will not fight

in inauspicious circumstances, therefore

I will not fight Shikhandin, for the reason

that you know. Let Arjuna advance

toward me, with Shikhandin in front of him.

He may then attack me—I shall be defenseless.

Then, only then, your victory will be certain.”

Grateful, sorrowful, the Pandavas

returned to their own camp. The Terrifier

felt even more tormented than before.

To be responsible for Bhishma’s death

on the advice of the old man himself

seemed to him unbearable. “I remember

how I used to climb onto his lap

and dirty his clothes in my thoughtlessness,

yet he never said a reproachful word.

I used to call him
Father
, and he would say,

Not your father, child, but your father’s father.

How can I kill this man who nurtured me,

who is so dear to me? I cannot do it!”

“You have to do it, Arjuna,” said Krishna.

“You made a vow—you must do your duty

as a kshatriya, acting without malice

and without grief. Besides, all these events

are preordained. Bhishma himself knows this.”

Sanjaya described the tenth day of the war:

Soon after dawn, O king, the Pandavas

advanced toward the enemy, to the din

of drums and trumpets, shouts, the bray of conches:

the sounds of warriors thirsting for the fight.

Shikhandin rode out in front, ably guarded

on either side by Arjuna and Bhima.

Close behind came rank upon rank of warriors,

men in their thousands, armor flashing fire,

formed into well-disciplined battalions.

The Kauravas were led by mighty Bhishma,

protected by the sons of Dhritarashtra.

Battle was joined, a vigorous attack

from each side, leaving many hundreds dead

within the first half hour. The Pandavas

seemed at first to have the upper hand

but Bhishma, full of energy, then launched

a savage onslaught, scorching the division

led by Shikhandin, who in turn let fly

dozens of arrows, many piercing Bhishma.

Bhishma laughed, “You can do what you like,

I will never fight you. You may call yourself

a warrior, but be sure I know you still

as the woman the Creator made you!”

Shikhandin, mad with rage, replied, “Bhishma,

fight me or not, I swear to you this day

will be your last!” Saying this, he pierced

Bhishma in the chest with five straight arrows.

But the noble son of Ganga merely shrugged.

“Shikhandin, you must strain every sinew,”

cried Arjuna, “or you’ll be a laughingstock!

You
must
kill Bhishma. I will keep at bay

the great Kaurava chariot warriors

coming to his defense. Do it now!”

Arjuna led the Pandavas in aiming

a storm of arrows at where the Kauravas

were least well protected. Many thousands

were cut down, and others put to flight,

scattering randomly across the field.

Duryodhana, in great distress, cried out,

“Bhishma! My troops are flying like headless birds,

despite your skill. You are their only hope.”

“Listen,” said Bhishma, “I made you a promise

that I would kill ten thousand Pandava men

every day. This I have done. Today

either I myself will die in battle,

or I will slaughter the brave sons of Pandu.

Either way, I will discharge my debt

for the food I have consumed at your expense!”

Bhishma renewed his attack like one inspired,

like one who had cast off his life already.

The arc of his bow was a perfect circle.

He shone, resplendent as a smokeless flame,

seeming to be everywhere at once,

dazzling all who saw him. Hundreds and thousands

of the Panchalas led by Drupada

fought their last fight. Elephants and horses

by the thousand were reduced to carcasses.

Arjuna advanced toward Bhishma,

Shikhandin in front of him—but then was stopped

by Duhshasana. They fought. Your son

was a worthy match for Arjuna. Both men

are great chariot warriors and, at first,

Duhshasana held back the Pandava

as a cliff might stand against the raging sea.

He wounded the son of Kunti in the head.

Furious, Arjuna split your son’s bow,

then hit him with a torrent of sharp arrows.

Duhshasana fought like a true hero

despite his many wounds, but Arjuna

beat him back, and at last he retreated

to help protect the patriarch’s chariot.

The day wore on. There were many duels

between opposing heroes. Abhimanyu,

dark like his uncle, tall as a shala tree,

launched a fierce assault on Duryodhana.

Nakula did battle with Vikarna,

the two warriors fighting as furiously

as two bulls horn-locked over a herd of cows.

Bhima fought with Shalya, and with many

valiant heroes of Duryodhana’s force.

His roars terrified the troops.

Drona,

skilled in the art of reading omens, knew

this day was inauspicious. He had heard

the jackals howling, seen the sun obscured

by a dull crimson mist. The Kauravas

would not have fortune on their side that day.

Sensing that Bhishma was in serious danger

from Arjuna and Shikhandin, Drona sent

his son and other heroes to protect him.

Bhishma was fighting like a man possessed;

his chariot was like a blazing fireball,

unleashing devastation near and far.

He was not giving up his power; it must be

taken from him. His nemesis, Shikhandin,

managed to wound him, but not mortally;

he was too well defended. Bhishma laughed.

He invoked a fiery celestial weapon

and aimed it at Arjuna, but Shikhandin

rushed between them, and Bhishma called it back.

Several times Arjuna, with Shikhandin,

tried to move closer to the patriarch.

Each time, he was deflected by a challenge

from a formidable Kaurava warrior.

Bhishma battled on but, more and more,

he felt how futile was the woeful slaughter

he was engaged in. He was prepared for death.

Seeing Yudhishthira nearby, he said,

“This body has become a burden to me.

If you love me, see that Arjuna

attempts to kill me soon.” Yudhishthira

mobilized his forces to converge

entirely on Bhishma. The Kauravas

did the same, and the ensuing battle

was the most terrible of the war so far.

How did it end? Bhishma knew the Pandavas

could not be killed with Krishna to protect them.

Otherwise, he could have used such skill

as would have defeated them single-handed.

He thought of the boon given him by his father

many years before: that he would not die

except by his own decision—he would choose

the moment of his death. Now, Bhishma thought,

the proper time for him to die had come.

He heard the voices of celestial beings

—Vasus, his brothers—calling from above.

“Do as you have decided, best of Bharatas;

withdraw your mind from violence.” A shower

of fragrant flowers rained down on Bhishma’s head

as if to show the approval of the gods.

The sun was sinking in the western sky.

Bhishma told his charioteer to drive

straight into the heart of the Pandava force.

There he stood, tall, calm and beautiful,

hands together, bow unflexed by his side.

He was smiling. Duhshasana was with him.

Ambidextrous Arjuna, half sheltered

by Shikhandin, shot with either arm,

inflicting massive damage. Shikhandin, too,

shot many arrows into the patriarch

and destroyed the large and lovely standard

that, all along, had inspired the Kauravas.

Bhishma murmured to Duhshasana,

“I feel the arrows traveling toward me

in one straight stream; these are not Shikhandin’s.

My vital organs are being pierced, as if

by a bolt from heaven—not by Shikhandin.

These shafts that cut me like the cold of winter

must come from Arjuna, not from Shikhandin.

Only he can inflict such pain on me.”

Now Bhishma, as if in a final gesture,

as if he could not bring himself to die

passively, despite his resolution,

hurled a spear at Arjuna, who blocked it

and cut it in three pieces. The old warrior

took up a sword and gold-edged shield, and started

to climb down from his chariot. Arjuna

smashed the shield to fragments. Then it seemed

that the entire army of the Pandavas

was shouting joyfully and vengefully,

“Throw him down! Capture him! Cut him to pieces!”

shooting at Bhishma an arrow shower so dense

that soon his body was entirely hidden

by arrows sticking out at every angle.

His chariot was awash with blood. He staggered.

He toppled over, headlong, to the ground,

his head toward the east and, as he fell,

the earth shook, and everyone who saw him

screamed, “Bhishma the invincible has fallen!”

Trumpets and conches blared from your nephews’ side.

Seeing him fall, the hearts of everyone

lurched with him. His body did not touch earth

but was suspended, as if on a bed,

by his exoskeleton of arrows.

A shower of rain refreshed him, and he heard

voices lamenting. Rishis disguised as geese

flew overhead, crying to one another,

“Why should this mighty, great-souled warrior

die here, now, at this inauspicious time?”

“I am alive,” whispered Bhishma through his pain.

“I know the sun is on its journey southward.

I will postpone my death.”

A strange sound

filled the battlefield—the sound of stillness,

of nothing happening. All stood motionless,

having no appetite for battle now.

Some wept, some fainted, some extolled Bhishma,

some cursed the order of kshatriyas.

The Pandavas were glad, relieved, and yet

the disappearance of the patriarch

seemed unthinkable. He has been present

all their lives—affectionate, wise counselor,

principal link with the ancestral past.

When news of Bhishma’s fall reached Duryodhana

he was stunned beyond all telling, deathly pale.

Drona could hardly catch his breath, and fainted,

falling, unconscious, from his chariot.

Warriors on both sides laid down their weapons

and clustered around Bhishma. He greeted them,

then asked that a headrest be found for him—

his head was hanging down uncomfortably.

Many fine, luxurious pillows were brought

but he refused them all. “These are too soft.

I need a pillow for a hero’s head.

Arjuna, find me something suitable.”

Arjuna took up his bow
Gandiva
,

consecrated it, and shot three arrows

into the ground, at just the right height

to hold up Bhishma’s head. The patriarch

was pleased, “This is a pillow for a warrior!

This is how a fallen kshatriya

should be supported on the field of battle.

I will rest until the sun is journeying

toward the north, after the winter solstice.

Then I will relinquish my last life-breath.”

Surgeons came, skilled at removing arrows.

Bhishma honored them, but then dismissed them.

“I am content. I have reached the highest state

available to a kshatriya. In time,

I wish to be placed on a funeral pyre

and burned with these arrows still in my body.”

Later, Krishna spoke with Yudhishthira.

“I rejoice that fortune has favored you,”

said Krishna. “It is through you and your grace,”

answered Yudhishthira, “that we succeed.

With you as our refuge and our guide, nothing