THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 2 (18 page)

The Pandava army made fresh camp at the edge of the level field stretching away to the horizon; that place was transformed into a hive of activity. Dhrishtadyumna took charge of the arrangements. The site was measured and marked for soldiers’ tents, tents for kitchens to feed that teeming army, tents for the kings and their guards. Krishna and Satyaki oversaw the digging of a moat around the camp, to keep wild animals out at night. With so many hands to attend to its every aspect, work progressed swiftly; in less than a day, Yudhishtira’s flag fluttered above an established military camp, already functioning harmoniously. At the heart of the camp, was a mountain of weapons of every kind. Bows, quivers full of arrows, lances, swords, maces and axes of battle and a hillock of armor and finger-sheaths: for all to take from, when the fighting began.

The truth was that every man had been preparing for this for weeks. In the palace and in the camps at Upaplavya, kings, princes and soldiers together had planned meticulously how they would make their camp at Kurukshetra. Then they had waited impatiently for Krishna’s return from Hastinapura, to know if the war would indeed be fought. When they arrived at Kurukshetra, every soldier knew exactly what he must do.

Yet, when later, exhausted by the long march and the day’s hard labor, the men lay down to sleep under a slender moon, each one knew the war itself would be another matter. Then nothing could be predicted: not if they would ever see their families again, not life itself, from moment to moment, not though they fought on the side of dharma and that was an honorable way to die.

EIGHTEEN
THE KAURAVA SENAPATI 

After Krishna left Hastinapura at noon, Duryodhana ordered his eleven aksauhinis to march to Kurukshetra the next day. The same night, he gathered his brothers and his intimate coterie together. He was somber as the hour of truth drew near, somber as one who, at least in his deepest heart, was aware of having incurred a greater debt than he could ever hope to discharge. But there was no turning back and if Duryodhana was anxious after Krishna’s revelation in the court of Hastina, he gave no sign of it.

Evenly, he said to those he had called to his apartment, “Krishna has gone back to Yudhishtira without having fulfilled his ostensible peace mission. I know he wants war; he has always plotted for it. He will not forget to tell Yudhishtira how we planned to take him hostage. He will exaggerate everything that happened here and Satyaki will bear him out. Already, Bheema and Arjuna are keened for battle and now Krishna will break down Yudhishtira’s last resistance. They have Virata and Drupada with them, who also want this war for their own reasons.”

He paused, then said, “For years we have dominated them with strategy and guile. Now they are certain they can have revenge on the field of war. What they forget is that we have eleven aksauhinis against their seven. Krishna may be more powerful than anyone else in the world; but he has sworn he will carry no arms during the war. Long privation robs men of their reason. The Pandavas will find swift death at the end of their exile, for the folly of daring to fight us. And that will finish the contention that began when our cousins came out of the wilderness, as they never should have. When they lie dead upon the earth, we shall be undisputed masters of the world, as we were born to be.

Dusasana, my brother, Karna, dearer to me than a brother, let us not waste another day of this precious, fleeting life. Let word go forth that we march at dawn!”

The next morning, at crack of dawn, Duryodhana’s army marched toward Kurukshetra. Weapons and armor glinting in the early sun, wave on wave of soldiers flowed in tide across the earth. Eleven aksauhinis, each with a great commander at its head: Kripa, Drona, Shalya, Jayadratha, Sudakshina, Kritavarman, Aswatthama, Bhoorisravas, Shakuni, Baahlika and Somadatta. Duryodhana stood among these kshatriyas, all of them ready to die for him and watched his interminable legions wind their way out of Hastinapura.

The Kaurava prince turned to Bheeshma and said, “Look, Pitama, don’t our men seem like an unending line of ants?”

After months, he spoke in the friendliest tone to his grandsire. The others around them fell silent, knowing what Duryodhana was about to ask the Kuru patriarch. Duryodhana continued, “This is perhaps the greatest army ever mustered under the Kuru flag; and, to my mind, there is only one kshatriya among us who can command this force.” Emotionally he knelt at Bheeshma’s feet. “Pitama, I beg you, be the Senapati of the army of Hastinapura!”

Bheeshma’s face softened. Gently, he said, “If you truly want me to command these legions, so be it, my child. But I have two conditions before I accept. The Pandavas are as dear to me as you are; I will not raise my bow to kill any of them. But I will harry their soldiers and their allies. I will kill ten thousand men each day we fight!”

Duryodhana said, “Pitama, you have no equal in this world.”

But Bheeshma replied, “That isn’t true, even if it pleases my old heart to hear you say it. Arjuna is a greater archer than I ever was. If anyone can kill me, it is he. But hear my second condition, before you decide you still want me to be your Senapati.”

“What is it, Pitama? There is no condition I will not accept to have you lead our army into battle.”

“I will not fight beside Karna. I cannot brook his arrogance, either he fights or I do.”

This was no more the Kuru sabha that Duryodhana could walk out of it. He turned pale. He had no answer to Bheeshma’s second condition.

But Karna said quickly, “I am happy with this condition! As long as Bheeshma fights I will not.” Then his voice grew softer, “But if Bheeshma is killed, Karna will come to fight for Duryodhana. Besides, your Pitama has granted me my dearest wish: that he will not kill Arjuna, but let me have that satisfaction. What else do I live for but to prove I am the best bowman on earth?”

No expression touched Bheeshma’s face. After a moment’s silence, he said, “I will command the Kuru army.”

Beaming, Duryodhana touched his grandsire’s feet again and embraced him. Word flashed forth that Bheeshma had agreed to be Senapati of the army of Hastinapura and a sea of cheering rose among the soldiers. Amidst the solemn chanting of mantras, Bheeshma was given the ceremonial bath of consecration. Then he climbed into his chariot and rode to the head of that endless force.

NINETEEN
ON THE BANKS OF YAMUNA 

Vidura and Kunti sat together in her apartment in his palace, both of them dejected. It was the day Krishna left for Upaplavya. In a strained voice, Vidura had been telling Kunti what had happened in the Kuru court.

“Duryodhana would rather see the world end than give up his obstinacy. Again and again, Yudhishtira asked to make peace; but Duryodhana will not listen. He won’t give back five towns, which are all your son wants.” Vidura sighed. “I have no doubt the Pandavas will win the war; but at what a cost. Blood will flow in rivers on the holy land. Perhaps, Duryodhana might have been persuaded by wise counsel, but Shakuni, Dusasana and that wild Karna are his advisors. I haven’t slept a wink these past few days, Kunti, thinking of the pass we have come to.”

Kunti sat listening, without saying a word. She knew how powerful her sons were. But she also knew the Kaurava army had four aksauhinis more than the Pandavas did. And when she heard that Bheeshma had agreed to command Duryodhana’s legions, fear clutched at her. What unnerved Kunti even more was the thought of her other son. Above anyone else, she feared Karna and her terror of him was heightened by guilt. When the exhausted Vidura left her, she told herself, ‘Not Duryodhana’s hatred for my sons can match Karna’s envy of Arjuna. Karna is Surya’s son; he is every bit the archer Arjuna is. He may well kill Arjuna, or Arjuna, him; either way, I will lose a son.’

She wept in despair then decided: ‘There is only one thing to do.’

She also retired for the night, which was a long and sleepless one.

The next day at noon, when the sun was at his zenith, burning down on the earth, with her head covered to protect her from the searing heat, Kunti went down to the banks of the Yamuna. Among the mirages that rose from the river, she saw Karna worshipping the Sun God. He stood bare-bodied, his arms raised straight above his head, his face lifted to the calescent star. Motionless he stood, chanting the Surya mantra.

Kunti approached him softly, her heart pounding. She stood behind him, unmoving. It is told that Karna was so tall and magnificent, she sheltered comfortably in his shadow, as in the shade of a tree. In a while, he lowered his arms, then his head and opened his eyes. Her shadow fell across his own and he turned. For the first time Karna saw his mother, like a wreath of wilted lotuses and his heart gave a lurch. She stood before him, not saying a word, her head and face still covered. Gently, he took her hand and led her to a tree that grew at the edge of the water.

He folded his hands to her and said, “I am Atiratha’s son Karna. This is the hour when I grant a boon to anyone who comes to me. I see you are noble and unused to the heat. Tell me, what can I do for you?”

She gazed and gazed at his face and at first made no reply. He saw tears in her eyes and they spilt over. She is uncannily familiar, he thought: her eyes, her exquisite hands, her regal bearing! But for the life of him, he could not tell where he had seen her before. For her, after the fateful day she floated him down the river in the wooden box, this was the first time she had seen him so close.

She dried her eyes and said, “Perhaps you know me, or then again you might not. But I have come to beg a boon from you.”

He still stared at her, then he said slowly, “I cannot remember having seen you, but I feel I know you. Why, I feel I have known you all my life.”

He broke off and stared more intently. Then he breathed, “It’s you! The woman in my dreams. Of course I know you, I have always known you.”

He knelt before her. She said, “I don’t understand. How can you say you know me, when we have never met? How have you seen me in your dreams? I have time to listen, if you care to tell me. I have come to spend some time with you.”

Karna did not take his eyes off her and his gaze scathed Kunti. He said, “I never told anyone except my mother Radha about the woman in my dreams and I never felt the need to. Today, I know I must tell you about her and about myself. Though Radha raised me, she is not my natural mother. One day, my father Atiratha found me floating in a wooden box on the Yamuna, an abandoned child. He brought me home to his wife and they adopted me. I never knew any other parents, never knew Radha was not my real mother, or Atiratha my father. For many years I was called only Radheya, Radha’s son.”

Gravely she listened to him, tenderly. Karna went on, “Since I was a child, ever since I can remember, a dream has haunted my sleep, the same dream over and over again. A woman would appear with her face covered and in sorrow and love, she would bend over me. Her tears would drip onto my face, burning me.

Still dreaming, I would ask her, ‘Who are you? Why are you crying?’

Her voice choking, she would answer, ‘I am crying because of what I have done to you, because this is the only way I can see you. But I am such a sinner that I may not speak to you even in our dreams.’

She would turn to leave. I would run after her and try to lift the veil that hid her face. I would cry, ‘Show me your face! I want to see who you are.’

But she would vanish and I would awake trembling.”

His eyes still searched her face. “As I grew, the dream became rarer and the woman hardly appeared any more. It has been years since I saw her at all. But I am sure it was my mother who came to me in my sleep. At first, she thought of me a good deal and she frequented my dreams. But later, when she had other children, she thought of me less and less, or did not want to; and she did not come any more.

That is the story of the woman in my dreams.” He paused, then said, “But you look exactly like her. Who are you, gracious one? What is the boon you seek from me?”

Kunti could hardly look into his eyes, full of the years’ long pain. She bent her head down, down and gazed at her fine hands. Then, quietly, she said, “It is true, I am your mother.”

No expression flickered on his graven face. She went on without pausing, “I am the Pandavas’ mother Kunti. You, Karna, are my firstborn son.”

Karna began to laugh. He said, “Kunti Devi, mother of the Pandavas, has come to her son Karna to beg a boon! Surely, I am asleep and dreaming, for this can’t be true.”

He stopped. They stared at each other and then with a cry, she was in his arms, sobbing. Karna moaned, “You have come! At last, you have come and I knew that one day you would. Mother, how I have longed for this moment, how many times I have lived this day in my imagination. Why did you wait so long? You who bore me in your sweet body, by my Lord, my father Surya Deva whom I worship!”

She gasped. He said, “I know everything.”

“How could you? When did you know? And once you did, why didn’t you come to me?”

Karna said evenly, “I knew only yesterday when Krishna told me. But why speak of the past now? When, at last, at last, we are together! Let us not waste these moments. Come, sit near me and let me lay my head in your lap. This is a perfect moment; let us not spoil it with words. Be quiet, mother, our time together will last just briefly, though I wish it would go on for ever.”