THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 2 (33 page)

SIXTEEN
THE EIGHTH DAY:
THE FIELD OF DEATH 

Dawn of the eighth day of the war and Bheeshma forms his legions in the expansive oormi vyuha: the ocean phalanx, its waves of kshatriyas splayed a league on either side. Across the field today, Yudhish-tira tells Arjuna and Drishtadyumna that the most potent vyuha against the oormi is the sringataka, the horned phalanx. Arjuna is a master of this formation and soon both armies are ready for the day’s bloodletting. Once more, conches blare, death’s knell and glazed-eyed legions rush at each other.

It is another morning of duels. First, Bheeshma meets Bheema, who is in great heart and finds the young lion implacable. The Pandava covers his Pitama’s chariot in a cloak of arrows, with such artistry that those who watch can scarcely believe it of him. Even Bheeshma is taken aback at his grandson’s virtuosity and before he knows it Bheema kills his horses and sarathy and advances menacingly on him. Away to the left, Duryodhana sees Bheeshma in danger and flies to the rescue with a force of his brothers. Seeing the Kauravas coming, Bheema immediately loses interest in his grandsire and charges his cousins in joy. They hardly know how and eight sons of Dhritarashtra die, their heads crushed or struck off, or their hearts stopped with whistling shafts.

Duryodhana watches, helplessly and Bheema’s oath echoes in his mind. He howls at Bheeshma, “The monster kills my brothers! While you watch as if they are not your grandsons. You don’t love me, Bheeshma, only the sons of Pandu.”

Bheeshma cries angrily, “You are cruel, Duryodhana! If I did not love you, would I be here fighting at your side? Even when I know you are wrong. If we did not love you, Drona and I could have kept away. When I told you the Pandavas are invincible, you would not listen. The price you pay is your brothers’ lives. Every time Bheema sees them, he will kill them, as he would swat flies. You tried to save your brothers just now, but could you? Then why point your finger at me? I am as helpless as you are. All I can say to you is: Duryodhana prepare to die and see you die like a kshatriya. Keep your mind on the war, not on things that are beyond it.”

Bheeshma turns away in disgust and rides off to vent his grief on the Pandava legions. Noon again and the Pandavas attack the Pitama, all together; but he blazes on the earth like the sun at his vertex. Bheema wheels away in frustration to demolish the Kaurava elephants; while Nakula and Sahadeva turn on Duryodhana’s cavalry, cutting down hundreds of fine horses and picking off their fallen riders when they stood defenseless on the ground. The Kaurava legions suffer, but this is as nothing compared to the massacre Bheeshma and Drona bring to the Pandava army.

On the eve of the war, an unusual young warrior presented himself before Arjuna and said, “My mother heard about the war that was to be and sent me to fight for you.”

His green eyes were somehow familiar and Arjuna felt a surge of affection for the lean, handsome youth. Arjuna said, “Who is your mother, young Kshatriya?”

The young man smiled, “The naga queen Ulupi.”

A longago sinuous night swam up before Arjuna’s eyes and, with a cry, he clasped his son in his arms. That youth Iravan had proved himself as brave and skilled as Abhimanyu. He had been a bane of the enemy these past seven days. He brought a small legion of naga warriors with him and they fought with eerie weapons and serpentine sorceries, razing whole columns of Kaurava soldiers.

Today, Iravan watches Shakuni, who fights more with cunning than valor: always making sure he faces only inferior antagonists, whom he kills without mercy. Iravan sees Shakuni kill common Pandava soldiers by shooting them in the back and he rides to challenge the Gandhara king. Iravan’s changeling nagas ride with him and they account for a good part of Shakuni’s legion. Inexorably, Iravan moves nearer Shakuni, who cringes from him. He cannot escape anywhere, because the prince’s snake-warriors ring him round.

Duryodhana cries to Alambusa, “Arjuna’s naga brat is dangerous. Kill him!”

Alambusa flies through the air at Iravan, intent on fighting his way to Shakuni, whom he is determined to finish today. Ulupi’s son doesn’t see Alambusa, mantled in maya, fly at him from above. Alambusa materializes abruptly before an astonished Iravan and hacks his head off with a massive sword.

Bheeshma, Drona and Aswatthama take fire to the Pandava army, even as if they are the three points of Siva’s trisula; the Pandavas themselves cannot contain them today, not when they combine. When Iravan dies, Ghatotkacha leaps into the forefront of battle. He, too, fights with maya and Duryodhana has to contend with Bheema’s terrific son. Today, Ghatotkacha attacks the Kaurava king himself and the kshatriyas that defend him.

Bheeshma cries to Drona, “Duryodhana is hurt. Fly to him!”

Drona, Jayadratha, Aswatthama and a score of Kaurava warriors peel away toward Duryodhana. Kurukshetra rings with Ghatotkacha’s roars, when he sees more of the enemy coming to challenge him. Yudhishtira hears that sound and cries to Bheema, “Ghatotkacha is beset by a hundred men!”

In a moment, Bheema is beside his son. They fight, back to back. Enemy footsoldiers shut their ears and flee. Ghatotkacha and Bheema destroy Duryodhana’s crack guard, which surrounds him when he goes into battle. Mortal screams and wild roars mingle, two rivers flowing into the sea of death. Red-eyed to see his guard slain, old hatred flaring high, Duryodhana rushes at Bheema with Aswatthama at his side. Laughing in their faces, Bheema pushes them back easily.

A thousand soldiers from both sides stream forward and the battle spreads out again. Bheema is full of incredible strength; he bristles with weapons. He flings a hundred maces at the enemy. He is invincible; he seems ubiquitous; and no one can stand before him. And when roaring, his mace raised high, he charges Duryodhana, the Kaurava feels the touch of death on him and bolts. Beside Bheema, Ghatotkacha is like five storms and so macabre that Kaurava soldiers run at just the sight of him. Or else, they stand rooted in terror and he murders them.

Duryodhana rides trembling to Bheeshma. He cries, “You must kill Ghatotkacha or the war is lost!”

Bheeshma says impatiently, “I cannot leave this battle. Take Bhagadatta, he turned the rakshasa back yesterday.”

Bhagadatta comes on Supritika, his white elephant. Word flies to the Pandavas of the asura’s arrival and quickly, Bheema, Ghatotkacha, Abhimanyu, Draupadi’s sons and some others, too, stand together to meet the lord of Pragjyotishapura. Bhagadatta charges Bheema. The Pandava warriors cover the elephant with spears and arrows and the beast’s head is slick with blood, red on white. Still, it comes on, making for Bheema. All around, kshatriyas in chariots and footsoldiers cower before the pale leviathan.

When Bhagadatta’s elephant is almost upon Bheema, the king of the Dasarnas confronts Supritika on his own elephant. This grey animal is barely half Supritika’s size. But its heart is great and brave and it charges the bigger animal, goring its side, so it turns away from Bheema with a scream. The Dasarna king’s elephant will not retreat before Supritika’s trumpeting or his short rushes. He stands like a rock and Supritika backs away from him. The mammoths’ trumpeting rings across the field and neither will give way.

Furious at being frustrated by a mortal, Bhagadatta looses a calific volley at the Dasarna king. Sensing peril to its master, now his elephant turns away. The Kaurava army roars from ten thousand throats and teems forward behind Supritika. But the Pandava warriors have had time to recover. Now many of them face Bhagadatta, at once and he can make no headway through their ranks. Supritika’s rage at being pierced by a hundred lances and arrows shakes Kurukshetra.

Arjuna joins Bheema, Ghatotkacha and the rest. Behind Bhagadatta, Duryodhana calls up a legion of five thousand soldiers and sends them to fight near the asura on his elephant. Another massacre; Bhagadatta kills thousands from elephant-back and so, too, Bheema, Arjuna and Ghatotkacha from their chariots. Direst of all is Arjuna. He has news of the death of Iravan and his wrath is dreadful. Hissing like a serpent, he fights with tears stinging his eyes for his changeling son, who was his mother Ulupi’s only child. Arjuna lets a cataract of blood, human fat its froth.

As he fights, he cries to his sarathy, “Now I see why Yudhishtira would take just five towns to prevent this war. It is more horrible than I ever imagined. My son is dead, what will I tell his mother? How many mothers have lost their boys on this hellish field! All this killing: and for what? For one man’s vanity, for Duryodhana’s ravening envy! How does fate allow this?” He is quiet for a while; but the tide of arrows still flames from his bow, as if someone else was the archer. Krishna drives his horses in silence, immaculately.

Arjuna cries again, “Surely, it is better to die a beggar than kill these millions for a throne. How I hate this war! More than anyone else, Shakuni is to blame for all this murdering. He first corrupted Duryodhana. If only someone had killed him before he ever came to Hastinapura.

Look how I wilt them and they crumple and lie down to sleep forever. Oh, look at the blood spurt from the mouths of their wounds. How I wish I had never been born a kshatriya!”

He is quiet again, before Krishna hears him sob, “Iravan, how glad I was to see you, my son. Now I wish I had never met your mother. I would not have to bear this grief that tears my heart more painfully than any arrow.” Then he roars, “Krishna, they have killed my boy! Ride at them, I will make a sea of their blood!”

As Krishna rides at the enemy, Arjuna’s arrows mow down the Kaurava soldiers in a russet flash flood, glimmering in the last light of day. Bheeshma sees Arjuna raging and comes to contain the Pandava. Meanwhile, the butchering continues everywhere. Hundreds die each moment and by now their screams, the shouts and the roars of those who kill them have become commonplace. They who have been at war for eight days are inured to these sounds.

Bheema still strews the field with corpses, as if killing were as natural to him as drawing breath. He is dripping gore again; for, often, he leaps down from his chariot and goes among the enemy, bludgeoning them with his mace and their blood splashes over him copiously. Then he climbs back into Visoka’s chariot and fights with bow and arrows. Ghatotkacha fights near his father and he is more terrible than Bheema. Bhagadatta is there: in the steaming, mindless, thick of battle, somehow containing Bheema’s rakshasa son. Supritika, the elephant, is disdainful of the arrows that pierce him.

Suddenly, a roar on that field eclipses every other sound. Bheema has hewn his way through the Kaurava ranks and come face to face with a knot of Duryodhana’s brothers, who huddle together in terror. There are eight of them and the sight of him exploding through the rest of the legion paralyzes them. Whimpering, they stand transfixed in their chariots and he makes short, brutal work of all eight. They die with hardly a cry; as if they are grateful he delivered them from the long fear of him that darkened their lives.

Duryodhana sees the slaughter from a way off and his howls rock Kurukshetra. He cries out like some mythic beast that had eight more of its limbs cut away by a shining hunter. Bheeshma hears that awful sound. He sees the Kaurava army shrink from the enemy, everywhere and he gives the signal for the conches to sound. Numb with the killing they have seen and done, the soldiers leave the field, their heads bent, neither victor nor vanquished speaking, their experience of these days beyond the ken of words.

The field they leave for the brief reprieve of night is a bizarre spectacle, with corpses sprouted everywhere. Now there seem to be more of the dead than the living on Kurukshetra; both armies, especially the Kaurava, have waned. On their way back to the camps, the men step wearily over headless trunks and severed heads struck off so savagely that their bodies are nowhere near. Those still alive often recognize a friend’s features on such a face. Jeweled arms lie with bracelets and rings glinting in the last rays of the sun. Arms hacked from their shoulders and hands cut off at the wrist clawing the air, or clasping a sword, a javelin, a bow, as if for life itself, or Salvation: these lie everywhere. Among them lie the carcasses of horses and elephants, their eyes still staring, killed in a war that has little to do with their species.

Today, not all the dead are gathered for burning. There are too many corpses and the living are too exhausted. Finally, the wait of the jackals, hyenas and wolves, the kites, vultures and wild dogs is rewarded. They feast without favor for Pandava or Kaurava. Hideous pisachas drink from a river of blood, which resembles the very Vaitarani. Both armies have lost more men than on any previous day of the war, but once more, the day indubitably belongs to the Pandavas. Bheema, Ghatotkacha, Arjuna and Abhimanyu are its heroes. Duryodhana is forlorn again, his hopes of last night dashed. There is no celebration in the Pandava camp, either. Arjuna and his brothers mourn Iravan.

SEVENTEEN
DURYODHANA’S DESPAIR 

On his way back to the Kaurava camp, Duryodhana sees all his dead, lying dismembered on the earth. Again and again, he sees Bheema killing his brothers. He finds Karna waiting for him in his tent and breaks down, sobbing.

Desperately he cries to his friend, “These last three days, I have seen that monster kill twenty-four of my brothers. Their screams ring in my ears and I have no peace. I see my mother crying for her sons. But Bheeshma has not killed even one Pandava and I fear he doesn’t mean to. Each day, we return from the war, routed again and every night Bheeshma says the same thing to me, that my cousins are invincible. I cannot stand it any more, Karna. We must do something quickly, or we shall all be lost.”