Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (41 page)

with the helpful yaksha, and take back

his female body. But the yaksha told him

that, since they had last met, he had been cursed

by Kubera, the short-tempered yaksha king,

and must remain a woman until Shikhandin

should meet his death on the field of battle.

The prince was filled with joy and gratitude.

“Now he leads an army for the Pandavas

and has marked me as his adversary.

But, because he was born as a woman,

I will not fight him. Fate must take its course.”

Duryodhana had appointed generals

from among the experienced warrior kings,

and consecrated them with ceremony.

Advised by Bhishma, he had rated them

according to their skill and experience.

When it came to Karna, Bhishma judged him

as second-rate. Karna was furious,

“Left to myself, I could destroy the army

of the Pandavas in a mere five days!”

Bhishma laughed at him. “You prove my point.

You are rash and silly. Victory

can never be achieved that easily.”

As brahmins performed Bhishma’s consecration

bloody rain fell, and disembodied voices

were heard; jackals howled ferociously

and meteors streaked across the glowering sky.

To solicit blessings, Duryodhana

lavished gold and cattle on the brahmins,

and, strengthened by their ritual benedictions,

he marched to Kurukshetra with his armies.

There, with Karna, he measured out the camp

on the west side of the plain, on pleasant ground,

where there was easy access to fresh water.

Even the smallest details of provisioning

had been anticipated—spare axles, ropes,

banners and pennants, spades, horns, every weapon

one would expect. Even bells and rugs

had been thought of, and bunches of fresh herbs

to tie onto the chariots, to ward off evil.

With the tents erected and arranged,

the camp looked as rich as Hastinapura.

Uluka, son of Shakuni, was told

to take a message from Duryodhana

to Yudhishthira, a ritual taunt:

“Now is the time to prove yourself a man!

You lost at dice, you saw your blameless wife

dishonored, you endured long years of exile

and lost your kingdom—who would not be angry?

But angry words are one thing, courageous acts

are another. Are you brave enough

or are you impotent, you and your brothers?

Can Bhima drink the blood of Duhshasana

as he swore to do in the gaming hall?

Will you have your much vaunted revenge

or are you all hot air? Join battle with us:

either rule the earth by defeating us

or be killed and go to the heaven of heroes.

“In fact, you stand no chance—how can you beat

Bhishma, that mountain among warriors,

or Drona, master of the
Brahma
weapon?

Even though Krishna always takes your side,

even though you have the bow
Gandiva
,

I won your kingdom, and for thirteen years

I have enjoyed it. I shall enjoy it still

after I have killed you and all your kinsmen.

And when you flounder, helpless in the flood

of mighty Kauravas, when all your friends

lie dead around you, then you will regret

taking up arms against me and my brothers.”

The Pandavas, hearing these boastful words,

were enraged, pacing up and down, their eyes

red with fury. Seeing this, Krishna

spoke to Uluka: “Leave this place at once,

gambler’s son, and say this to Duryodhana:

‘Be careful, villain! Even though Arjuna

has appointed me his charioteer,

and even though I said I would not fight,

a time may come when, as a last resort,

I shall scorch your forces like a field of straw.

Meanwhile the Pandavas are in good heart,

as you will learn tomorrow.’”

Arjuna,

Wearer of the Diadem, added, “Go,

gambler’s son, say this to Duryodhana:

‘You may think me too compassionate

to kill Bhishma, when the moment comes.

I assure you, I shall kill him first;

pelted by my arrows, he will topple

from his chariot while you look on, appalled.

And that is the start. You are about to reap

the bitter harvest of your wickedness.’”

“How did they fight, those ancestors of mine?”

asked Janamejaya. Vaishampayana,

with the blessing of Vyasa, told the king

how, on the eve of battle, the two sides

agreed a covenant, a code of conduct,

rules of engagement properly laid down.

Warriors should fight their counterparts—

horsemen against horsemen, infantry

against opposing infantry. Stragglers

should not be killed, nor should anyone

in retreat, or who had lost his weapon,

or one intending to surrender. No one

who was unprepared should be attacked.

Words should be fought with words. An assault

should not be made without giving due notice.

Charioteers, those engaged in transport,

those blowing conches or clashing cymbals

should not be targeted. Nor should animals

drawing chariots or carrying men.

Principle is one thing, practice another.

Soon, battle frenzy would wipe these agreements

from men’s memories, but, for the present,

all were clear how to conduct themselves.

“Tell me in detail how the war developed,”

requested the king. So Vaishampayana

embarked on his narration of the conflict,

the internecine strife that shook the earth.

Blind Dhritarashtra paced through his apartments

full of dread, unable to still his mind.

Now that he could not console himself

with self-deceiving hopes that his stubborn son

might yet see reason, even on the brink,

the full force of the coming calamity

was bearing down on him.

He sought Vyasa

and sobbed to him about his son’s wickedness.

“Wringing your hands is useless,” said the sage.

“Time has run out for your sons and their friends.

While the fighting lasts, I can at least grant you

the gift of sight, so you can see events

as they happen.”

“Ah, no!” cried Dhritarashtra,

“I could not bear to see the gushing blood,

the mutilated bodies of my loved ones.

But I want to know how things unfold

moment by moment.” So Vyasa granted

Sanjaya, the king’s aide and companion,

the gift of divine vision. He would witness

all that took place on the battleground

whether by day or night, whether openly

or in men’s secret hearts—there would be nothing

hidden from him. Invulnerable,

he would be present on the field of war,

everywhere at once, silent recorder

of all the joys and agonies of men,

their courage, rage, despair. And in this way,

at second hand, the king would learn everything.

“Nature is out of joint,” said Vyasa.

“As witness to the coming massacre,

pigs are giving birth to foals, the trees

are weighted down with strange, unseasonal fruits.

Monsters are being born, some with two heads,

some with one leg, or none, or bloated breasts.

The very planets are engorged with blood

and fly amok, out of their natural paths.”

“Without doubt,” said Dhritarashtra, “fate

has designed a terrible disaster.

I have one consolation—kshatriyas

who fall with honor on the field of battle,

not dying in their beds with wasted limbs,

journey to that place reserved for heroes

where they enjoy the heavenly bliss of gods.”

After Vyasa had spoken and departed,

Dhritarashtra sat with Sanjaya

far into the blackest part of night

while, to calm him, Sanjaya described

the hills, plains, rivers of Bharatavarsha

and the diverse peoples of the country.

“All this belongs to the Bharatas!”

exclaimed the king. “But my misguided son

is bringing devastation to our land—

children left fatherless, wives sick with grief,

girls shorn of all hope of finding husbands!”

“You try to shift responsibility,”

said Sanjaya, “but you, too, are to blame.

You know how this will end—the Pandavas

will win for sure. Krishna is on their side,

and where Krishna is, there is victory.’

Sanjaya departed for Kurukshetra.

All Dhritarashtra could do now was wait.

And wait. For ten long days and nights he waited,

lost in thought, all normal life suspended.

Then Sanjaya arrived at last, distraught.

“O king, the news is dreadful. The great Bhishma,

mightiest of warriors, has fallen,

defeated by Shikhandin. Now he lies

on a bed of arrows, awaiting death.”

At this shock, Dhritarashtra fainted.

When he had revived, he cried aloud,

“Oh, Sanjaya! My heart must be made of stone

that it hasn’t shattered at this dreadful news.

How can it have happened? Who was beside him?

Who protected him? How could he fall

when Drona was alive to stand with him?

Bhishma was like a god in strength and skill.

If he is crushed, then what hope for my sons?

Tell me who else was slain, who was victorious—

tell me all the details of the battle,

this conflict caused by my wrong-headed son.”

Sanjaya said, “You should not heap all blame

on Duryodhana. But listen, O king,

and I will tell you what I have seen and heard.”

And Sanjaya gave the following account,

the events leading to the fall of Bhishma.

As morning broke on the opening day of war,

the rising sun streaked the sky with scarlet.

The heat slowly burned off the mist that hung

above the plain. The opposing armies,

division upon division, stretched away

as far as the eye followed the curving earth.

All was brilliant. The chariots of the princes

and of their royal allies were resplendent

with noble banners, each with its own emblem.

One king’s standard carried a scarlet bull,

another, a boar on a cloth of silver,

others, bright flowers, stars, eagles, comets . . .

the sight too dazzling to be taken in.

Some kings were riding in their chariots,

others sat erect on the necks of elephants

or on spirited horses, proudly wheeling.

So much armor, on men, elephants, horses!

The brilliant gold and bronze rivaled the sun.

The mass of men and beasts, constantly moving,

was beautiful as a river thick with fish,

glittering, thousands upon thousands

all confident in prearranged formations.

With forces smaller than the Kauravas’,

Yudhishthira knew a less numerous army

must mass more tightly, not be spread out wide

where men could be picked off more easily.

Arjuna said the thunderbolt formation

would serve them best, with Bhima in the vanguard

whirling his mace to dismay the enemy.

Arjuna had planned the precise position

of each Pandava and of their allies,

and placed Yudhishthira right at the center

surrounded by well-trained and furious

elephants like a range of moving hills.

Yudhishthira stood, beneath a parasol,

on his gold chariot with the golden traces,

and dozens of priests intoned prayers around him.

Dhrishtadyumna protected him from the rear.

Both forces were terrible, both beautiful.

In both, men’s hearts were filled with joy and pride

at being part of it—this grand display,

this glorious event, this sacrifice,

this, the well-trained warrior’s highest calling.

Fear, suffering and grief would follow later.

To see this greatest war ever fought on earth

there had gathered from all the three worlds

crowds of spectators—ordinary people,

holy men, divine beings—all assembled

to witness the spectacular clash of kin.

On rising ground that overlooked the plain,

or hovering in the sparkling air above,

they waited, jostling for the best positions.

With the two sides facing one another,

one east, one west, with ten thousand conches

blaring out in challenge, the din of cymbals

and the deep, heart-stopping throb of war drums,

Arjuna said to Krishna, his charioteer,

“Drive the chariot into no-man’s-land

so I can see, before the battle starts,

the faces of the enemy I must kill.”

Krishna did what Arjuna asked of him.

And there, with every soldier tense and ready,

with every horse straining at its harness;

there in the moment before hell’s unleashing,

with each blade whetted, each weapon at hand;

there, in the moment when the frenzy

of preparation was over, and the din

of death not yet begun—there, at that point

in the relentless passage of events . . .

time freezes

Sanjaya continues:

Arjuna sinks down in his chariot.

His warrior’s heart has failed him.

His eyes stream with tears,

his limbs tremble,