Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (44 page)

And now you are telling me the same.

I do not disbelieve your words—and yet

this knowledge seems remote to me. Please tell me

all the forms in which you are manifest

so I can know how to meditate on you.

Best of persons, I love to hear you speak.”

“You should understand, I am everywhere,

but I shall tell you the most important forms

by which you can know me. I am the spirit

seated in the heart of every creature.

I am the death that carries all away

and I am the life of everything to come.

I am the beginning, middle, end.

Of female qualities, I am wisdom,

constancy, prosperity and patience.

Of the deities, I am Vishnu. I am Rama,

I am Shiva, I am Skanda, god of war.

Of mountains, I am Meru. Of waters,

the ocean; of wild animals, the lion.

Of birds, I am the eagle. Imagine

the greatest and the most essential form

of any class of beings—I am that, Arjuna.

“Whatever is endowed with grace and splendor,

strength and vigor, springs from a fragment of me.

But what use are all these details to you?

Enough for you to know that with a mere

fraction of myself, I support the cosmos.”

“This supreme mystery you have taught me,”

says Arjuna, “your discourse on the self,

has cleared the fog of my bewilderment.

But words by themselves cannot convey

the mystery of the ineffable.

I long to witness your divinity,

to see for myself what you have described.

Great lord of all creation, I beg you,

if you think me capable of seeing it—

show me your divine manifestation.”

“I will show you my hundred thousand forms,

their colors, shapes and infinite variety.

I will show you the universe in my body.

But to look at this with human eyes

would destroy you instantly, utterly.

“I will give you supernatural sight.

“NOW BEHOLD MY DIVINE POWER.”

Arjuna is astounded, shivering,

bent in awe before the divine being.

He struggles to shape his vision into words,

not to be engulfed by insanity.

“Ah! Krishna, your supreme form fills the world,

with many gaping mouths and staring eyes;

with countless ornaments more beautiful

than any seen on earth; with garlands, robes,

a million arms wielding divine weapons,

dazzling, as if the light of a thousand suns

were blazing all at once, the divine form

faces in all directions, stretching out

to infinity. The whole universe

is concentrated by magnetic force

in the person of the god of gods.

“I can see . . . I can see

all gods contained within your body.

O boundless, without end, without beginning,

your innumerable arms, insatiable bellies,

all your terrible appearances.

Crown. Mace. Discus—a dazzling mass of light,

fiery brilliance.

O resting place of the universe,

Lord!

Guardian of law.

Hosts of gods enter you in procession

with folded hands, adoring, singing

hymns, praising your celestial sweetness.

“I see you stretched between sky and earth.

Lord!

I see your countless gaping mouths, terrible with tusks.

Lord!

I tremble, faint with dizziness and fear.

Now I am drawn to your glowing eyes,

I reel in terror and in rapture.

I am like a speck of dust before you,

powerless and storm-tossed.

“Now I can see Dhritarashtra’s sons

with Bhishma, Drona, Karna—

and many of our foremost warriors too—

all sucked toward your fearful, flame-licked mouths,

jagged with fangs. Some are impaled, oh, their heads

crushed to pulp! As moths fly

heedless and headlong into flame and are destroyed,

so are these heroes rushing to their deaths

pouring in thousands into the flaming maw.

Oh! the devouring flames, the blood—

surely it is the end of everything.

Tell me, terrible being, who you are.

Oh, supreme god, have mercy!”

“I AM TIME, DESTROYER OF WORLDS.

Even before you act, all these warriors,

rank upon rank in the opposing armies,

are already dead. I have destroyed them.

From the perspective of eternal time,

the everlasting present,

those men you see lined up, eager for battle,

full of the vigor of their youth and strength,

are dead already.

The bodies which have known cold and heat,

pleasure and suffering, already carry

death and decomposition in their bones.

“The Pandavas will be victorious. Now

rise up, hero. Be my instrument!”

Arjuna’s limbs tremble in fear. He cries,

“Praise, a thousand times praise to you!

You are all gods—the wind, the god of death,

Agni the fire, Varuna the sea god,

mighty and imperishable Vishnu.

Unceasing homage to you, supreme being.

Forgive me for the times I treated you

as my old friend and my dear companion

and spoke rashly—casually perhaps.

I knew no better. I was ignorant.

Forgive me, lord, as a father would his son,

as devoted friends forgive each other,

or a lover her beloved.

“I rejoice

that I have seen what was never seen before

but my heart quakes with terror—

I beg you, return to your familiar form.”

“What I have just shown you,” says Krishna,

his human self again, “could not be shown

even to the most extreme renouncer.

Due to the love between us, you have seen it.

Have no more fear. Now I am the friend you know.”

Arjuna breathes more freely. “Now I see you

in your beloved, gentle, human shape,

my heart is beating steadily again.”

“Thinking of me, Arjuna, you will transcend

all obstacles. If, out of egotism,

you think
I will not fight,
it will be pointless;

your nature will impel you—you will do

precisely what you are trying to avoid.

My dear friend, at the heart of all beings

the Lord stands still, moving them with his power.

Turn to him with all your soul, and know peace.

“This is the mystery of mysteries

that I have taught you. Consider it—and act.

I am the love that fills the universe

and you are my beloved, Arjuna.

“My final word is this: fix your mind on me,

worship me with sincere and devoted love,

dedicate your acts to me; I promise

that I shall release you from all evils.

“You must never repeat this sacred teaching

to an audience unworthy of it.

But whoever shares this supreme secret

with the deserving shall surely be rewarded.

People who learn this dialogue of ours,

and study it with faith, and worship me,

will attain the blessed worlds of the righteous.

“Arjuna, have you listened to my words,

and have your ignorant doubts been dispelled?”

Arjuna stands,
Gandiva
in his hand.

“Krishna, they have. I have regained myself.

Through your grace, I stand, my confusion gone.

I shall do my duty, as you have shown me.”

Time unlocks.

Sanjaya said, “O king, what I have witnessed

is so wonderful my hair stands on end.

How privileged I was to hear this teaching!

Majesty, as I keep recalling it

I tremble with a joy past all describing.

“Wherever Lord Krishna is, there, surely,

will be virtue, wisdom—and victory!”

Sanjaya continued his narration:

When they saw Arjuna rising to his feet,

tall on his chariot,
Gandiva
in his hand,

a great shout exploded from the ranks

of the Pandava army. Filled with joy,

they blew their sea-born conches, clashed their cymbals,

and shouted “Jaya! Jaya!”

The two armies,

at a pitch of readiness, swayed and heaved,

straining to rush forward. But at the point

when it seemed they could hold back no longer,

but must break and crash on one another,

Yudhishthira, unfastening his armor,

walked toward the enemy front line.

Everyone, observing him, fell silent.

What was he doing? Had he lost his nerve?

Was he about to give up after all?

Removing their own armor and their weapons,

his brothers walked beside him. But they, too,

were surprised and bewildered. What did this mean?

“Where are you going?” they asked him as they went.

Yudhishthira walked on, not answering.

Krishna smiled. “I know where he is going,”

he said to them. “In ancient times, a warrior

sought the elders’ sanction on the eve of war.

Yudhishthira is making sure that he

incurs no blame, does everything correctly.”

Making his way through the bristling spears

of Duryodhana’s ranks, Yudhishthira

approached Bhishma, bent, and clasped his feet.

“Great one, I salute you on the brink of war.

I have come for your permission in this matter

and for your blessing on our undertaking.”

“My son,” said Bhishma, “if you had not come

I would have uttered a curse for your defeat.

As it is, I am pleased with you, and wish you

victory in battle, and good fortune after.

You know the saying,
Man is the slave of wealth

but wealth is no man’s slave.
I am not free,

indebted to the Kauravas as I am.

I have to fight for Duryodhana,

and I shall do my best to win for him.

But, that apart, you can ask me a favor.”

“Then tell me how our forces can defeat you,”

said Yudhishthira, “you who are known to be

invincible. Say, how can you be killed?”

“No one can overpower me,” said Bhishma.

“The time for me to die has not yet come.

Speak to me again.” Yudhishthira bowed.

Next he went to Drona and, similarly,

sought his blessing, asking the master too

how he might be defeated. “With Krishna

on your side, you certainly will win,”

said Drona. “But I will not be defeated

unless I quit the fight; and that will be

only if a man whose word I trust

gives me heartbreaking news. I shall fight

for the Kauravas, but pray for your success.”

Yudhishthira requested Kripa’s blessing.

“I am as useless to you as a eunuch,”

said the old teacher. “Since I am duty bound,

by ties of obligation, to support

the Kauravas, giving you my blessing

must be a vacuous formality.

It is impossible for you to kill me.

But, best of men, I will pray sincerely,

every morning, for your victory.”

Lastly, Yudhishthira sought out Shalya,

who had meant to join the Pandavas

until seduced by Duryodhana’s

lavish hospitality. He confirmed

that when the time came for him to act

as Karna’s charioteer, he would contrive

to undermine the nerve of the driver’s son.

Krishna had a private word with Karna.

“Since you are determined not to fight

while Bhishma is alive and in command,

why should you not come over to our side?

Then, when Bhishma falls, you can go back

and take up arms for Dhritarashtra’s son.”

“You know that is impossible,” said Karna.

“I will not cause pain in any way

to Duryodhana. I know how things will go,

but Duryodhana has been my only friend

and I will cast away my life to serve him.”

Yudhishthira, his obeisances over,

called to the assembled Kaurava princes:

“Anyone who wishes to fight with us

will be made most welcome as an ally.”

Scowling and shuffling among the Kauravas.

There must have been many who were tempted.

Then Yuyutsu, son of Dhritarashtra

by a vaishya woman, stepped forward, saying

“I’ll fight for your cause if you will have me.”

“Welcome, my friend,” smiled Yudhishthira.

“Only you among your foolish brothers

will live to be a comfort to your father.”

Then the Pandavas shouldered their bright armor

and returned to their lines to the beat of drums.

Everyone who had seen Yudhishthira

clasp the feet of his respected elders

shouted out, “Well done!” and “Worthy king!”

The troops approved of him; so did the audience

of gods and gandharvas who had assembled

to watch this spectacle, this war of wars.

Even those who had chafed at the delay

were moved by what he had done. Now they felt

even more fired up than they had before.

Sanjaya said:

Now nothing could hold back catastrophe.

Any weak hope that this insane conflict

might, after all, be just the stuff of games

died in the din of drums, of thundering hooves,

the clash of cymbals that forced out all thought:

pure experience without reflection.

At the deafening sound of instruments,

hoarse yells, the trumpeting of elephants,

the whinnying of thousands of fine horses,

the armies hurled themselves toward each other:

the Kauravas with Bhishma at their head,

the Pandavas with Bhima in the vanguard

roaring like a storm cloud—so terrifying

that elephants and horses pissed and shat

as though they heard a lion in the offing.

From a distance, the two armies looked

like painted figures on an immense canvas,

men running with fixed attention, while dense showers

of arrows flew all round them and above them.

The air vibrated with the thrum of bowstrings

as arrows found their mark, or fell to earth

bouncing harmlessly off casque and breastplate,

off shields and gauntlets made of toughened leather.

The battlefield was like a mighty river

with bows for crocodiles, arrows for snakes,

swords, glinting fish, and the seething infantry

tempestuous waves, churning, crashing, breaking.

The din was so great as to drive men witless,

such was the thunder of hooves, the heavy tread

of troops weighed down by armor, the clanging bells

adorning elephants, the trundling wheels.

Both men and animals had trained for this.

Yet, really, how could anything prepare them

for the sheer noise, the terror, the scale of it,

the confusion of not knowing what to do,

who was in charge. This was not an everyday

skirmish, a cattle raid, trying one’s luck;

not like some exercise, some bold adventure.

But those watching saw how accurately,

how elegantly, the princes of both sides

who had been Drona’s pupils used their weapons.

There were many dozens of two-man contests,

opponents well matched, marked out for each other

sustaining bitter, often fatal, wounds.

Arjuna and Bhishma fought hard and long

but, however strenuously they tried,

neither could get the better of the other.

Abhimanyu, favorite son of Arjuna,

fought powerfully with the Kosala king.

“As good as his father!” onlookers exclaimed.

Nakula fought Duhshasana; Ashvatthaman

tackled Shikhandin—but it seemed at first

that none of them was seriously determined,

none of them yet willing to deliver

a death blow—although some cut down the standards

of their opponents or slashed at their horses.

Bhishma penetrated the Pandava lines.

His oriflamme, with its palmyra emblem,

was seen everywhere and, where it flew,

men fell by the hundred. Bhishma danced

high on his chariot, powerful as a youth.

Then Uttara, King Virata’s son,

whom Arjuna had forced to become a man,

riding on a great bull elephant,

charged at Shalya, making his massive mount

stamp on Shalya’s horses, crushing them.

Shalya hurled an iron spear at Uttara

killing him outright; then, leaping down

from his horseless chariot, he cut off the trunk

of Uttara’s magnificent elephant

which shrieked and fell down dead.

Uttara’s brother,

Shveta, on seeing his brother killed, flew

at Shalya, who had boarded the chariot

of Kritavarman, and, consumed with grief,

fought bitterly with Shalya, and with others

who came to his defense. These included

Rukmaratha, Shalya’s beloved son

whom Shveta assailed with broad-headed arrows

and wounded fatally. A great skirmish

coalesced around Shveta and Shalya

with many warriors rushing to protect them.

Shveta battled like a man possessed,

killing hundreds. Seeing this from far off,

Bhishma rode across to join the fight,

a chaotic fray. Thick clouds of dust,

stirred up by many hooves and wheels, made seeing

difficult, so that, in the mêlée,

brother hacked at brother, father at son,

comrade blindly swung his sword at comrade.

Shveta’s assault was so terrifying

that the Kauravas drew back in panic,

leaving Bhishma facing him alone.

The two fought on, mighty warriors both.

Shveta hurled a heavy mace with such force

that Bhishma’s chariot was reduced to splinters.

Now both men were on foot. Bhishma aimed

but Shveta shattered his bow with one arrow,

and cut down his standard, so his troops

feared he must be dead. But no, he stood

resplendent as Mount Meru, his white hair

and upright bearing utterly distinctive,

another shining bow grasped in his hand.

Shveta flew at him, but swiftly Bhishma

mounted a nearby chariot. Then he heard

a voice from nowhere,
It has been decreed

by the Creator that Shveta’s time has come.

Bhishma, galvanized, gathered his strength

and, despite the several powerful Pandavas

rallying to brave Shveta’s defense,

the patriarch nocked a single deadly arrow

and invoked the powerful
Brahma
weapon,

just one of his many celestial astras,

which, flying faster than a shaft of light,

pierced Shveta’s armor, and sliced cleanly through him,

striking the earth. Just as the setting sun

carries away light from the world, so

the arrow, exiting from Shveta’s body,

carried away his life. So it was

that, amid the lamentations of his friends,

a splendid warrior, rich in bravery,

rich in promise, was flung prematurely

from the world—one of a million heroes

whose early death in this cataclysmic war

would make their mothers weep; and live in legend.

This was just one fragment of the damage

Bhishma inflicted on the Pandavas

on that first day of war. With his great skill

and his mastery of celestial weapons