Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (45 page)

he was invincible, sending dense cascades

of arrows scorching through the Pandava ranks,

killing thousands. As the sun sank low

the downcast Pandavas withdrew their troops

to rest overnight. So did the Kauravas,

who came rampaging, laughing back to camp

where cooks had prepared steaming vats of food.

They drank and feasted far into the night,

exulting in their first day’s victory.

In his tent, Yudhishthira was downcast,

counting the dreadful losses of the day.

“Krishna, this can’t go on. Today, Bhishma

was like a raging fire fed by butter,

licking up my troops like piles of chaff.

He is unstoppable. I am not prepared

to have my loyal soldiers massacred

like helpless insects. Furthermore, Arjuna—

our only match for Bhishma, with his command

of celestial weapons—is not fighting

with genuine conviction. He saw our troops

attacked by Bhishma earlier, but did nothing.

Only Bhima fought with his whole heart

like a true kshatriya. Life is too precious

to be squandered in the dust like this.

I shall surrender, embrace a forest life!”

“Son of Kunti, you should not despair,”

said Krishna, “when so many noble princes,

allies and kinsmen, are committed to you.

Dhrishtadyumna is more than capable

as supreme commander; and Shikhandin

will certainly be the cause of Bhishma’s death.

Time has decreed it.” Krishna’s calm confidence

allayed Yudhishthira’s despondency.

Meanwhile, out on the darkened battlefield,

wounded men, located by their groans,

were carried to camp, where surgeons tended them.

Men were running to and fro, collecting

arrows and other weapons, stripping corpses

of their armor and accoutrements

to be used again. It was bloody work.

Lowborn men, whose task it was to handle

the dead, piled their carts high with bodies,

hundreds upon hundreds, some still warm,

some stiff and cold, in indiscriminate death.

They tipped them onto funerary pyres,

doused them with oil and set fire to them.

Smoke rose for hours, sullying the moon.

Throughout the night they worked. Sometimes jackals

had been there first and, as dawn approached,

crows and vultures jostled in the trees.

The workers rattled pans to scare them off.

They flapped up briefly, with complaining cries,

then settled back to their lugubrious watch.

In Yama’s realm, the shades of brave warriors

were opening their eyes on another world.

Sanjaya went on:

For a while, on the first day of battle,

the fighting had been fairly orderly

in accordance with the covenant

agreed between the sides. But very soon

rules were forgotten in the mad excitement,

the joyful surge of blood-lust, and the desperate

struggle to survive. When a leader’s standard

had been cut down, or toppled, the foot soldiers

ran around like a scattered flock of geese

wildly searching for their own battalion.

Like the men, the elephants and horses

had been trained for battle. But reality,

in its terror, wiped out what they had learned.

Often they were maddened and confused.

Elephants worked well when their driver

remained in charge. But if he was wounded

and fell, then the animal was inclined

to stampede, doing enormous harm.

Day two went better for the Pandavas.

Their troops were deployed in a wide formation

resembling a crane, with wings outspread,

banners, like feathers, brilliant in the sun.

Bhishma, at the head of the Kauravas,

advanced on the Pandavas, pelting them

with streams of arrows from his mighty bow,

and soon the field was littered with the dead

and dying. But Arjuna and Krishna

rushed to confront the patriarch, and soon

cut a great swath through the Kauravas

as a violent storm flattens a field of grain,

such that Duryodhana became dismayed.

“Grandfather, I hope you have not forgotten

that it’s only on account of your contempt

that Karna is not here, fighting with us,

instead of idly burnishing his bow.

So you had better see that Arjuna

does not survive the day!”

The patriarch

well knew that Arjuna was unbeatable.

But, as he had to, he attacked the Pandava,

drawing on his preternatural prowess.

Arjuna matched his onslaught shaft for shaft,

blow for vicious blow, while all around them

soldiers fell, animals screamed and died.

When the sun set on a bloody day,

Bhishma pulled his troops back for the night.

Sanjaya said:

On the third day, Bhishma arranged his army

in an eagle formation—himself the beak,

Drona and Kritavarman the two eyes,

the mass of troops the body and outstretched wings.

The Pandavas, arrayed in a half-moon,

vast and curving, marched steadily to meet them.

Arjuna was at the left horn, Bhima

at the right; and, between them, other generals,

each standing on his splendid four-horse chariot,

riding in the vanguard of his troops:

Yudhishthira, protected by elephants,

Virata, Drupada, Dhristadyumna,

the five sons of Draupadi, and Satyaki

(never yet defeated in single combat).

Ghatotkacha, Bhima’s half-ogre son,

and other staunch allies of the Pandavas,

advanced in glittering armor, bright-hued banners

fluttering proudly above their chariots.

Like the meeting of two walls of water

rearing upward from the ocean bed,

driven by unseen forces underground,

the armies clashed and mingled with each other;

the noise of conches, drums, the marching feet

and battle cries, were enough to drown the senses

and make men mad. Earlier, back at camp,

each man had known himself a human being

with plans and passions, memories, preferences.

Now he only knew he was an atom

in a vast organism, carried forward

by the collective energy of the mass.

No place for initiative at this moment,

no room for escape. He was fired up,

seized by a frenzy larger than himself

and with a passionate desire for glory.

Dust swirled and billowed, blotting out the sun.

Men struggled to keep their bearings, to make out

which were their leaders, comrades, countrymen,

shouting names they hoped would bring an answer,

straining to catch sight of familiar standards

while, all around, tripping them, blocking them,

dead and dying men and animals

bled into the already slushy ground.

Through gashed skin the blood came spurting, leaping,

on its mending mission; blood to fill

the impossible gap, the violent breach

in the body’s confident integrity;

the breach that let death enter, the spirit fly.

The great chariot warriors, well matched,

each supported by close-knit divisions,

showered each other with bright streams of arrows.

Bhishma and Drona engaged Dhrishtadyumna

and Yudhishthira in savage battle.

The Kaurava troops, getting the worst of it,

flew away in all directions, Bhishma

powerless to stop them. Duryodhana,

for whom any reverse seemed like betrayal,

reproached Bhishma harshly: “You and Drona

are allowing my army to be slaughtered

by the Pandavas. If I had known

you would be soft on them, Karna and I

would have devised a different strategy!”

Bhishma rolled his eyes to heaven in fury

and despair. “How often have I told you

that Arjuna and Krishna are invincible?

We are doing everything we can—I vow,

in front of all your kinsmen, that today

I shall hold at bay the sons of Pandu!”

At this, Duryodhana was mollified.

Bhima and Duryodhana, old enemies,

pitted themselves fiercely against each other

until Bhima, smiling wrathfully,

hurled a heavy lance with enormous force

denting the breastplate of the Kaurava

so that he sank back, fainting, in his chariot,

and was driven rapidly away.

His troops, seeing him retreat, defeated,

scattered in fear, Bhima pursuing them

with a joyful roar, killing hundreds.

Meanwhile, Bhishma, faithful to his vow,

was tearing apart Pandava divisions

like a tiger savaging its prey.

The sound of men and animals collapsing

in their armor was like an avalanche

of rocks clattering down a mountainside.

Only one Pandava was capable

of withstanding so terrible an assault.

Arjuna hated to fight the patriarch

who had loved and nurtured him from childhood.

But Krishna urged him forward, whipping up

the spirited white horses.

That was combat

the like of which was never seen before.

Each warrior released a spate of arrows

which the other shot down with his own.

Arjuna was holding something back

although he fought with great skill and panache,

causing Bhishma to shout in admiration.

But Bhishma had made a vow, and he inflicted

such dreadful damage on the Pandava troops

that Krishna was in despair, seeing clearly

that, at this rate, a Pandava defeat

was certain. He raised his divine weapon,

his discus,
Sudarshana
, flung down the reins

and, though he had undertaken not to fight,

he ran toward the patriarch.

Bhishma cried,

“I welcome you, lord of the universe.

What better fate than to be killed by you?

I shall be honored in all the three worlds!”

Krishna exclaimed, “It is your wrong action

that is at the root of this murderous war.

You should have prevailed on Dhritarashtra

to curb his son.”

“Krishna, I tried,” said Bhishma.

“Let destiny take its course.”

As Krishna raised

the lethal
Sudarshana
to fling it,

Arjuna tore across and seized his arms.

Krishna broke free, energized by rage,

but Arjuna knocked his feet from under him

and brought him down. They glared at one another.

“Krishna, you shall not do this! It is I

who am pledged to crush the Kauravas.

You are my charioteer—that was agreed.

I will stretch every nerve to keep my word.”

At this, Krishna’s fury was appeased.

He mounted the chariot.

Battle recommenced

with its cacophony, so appalling

that kites and vultures seeing, smelling flesh

were nonetheless driven to a distance

yet, then, forgetting, greedy, circled back

to hover for a time above the field.

Arjuna, lit up by new resolve,

blazed into action. His bow
Gandiva

thrummed like thunder, shaking the very heavens.

Like a dense swarm of locusts, outstripping

the fastest wind, the Terrifier’s arrows

tore into the heart of the enemy,

and none was wasted; each one found its mark.

Whatever lance or javelin or arrows

were directed at him, he intercepted

and shattered with his own unerring shafts.

Nothing Bhishma or the other Kauravas

flung at him succeeded in its aim.

He, on the other hand, devastated

the enemy. With the setting sun

about to mark an end to the day’s battle,

he took the powerful
Mahendra
weapon,

invoked its power with the proper mantras,

drew back his bowstring to its full extent

and let
Mahendra
fly above the field

where it rained down showers of flaming arrows,

scorching the enemy. Those arrows stripped

men’s armor from them, piercing heart and head,

or melted it on their backs, so that they died

in agonizing pain.

“Enough! Enough!”

screamed the Kauravas. As the sun went down

on that day’s victory for the Pandavas,

Duryodhana’s men dragged themselves wearily

back to their camp, exhausted and downhearted.

Sanjaya continued:

The fourth day of the war. The Kauravas

moved forward in a formidable array.

Elephants were adorned with dazzling cloths

in festive colors, as if this were a day

of celebration. Bhishma rode in front,

his own brilliant banner flying high.

But hearts quailed when they saw the Pandavas

marching toward them, led by Arjuna.

Their army was arranged in a vast crescent,

as the day before; four thousand elephants

on each flank, packed shoulder to shoulder,

advanced like the approach of doom itself.

Bhima was the hero of that day.

Determined to engage with Duryodhana,

Wolf-belly launched himself among the enemy,

mace whirling, roaring like a man possessed.

Alhough the Kauravas were well equipped

and organized, advancing like massed storm clouds,

Bhima, a hulking one-man war machine,

rolled on, relentless, with great loss of life.

Among the several hundred infantry

he sent to Yama’s realm with his deadly mace