Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (51 page)

Then Yudhishthira turned his chariot

drawn by superb horses, and retreated.

Drona focused on the Panchalas.

He and his forces set about destroying

everything in their path. As a thunderstorm

pelts the helpless earth with vicious hailstones

so he assaulted the Panchala divisions.

Seeing it, Duryodhana laughed with joy

and said to Karna, “Look at the devastation

our forces are inflicting on the allies

of the Pandavas—falling by the thousand!

They can never recover after this.”

Karna was less confident. “The Pandavas

will not collapse so easily. Look there—

Bhima is surrounded by our warriors.

It may look hopeless, but with his huge strength

he has killed hundreds of our men already.

You can be sure that he is remembering

the wrongs he and his family have suffered

because of us—Ekachakra . . . Draupadi . . .

We should provide Drona with reinforcements.”

Duryodhana clashed with Bhima, each leading

an elephant division, the animals

splendidly decked out, their curving tusks

filed to cruel points. Huge as hills, cheeks trickling

with juices, the Kaurava beasts were quickly

mangled by Bhima’s arrows, and swerved away,

spurting blood. Then Duryodhana struck Bhima,

and Wolf-belly, eyes glowing red with rage,

released a shower of arrows in return,

hoping to send his cousin to Yama’s realm.

Bhagadatta, King of Pragjyotisha,

long-standing ally of Duryodhana,

renowned elephant warrior, joined the fight.

He advanced on Bhima riding his elephant,

a battle-hardened monster of great cunning,

rolling its eyes, eager for the kill.

Bhima was, by this time, on the ground

and, rather than trying to escape, he ran

under the beast’s body, and began

to slap it with fierce blows, which made the creature

turn like a wheel to face the Kauravas,

menacing his own side, mad with musth.

As he emerged, Bhima was nearly strangled

by the elephant’s trunk, but wrestled loose

and ran away to safety.

Bhagadatta

then began to attack Yudhishthira.

High on his elephant, he was besieged

by Pandava forces, blasted by an onslaught

of well-aimed arrows. But his elephant

trampled hundreds of horses and infantry,

and he broke free. Just as the scorching sun

sheds its rays on everything around,

so Bhagadatta, on his monstrous mount,

sprayed lethal arrows on his enemies.

Terror spread among the Pandavas

and they scattered. No one could withstand

this champion of elephants and his master,

the best elephant warrior in the world—

except Arjuna.

It had struck Karna

and Duryodhana that the son of Kunti,

faced with the choice between Bhagadatta

and the Trigartas, would very likely choose

the latter—the men who had challenged him.

Now, as Arjuna and Krishna traveled

to rejoin the main battle, they heard, far off,

distinctive sounds, and guessed that Bhagadatta

and his elephant were wreaking havoc.

But Arjuna was torn. He heard behind him

the thundering hooves of the Trigarta horses—

the survivors, pursuing him to the end.

He turned and, concentrating on the mantra,

he unleashed the deadly
Brahma
weapon,

filling the air above the pursuing troops

with white-hot arrows, trailing flashing fire,

annihilating hundreds, like men of straw.

Even the solid block of infantry

cracked apart like an overheated vessel

faced with his unearthly energy.

Krishna raised his hands in admiration.

“Quick! Drive to Bhagadatta,” cried Arjuna.

The encounter between Bhagadatta

and Arjuna was fierce in the extreme.

Bhagadatta had a height advantage

and could rain down arrows by the hundred.

But Arjuna deflected them. Krishna whirled

the chariot round to the rear of Bhagadatta

where Arjuna could have killed him easily,

but the Pandava held back, respecting

the rules of fair fight.

Bitter and prolonged

was the struggle between those fine warriors,

with many wounds inflicted on both sides,

and many deadly darts and spears deflected.

Hard pressed and desperate, Bhagadatta hurled

straight at Arjuna’s chest an iron hook

charged with the celestial
Vaishnava
mantra.

Krishna swiftly stepped in front of his friend

and the weapon, striking him instead,

turned into a garland of lovely flowers,

blue lotuses, glowing with tongues of flame.

Arjuna complained, “You should keep your word

and drive the chariot. I can defend myself.”

But Krishna told him Bhagadatta’s weapon

could not be survived by anyone but him.

Arjuna raised his bow and, with great force,

struck the forehead of the elephant

with a long, thick arrow. As lightning

can split a mountain, so the arrow drove

deep into its head. Though Bhagadatta

urged it on, the beast fell, paralyzed

and, trumpeting its last cry of distress,

it died. Quickly, Arjuna let loose

a crescent-headed spear at Bhagadatta.

Arrows and bow fell from the king’s hands.

His world became a mesh of darkness, heart

skewered by Arjuna’s unerring weapon,

and the celebrated warrior, wreathed in gold,

slid from the elephant, his gorgeous headdress

unraveling as he plummeted to earth.

With the death of mighty Bhagadatta

the Kauravas, in anger and dismay,

thirsted for revenge against Arjuna.

Two of Gandhari’s brothers, skilled archers

standing side by side in their chariot,

let fly shaft after shaft. But very quickly

Arjuna pierced them with a single arrow

and, as one body, they fell to the ground.

Then their brother Shakuni, the gambler,

took on Arjuna by means of sorcery.

Spiked clubs, iron balls, daggers, tridents, spears,

rocks, scimitars and snake-headed shafts

began to fall on Arjuna and Krishna.

Hordes of wild and hungry animals

appeared all around them, baying and snarling.

Laughing, Arjuna countered all of this

by wielding well-chosen celestial weapons.

Next a thick and choking fog engulfed them

and, after that, huge waves of foaming water

which Arjuna dispelled. Then Shakuni,

seeing that his tricks were ineffective,

fled the battlefield like a craven coward.

With
Gandiva
, Arjuna released

his arrows like a humming flight of locusts

and each one found its mark in man or beast.

Panic surged through the Kaurava divisions

as fighters, desperate to save themselves,

abandoned kin and comrade, left their horses

and trampled on the wounded as they ran.

“Help, Lord help me!” Everywhere were heard

cries of the dying, untended and alone.

Meanwhile, to the south, Drona was leading

a furious assault on the Pandava force

led by Dhrishtadyumna. Extensive damage

was sustained by both sides, and the Pandavas

lost Nila, one of their greatest bowmen.

Karna fought with Satyaki, a duel

that ended with each wounded, but intact.

Arjuna and Krishna joined them, killing

three of Karna’s brothers. So it went—

an ecstasy of violence and rage,

until night fell, and the two sides withdrew.

On the whole, it seemed the Kauravas

had come off worst from the day’s events.

Sanjaya continued:

Morning broke over the dismal plain.

From the vast carnage of the days before,

the jumbled bodies, limbs and carcasses,

too numerous now to be attended to,

littered the field as far as the eye could see.

Reviewing the events of the previous day,

Duryodhana concealed his boiling rage

as he addressed Drona before the troops.

“Drona,” he said, “you made me a promise

which, it seems, you conveniently forgot,

since you failed to seize Yudhishthira.

He was within your grasp; you did not grasp him.

I am wondering whose side you support.”

Despite the fact that he had made every effort,

Drona was ashamed. “I promise you:

before the sun sinks on another day

I will put in place a battle formation

so large, so tight, so intricately designed

that no man will escape—a trap for heroes!

And I swear to kill a prominent warrior

from among the Pandavas. But, once again,

you have to entice Arjuna away

from the main action. He is invincible.”

That thirteenth morning, there was no eagerness

for what was coming. For the weary troops,

despite brave words and boastful declarations,

endurance was the order of the day,

not confidence.

The hot-blooded Trigartas,

as had been planned, challenged Arjuna

to fight them in the southern part of the field.

Drona directed ten thousand of his men

into the wheel formation, a rotating,

winding, circular shape, impossible

to penetrate, save by a very few.

This was a hand-picked and experienced force

who had solemnly sworn never to break ranks.

They had smeared themselves with sandal paste

and, terrible to see, all wore red robes

with gold ornaments, and scarlet banners.

Ten thousand trained, courageous warriors,

yet they advanced as one, shoulder to shoulder,

shields edge to edge, standards overlapping—

a sight to strike fear in all who witnessed it.

At the front rode Drona, and behind him

were proud Jayadratha with Ashvatthaman.

Duryodhana, shaded by his parasol,

was flanked by his greatest chariot warriors—

Karna, Kripa, Duhshasana among them.

The Pandavas met Drona’s force head on.

A fierce battle followed, with many hundreds

massacred or wounded mortally.

The wheel was unassailable, and from it

a storm of missiles rained on the Pandavas

who could make no headway, but instead

time and again took dreadful punishment.

Yudhishthira drew Abhimanyu aside.

He was still a boy, but in accomplishment

and in beauty he rivaled his great father.

All the virtues, all the martial skills

of the five sons of Pandu, and of Krishna,

were united in him. Abhimanyu

was admired and loved by all who knew him.

Yudhishthira addressed him. “With your father

engaged elsewhere, you are the only one

who knows how to break into the wheel.

Child, for the sake of all of us you must try

to penetrate what Drona has constructed

or else, when Arjuna returns, he’ll blame us.”

Abhimanyu was fired up with zeal.

“Today, the world will witness my great feats;

I shall slaughter all who challenge me

or I’ll not call myself Arjuna’s son!

Only—my father taught me how to enter

the wheel, but not how to come out again.”

“Once you have broken in,” said Yudhishthira,

“you will force a path for us to follow.

Never fear, we shall be close behind you

and we can smash it open from within.”

“Then,” said Abhimanyu, “I will fly

like a mad moth into a searing fire!”

Hearing what Abhimanyu had in mind,

his charioteer was woebegone, fearful

that the task was far too dangerous.

“You have scant experience of war;

Drona with all his skill will surely crush you.”

But Abhimanyu, full of cheerfulness,

said, “Oh, Sumitra! It will be glorious!

Who is Drona? Is he omnipotent?

Even if I were to face my father

or my uncle on the battlefield

I should not be afraid. Now, driver—drive!”

Thus Abhimanyu, dressed in flashing armor,

tall and beautiful as a flowering tree,

standard flying over his splendid chariot,

urged his driver on. The Kauravas

rejoiced to see him coming to the trap.

The Pandavas followed closely in his wake.

Mocking catcalls, whistles, ululations

reached him from the jeering Kauravas

but Abhimanyu was the first to strike

hard and precisely, like a human scythe

shearing a field of grass. First, he lopped off

arms by the hundred still grasping spears and bows.

Then Kaurava heads were rolling on the ground

surprised by death, fine turbans still intact

adorned with precious jewels. Single-handed,

the boy brought chaos to his adversaries.

Duryodhana advanced to engage with him.

At once, at Drona’s urging, the best warriors

moved forward to protect your noble son,

courageous as he was, and Abhimanyu

was forced to back off, roaring like a lion

whose prey has been denied him. Savagely,

he hurtled through your son’s brigades, dispatching

countless men with his swift-flying arrows,

feats so dazzling that even the Kauravas

shouted in admiration.

Fighting free

of this initial skirmish, Abhimanyu

managed to break open the wheel formation

and entered. At once, he was surrounded.

The Pandavas were following hard behind

but, before they could enter, they were blocked

by Jayadratha. Violent and rapacious,

the powerful king of Sindhu had long harbored

bitter hatred toward the Pandavas,

ever since Bhima had prevented him

from abducting Draupadi in the forest,

and savagely humiliated him.

After he had engaged in austerities

great lord Shiva had granted him a boon—

that at the crucial time he would have the power

to hold in check the might of the Pandavas.

Now, that time had come. The Pandavas,

try as they might, could not penetrate the wheel.

Jayadratha held them off with ease,

smashing their weapons in their helpless hands.

Soon, the route by which Abhimanyu entered

closed again, as elephants, troops and chariots

rearranged themselves. The young prince stood

quite alone, surrounded, unprotected

before the legions of the Kauravas.

O majesty, what followed will be sung

as deathless legend, generations hence.

The young hero gathered his resources

and demonstrated his unearthly skill

and courage. Many great Kaurava warriors,

the best there were, died at his hands that day.

Beautiful as a flame in a dark place,

it was as if this were a delightful game.

A kind of joyful calm pervaded him.

He crowed in exultation as he aimed

unfailingly with arrows and with spear,

with sword and mace—with every kind of weapon,

earthly and celestial.

He received

many painful wounds, and still he fought,

inflicting thousands more on his opponents.

He fought like a young god, and all who saw him

would remember it to their dying day.

Drona rejoiced that his favorite pupil

had passed on all his prowess to his son.

He killed Karna’s brother, and he slew

Lakshmana, Duryodhana’s cherished son.

He caused many strong, courageous fighters

to fall back. Wave after wave of warriors

rushed at him; and he repulsed them all,

slicing off hands, arms, ears, so that the ground

was an altar sluiced with sacrificial blood.

And yet, because of his respect for kindred,

Abhimanyu battled with restraint;

as Drona remarked, he often chose to wound

rather than kill. “Ah,” sneered Duryodhana,

“our Drona has a soft spot for the princeling;

if he wanted, he could finish him,

master that he is; yet he does not do it.”

For hours, Abhimanyu appeared tireless.

Although the Pandavas could not reach him,

they saw his amazing deeds and cheered him on

until the dust of battle hid him from them.

How could it not end in tragedy

when no help was at hand for Abhimanyu?

One by one, his weapons were destroyed,

his bow broken, his chariot smashed, his spear

splintered. Finally he fought on foot,

only a mace to defend himself, for now

he was the target more than the attacker.

As cowardly wolves prefer to hunt in packs,

six of the most powerful Kauravas—

Drona, Karna, Kripa, Kritavarman,

Ashvatthaman and Duhshasana’s son—

set upon the exhausted Abhimanyu.

These were great warriors; they knew full well

that a mob attack on a lone opponent

was contrary to dharma. Yet they did it.

Duhshasana’s son delivered the final blow

with a mace, smashing the young hero’s head

as, already down, he tried to rise.

Abhimanyu, Arjuna’s best beloved,

beautiful in death as he was in life,

fell to earth, and did not move again.

It was as though the full and luminous moon

had fallen from the sky to the black earth.

The Kauravas, a much depleted army,

whooped with delirious joy.

It was dusk.

The last fiery filaments of the sun

streaked the sky over the western hill.

The warriors surveyed the devastation,

the battlefield resembling a sacked city.

Scavengers were gathering already

to feast on the abundant human flesh:

crows and ravens, jackals, kanka birds

ripping at the frail skin of the fallen

to drink their fat, lick marrow from their bones,

guzzle their blood.

These were fallen comrades,

brothers, sons, fathers reduced to this

welter of mere matter, food for birds.

Unable to perform the proper rites,

the living felt defiled, grief unresolved.

The somber troops slouched silently to their tents.

The Pandavas were overwhelmed with sorrow

for Abhimanyu. Yudhishthira could see

that his men had lost all zest for battle.

“We must not grieve,” he told them, “we should rather

follow Abhimanyu’s great example.

Today, he slaughtered countless Kauravas.

That hero is in heaven; if we stand firm,

we shall defeat our enemies for sure.”

But privately, Yudhishthira was crushed

by grief for his brave and beloved nephew.