Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (62 page)

Having many weapons of different kinds

at their disposal, the two fighters displayed

miraculous and beautiful maneuvers;

and the celestials, watching from the sky,

shouted in admiration, sprinkling

the heroes with cool, perfumed sandal-water.

Ashvasena, Arjuna’s snake enemy,

managed to insinuate himself

into Karna’s quiver, where he took shape

as a blazing arrow. Nocked on the bowstring,

he caused the sky to shimmer with evil portents—

thunderbolts and fiery meteors.

“Use another arrow,” shouted Shalya,

“that one will not have the effect you want.”

But Karna rejected the advice, and loosed

the awe-inspiring arrow. It seemed to carve

a channel in the firmament as it flew

straight for Arjuna’s head. Calmly, easily,

Krishna pressed down the chariot with his feet,

causing it to sink. In this way, the arrow

did not behead Arjuna, but merely knocked

his lovely jeweled diadem to the ground.

The Pandava bound his hair with a white cloth.

The snake hissed at Karna, “When you shot me

you did not aim with care. That is why

I was unable to decapitate him.”

“Who are you?” asked Karna.

“I am a hater

of Arjuna, my mother’s murderer.

Shoot me again, and you will quickly see

his head knocked from his shoulders.” Karna said,

“Karna will not win through another’s power;

and I will not shoot an arrow a second time.”

“As you please,” hissed the snake, and he aimed himself

straight at Arjuna—who sliced him up

in mid-flight, and sent him writhing, spinning

to earth.

Krishna righted the chariot

and, as he did so, Karna attacked.

Arjuna, with several well-judged shots,

penetrated Karna’s armor; exultant,

Karna struck him back, laughing aloud.

Arjuna, with preternatural skill,

stripped Karna of his beautiful gold headdress,

his jeweled earrings, and his shining armor,

then wounded him so deeply and severely

that Karna gasped, staggered, streamed with blood.

The driver’s son set down his bow and quiver,

thus signaling a respite. Arjuna,

observant of the rules, let fall his bow,

but Krishna urged him on. “Don’t let up now!

Karna is your hate-filled enemy.

Kill him while you can—as Indra did

when he slaughtered the demon Namuchi.

Arjuna obeyed, and soon Karna

was spiked with arrows all over his body.

But, rallying, he snatched up his fine bow

and pelted Arjuna with fiery shafts.

Now he struggled to recall the words

of the mantra for the highest
Brahma
weapon,

but his mind was blurred; he could not grasp them.

His inner light was wavering in him.

The hour of Karna’s death was fast approaching.

Time itself, whispering in his ear,

told him that Earth was starting to devour

his chariot wheel. The chariot lurched, tilted

and stuck fast in the ground. His lovely bow

fell from his hand. Mortally wounded now,

wringing his hands in despair, Karna cried,

“I have followed dharma, but righteousness,

after all, does not protect the righteous.

Instead, righteousness is destroying me!”

As Krishna and Arjuna closed in on him

Karna climbed down from his chariot

and struggled to release his mud-bound wheel.

“Hold off!” he cried. “Only a coward strikes

when his opponent has laid down his arms.

Arjuna, you are a man of principle,

you observe dharma—do what you know is right!”

Krishna shouted, “It is well and good

for you to plead dharma when you’re in trouble.

Where was dharma when you outraged Draupadi?

Where was it when you helped Duryodhana

to plot the murder of the Pandavas?

And where, when you connived in their exile?

And when young Abhimanyu was outnumbered,

where was dharma then?”

Karna bowed his head.

He picked up his bow. Then Arjuna destroyed

Karna’s glittering bejeweled standard,

symbol of Duryodhana’s ardent hopes.

Seeing that, a shocked lament arose

from all the watching Kauravas. Arjuna

took out his hefty arrow
Anjalika

with blade as broad as two hands joined together

and, placing it in his bow
Gandiva
,

he prayed that it would find its rightful mark.

And aimed.
Anjalika
, flaming like a comet,

flew with unearthly speed, straight and true,

and struck off Karna’s head. It fell to earth

as the red disc of the sun drops at sunset.

It was afternoon.

As Karna’s head and trunk

fell, still lovely, glistening with blood,

the light that always seemed to shine from him

left his body, and rising through the sky,

traveled to the sun, and merged with it.

Everyone saw that. Karna’s fallen head

lay like a quenched fire after a sacrifice,

or like a boulder loosed from a mountainside

by a violent storm.

When Karna fell,

the rivers ceased to flow, the sun turned pale,

the planet Mercury seemed to change its course

and the earth trembled.

It is said by some

that as Karna’s spirit left his body,

he saw a brahmin (Krishna in disguise)

who asked him for gold. Having none to give,

with a stone, Karna knocked out his own teeth,

with their gold caps, washed them, and offered them.

Then Krishna granted him the supreme vision

of his divine self, riding on Garuda,

and promised him whatever boon he wished.

Karna considered choosing victory

for Duryodhana. But he asked, rather,

that Kunti should be brought news of his death.

He knew she would then come to the battlefield

and tell his brothers who he really was.

He asked a second boon. In his life,

he had been unable to gain the merit

of feeding others, since no one would want

hospitality from a driver’s son.

He asked Krishna that in his next birth

he should have that chance. Krishna blessed him

and granted his wish.

Sanjaya went on:

When Karna fell, the fighting was suspended

and warriors of both sides gathered round

in disbelief. Some of them were awestruck,

some were fearful, others sorrowful,

sobbing in grief, according to their natures.

The Pandavas were wild with exultation.

They blew their conches, shouted, waved their arms

and flapped their garments, dancing in delight.

Bhima roared and slapped his arms in triumph.

Arjuna, his vow fulfilled, relinquished

hostility for Karna. Yudhishthira

felt he had been reborn, and had to look

and look again at the body of the man

he had so long feared. “What good fortune,”

he exclaimed, “has today delivered

victory! Krishna, today I have become

king of the earth, together with my brothers,

and it is thanks to you.”

Duryodhana’s troops,

in disarray, milled around aimlessly

like horses without riders, or like boats

bobbing directionless on a choppy sea.

Grim, sorrowful, Shalya drove Karna’s chariot,

now freely moving, away from the scene of death.

Duryodhana was shocked past all expressing.

Tears poured from his eyes. But seeing his men

leaderless, he gathered his resolve

and rallied them. Then, for a little while,

battle resumed between the two armies.

Many of the warriors fled the field.

Duryodhana fought bravely, and attempted

to bring them back. “What is the use of running?

The Pandavas will pursue you everywhere.

Better to fight bravely and die with honor.”

Reluctantly, with faces pale as ash,

the men turned, and obeyed your son’s command.

Shalya turned Duryodhana’s attention

to the hideous sights of the battlefield:

the bloody corpses of men and animals,

the chaos of war’s paraphernalia.

“You yourself are the cause of all this horror.

The sun is hanging low over the hills;

let the troops retire for the night.”

Later, Duryodhana gave way to grief.

“Alas, Karna! Alas!” he cried, and stood

weeping beside his friend, who lay surrounded

by hundreds of gently glowing oil-filled lamps.

“Tell me what happened after the death of Karna,”

said King Janamejaya. “I never tire

of hearing of my ancestors’ great deeds.”

Vaishampayana continued to recite

island-born Vyasa’s epic poem.

After hearing of the death of Karna,

Dhritarashtra spent his time in dread,

braced for the most crushing news of all.

It was not long coming. Sanjaya arrived

stumbling, trembling, weeping as he approached,

to tell him, first, of the deaths of Shalya

and Shakuni. Then, that his last son,

his cherished Duryodhana, his first-born,

had fallen, felled by Bhima!

So appalling,

so harrowing was the news that the whole court

collapsed unconscious from the shock of it—

as if they themselves, in sympathy,

embraced Earth in the final swoon of death.

Slowly, they revived, speechless with distress.

“Ah!” wept Dhritarashtra, “this heart of mine

must be made of adamantine rock

that it does not shatter in my breast!

But I always knew this day would come,

cursed with the eyesight of insight as I am.

“When sly Shakuni tricked Yudhishthira,

trapped in the ill-fated gambling match—

then, Sanjaya, I lost hope of victory.

When Draupadi was dragged into the hall

and treated like a common prostitute—

then, Sanjaya, I lost hope of victory.

When I heard that Arjuna had obtained

the
Pashupata
weapon from Lord Shiva—

then, Sanjaya, I lost hope of victory.

When I was told that Duryodhana

had been saved from gandharvas by Arjuna—

then, Sanjaya, I lost hope of victory.

When I heard that Krishna was supporting

the Pandavas in this horrific war—

then, Sanjaya, I lost hope of victory.

And when I heard that Bhishma had fallen—then,

then, Sanjaya, I lost hope of victory.

“And yet, Duryodhana, my most loved boy,

how confident you were of victory.

You described to me our powerful allies,

how they would dedicate their lives and wealth

to your cause. How Krishna would not fight.

How the Pandava force was dwarfed by ours.

So I imagined the Pandavas would die.

Now, thinking of the death of all our heroes,

and all my sons—what can this be but fate?

“Oh, come back to me, my Duryodhana,

prince of princes, so loving, so proud-hearted!

How could you abandon me in my blindness?

Who will be my refuge in my old age?

Who will greet me when I wake, calling me

‘lord of all the world’? Who will embrace me,

who will love me now? How could you die

with so many strong kings to protect you?

So many brave men slaughtered for your sake,

and all five Pandavas alive, unharmed!

What else can this be but the work of fate?

There is nothing left for me in this life

but to pass my last days in the forest.

“Tell me how it came about, Sanjaya.

What happened after Karna had been killed?”

Sanjaya continued his narration.

In the evening of the seventeenth day,

a deputation went to Duryodhana

led by Kripa, urging the stubborn prince

to sue for peace. Duryodhana refused.

“I understand you speak to me as friends,

but your suggestion is impossible.

What we have done to harm the Pandavas

has lit a fire that cannot be extinguished

while I live. How can they forgive us?

Even if they could (I know Yudhishthira

is compassionate), how could I exist

beholden to the Pandavas? I have lived

as a prince on my own terms; I have ruled

righteously—my household is well cared-for,

I have been generous and just. I have conquered

many kingdoms. Now nothing remains

but to die fighting gloriously in battle—

an end befitting a kshatriya.

Only through death can I discharge my debt

to those brave warriors who have died for me.

I cannot preserve my life fully aware

that they have given theirs to serve my cause.

And what kind of life could I enjoy,

bereft of brothers, kinsmen, friends, my kingdom—

knowing that every breath I draw, I owe

to Yudhishthira? No! I who have been

lord of the earth will make my way to heaven

by fair fight. It will not be otherwise.”

At dawn next day, Shalya was consecrated

as commander. He mounted his chariot,

its battle standard bearing a golden furrow,

and made a speech to his diminished forces.

The Kaurava troops cheered and beat their drums.

Compared with the uproar on the war’s first day,

the warriors’ shouts rang thin and pitiful.

But still, those who were left were in good heart.

The two armies marched out. Battle began.

Unnecessary for every dreadful detail

to be rehearsed in full. I need only say

that, by the time the sun had reached its zenith,

the war that pitted cousin against cousin

was at an end. Almost every Kaurava

was stretched out dead or dying on the field.

At first, Shalya had seemed unbeatable,

a powerhouse of destruction. But Yudhishthira,

having the end securely in sight, perhaps,

fought the Madra king ferociously

and after a lengthy duel, fairly fought,

he cut down Shalya. This was the opponent

Krishna had marked out for him to kill,

his personal share of the victory.

The ruler of the Madras, arms outstretched,

fell facedown, embracing his own shadow,

clinging to the earth like a dear beloved.

The Pandavas cheered, “Now that Shalya’s dead

Duryodhana’s fortune has deserted him!”

The Kaurava troops fled; the Pandavas

flew after them. Then turning, rallying,

the Kauravas fought back. Duryodhana

was backed by Shalva, chief of the mlecchas,

who inflicted damage on the Pandavas,

mounted on a great war elephant

of quite exceptional strength and bravery.

The elephant attacked the chariots

of many warriors, snatching them up like toys,

dashing them onto the ground in splinters.

But Satyaki, with Bhima and Shikhandin,

managed to head it off, and Dhrishtadyumna

gave it the coup de grâce with his heavy mace

and then cut off the head of the beast’s master.

Dhritarashtra and Gandhari listened,

their faces drawn, their eyes brimming with tears

as Sanjaya described what happened next.

Duryodhana fought with despairing courage,

the way a man fights standing on the brink

of oblivion. Almost all his brothers

had been killed by now. His remaining wish

was for this catastrophe to finish,

but finish in a blaze of bravery.

Arjuna, too, was eager for the end.

He still marveled that Duryodhana

had chosen war, despite the good advice

he had received from all his counselors,

listening instead to Karna—as if born

to bring about the destruction of the world.

Now, hurling himself into the midst

of the enemy, Arjuna fought on.

He encountered the rump of the Trigartas

and killed them all, with their king, Susharman.

Sahadeva slaughtered Uluka, then

Uluka’s father, Shakuni the gambler,

after a bitter fight with every weapon,

parting his head cleanly from his shoulders.

His troops fled in confusion, but Duryodhana

shouted, “Turn back! Face the Pandavas!”

Bhima attacked your few remaining sons

until Sudarsha, the ninety-ninth brother,

was felled. Duryodhana’s great fighting force

was finished, almost down to the last man.

Just three great chariot warriors remained—

Kripa, Ashvatthaman and Kritavarman.

“How many were left of the Pandava force?”

asked the blind king.

“Two thousand chariots,

seven hundred elephants, five thousand horses

and ten thousand troops, led by Dhrishtadyumna.”

“And what did my Duryodhana do then?”

Sanjaya went on:

Duryodhana, his chariot smashed beneath him,

took his mace and fled on foot toward

a lake some distance off. The lake was called

Dvaipayana. The words of Vidura

came back to him—his wise uncle had known,

long ago, how events would turn out,

even before the fateful, fatal dice game.

He was blind with tears. I followed him

but, on the way, encountered Satyaki

and Dhrishtadyumna. “No point in sparing this one,”

said the Panchala, jeering. Satyaki

raised his sword and was about to kill me

but Vyasa appeared and stayed his hand.

After I had given up my weapons,

Satyaki, laughing, sent me on my way.

I hurried after Duryodhana