Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (65 page)

and grief-stricken to hear how he had been

cut down unrighteously. Writhing in pain,

drenched in blood, that tiger among men

looked like a wounded beast, dusty, disheveled.

Ashvatthaman broke down in tears to see him.

‘Death comes to us all,’ whispered Duryodhana.

‘Do not grieve for me. I am fortunate.

I have never swerved from the true path

of a kshatriya. I shall be rewarded.

You all strove to your utmost, but destiny

cannot be thwarted.’

“Ashvatthaman cried,

‘It is not over! The dastardly Panchalas

murdered my father. But, even more than that,

I burn with rage at what has been done to you.

I swear that before dawn, in Krishna’s presence,

I will send your enemies to Yama’s realm.

Bless my intention, Duryodhana.’

“Your son, highly pleased, asked for water

and had Kripa consecrate Ashvatthaman

as commander. Drona’s son embraced

Duryodhana, and the three survivors—

Kripa, Kritavarman and Ashvatthaman—

left him lying there to pursue their mission.”

Sanjaya continued:

The three companions set out toward the south.

The sun was low, the air slowly cooling,

and as they neared the enemy camp, they heard

sounds of rejoicing and loud merriment,

raucous singing, and the bray of trumpets

that froze their hearts with dread. Probably

Dhrishtadyumna, Drona’s murderer,

was drinking with his friends.

Night came on.

The firmament was luminous with stars,

like an expanse of beautiful brocade.

Skirting the camp, they found a gloomy wood,

dense with tangled vines, and hid in it

to rest in the shelter of a banyan tree.

Wounded and exhausted as they were,

they lay down to sleep. But Ashvatthaman

could not settle—not for the hard ground,

but for thinking about Dhrishtadyumna,

and of the manner of Drona’s cruel death.

He, Ashvatthaman, had unfinished business:

to avenge the father who had given him life.

The Panchala’s death should be his by right.

Anger was a tight knot in his chest.

Looking around, he saw a nearby tree

where a gang of crows was roosting, huddled up,

their heads under their wings. Then, silently,

a huge, yellow-eyed owl glided down

and set about killing the sleeping birds

(for owls are the mortal enemies of crows),

tearing off wings, snapping necks and legs,

so bloody fragments splattered on the ground

encircling the tree. The monstrous owl

appeared well satisfied with the night’s work.

Ashvatthaman, struck by what he saw,

began to think what he might learn from it.

Surprise was everything. Those crows felt safe,

sleeping on their perches. Ashvatthaman

knew there was no possibility

that he could overcome his enemies

in a fair fight—if he attacked openly

he would be foolish as a mindless insect

cremating itself in a candle flame.

Yet—if he could catch them unawares . . .

He woke his uncle Kripa, and Kritavarman

and explained his plan—to kill the enemy

as they lay sleeping. “That would only be

the natural consequence of what they’ve done,

grossly flouting dharma, and now—hear that—

carousing in their camp without a care!”

Kripa replied, “I’ve listened to what you say;

now hear what I think. All outcomes are produced

both by divine will and human effort.

Success does not come through the gods’ will alone,

nor by effort only, but both together.

We work to till the soil and plant the seed

and heaven sends rain—or else it does not.

Some foolish people, seeing a well-tilled field

parch for lack of rain, conclude that effort

is a waste of time. The wise know better—

effort usually bears fruit, but sloth

never does. The man who prepares the ground

and then worships the gods, seeking their blessing,

cannot go wrong.

“The wise also know this:

that a man who consults his elders, listens,

and follows their advice may well succeed.

One who, moved by his desires and passions,

ignores the elders often comes to grief.

That is what happened to Duryodhana;

he would not drop his stubborn sinfulness

and now we all suffer. This calamity

has stupefied my mind. I think we should ask

Dhritarashtra, Gandhari and Vidura

their view of your proposal. We should follow

their advice—and if we should not succeed

in whatever course they set us on,

then it must be the gods who will decide.”

Ashvatthaman answered impatiently:

“When we are young, matters look different

from how they seem in old age. Surely, then,

all we can do is follow our own judgment,

shaped by the circumstances of our lives.

I was born a brahmin, but through ill fortune,

and the decisions taken by my father,

I find myself living as a kshatriya.

I cannot go back. I have to take the path

my father—and you, uncle—trod before me.

“I am proud to be a warrior, and tonight

I shall carry out my plan. Before long

the Panchalas, with wicked Dhrishtadyumna,

will have shed their armor, unyoked their horses,

and settled to what they think is well-earned sleep.

I shall kill them all!”

“Wait until morning,”

urged Kripa. “I am very glad to hear you

so set upon revenge. But at daybreak,

when we are rested, all three of us can rise,

don our armor and attack the Panchalas.

I have celestial weapons; so do you.

We’ll have the great advantage of surprise

and, united as we are, we shall surely win

and you will dance like the blessed Indra

after his slaughter of the asuras!

But for now, we should bide our time and sleep.”

Ashvatthaman’s eyes were red with anger.

“How? There are four impediments to sleep—

rage, grief, desire and an overactive mind.

Any one of these will baffle sleep;

I suffer from all four! No, I’ve decided.

I cannot bear another hour lying here,

my guts twisting, thinking of my father,

and of Duryodhana, so vilely killed.

My plan is good, and I shall act on it.”

“It is my view,” said Kripa, “that a person

in the grip of passion is in no state

to understand what’s right and wrong behavior.

Listen to me, son, do not act rashly.

Slaughter of sleeping persons is unrighteous.

The same applies to those who are unprepared

for battle, who have laid aside their weapons.

So far, your life has been exemplary;

if you commit this shocking act, it will be

like a splash of blood on pure white cloth.”

“You may be right, uncle,” said Ashvatthaman.

“I want to act well, but the Pandavas

have made a mockery of righteousness

time after time. Why don’t you censure them?

My mind’s made up. And if I am reborn

as a worm, or some other lowly creature,

so be it. Dhrishtadyumna slew my father

as if he were a sacrificial beast.

Today I’ll do the same to him—in that way

he’ll not attain the heaven reserved for heroes

who die in battle.”

Having little choice,

his two companions fastened on their breastplates

and followed Ashvatthaman toward the camp.

As they walked along, their doubts dissolved

and they began to glow with rage and fervor

like ritual fires well nourished with ghee.

Arriving at the camp gate, Ashvatthaman

saw a towering figure in the way,

a terrifying vision. He blazed with light,

and round his hips was draped a tiger’s hide

dripping with blood. For his upper garment

he wore the skin of a black antelope.

A snake was wound around his upper arm.

Thousands of lovely eyes adorned his face

and flames seemed to be leaping from his mouth

from which sprang innumerable Krishnas

each holding a conch, a discus and a mace.

The whole sky seemed imprinted with his image.

Fearless Ashvatthaman shot showers of arrows

at the being and, finding those useless,

continued his attack with spear and sword,

with mace and dagger—struggling, battling

with every ounce of strength, until at last

all his weapons were exhausted. Still

the huge presence barred his way, unmoved.

Panting with impotent rage, mystified,

Ashvatthaman thought of Kripa’s words.

Perhaps this was a sign that if he blundered

off the path of dharma, he would become

lost in a trackless wilderness of sin.

Perhaps the gods would frustrate all his efforts.

“Yet I have also heard, the worst misery

afflicts a man who, out of fear, abandons

a great goal he has set out to achieve.

On the other hand, would this apparition

be blocking me unless I were meant to fail?

What can I do? I can’t fight divine will.”

He walked about, despondent, indecisive,

until at last his mind turned to Lord Shiva

and he resolved to seek the god’s protection.

He stood, hands joined in reverence, head bowed,

and prayed to Shiva, speaking his many names.

A golden altar sprang up in front of him

on which a blazing fire crackled and spat,

a fire that seemed to spread across the sky

and fill the universe. And then a vision

of every kind of creature, every species

of unearthly being seemed to appear,

some terrible, some lovely beyond words—

headless monsters, rough-skinned pachyderms,

malevolent sprites, and female deities

so beautiful it made him gasp to see them.

These beings roared, muttered, groaned, and sang

hymns of surpassing sweetness, praising Shiva.

They had come to honor Ashvatthaman,

to test the quality of his resolve—

and to be present for the coming carnage.

Ashvatthaman faced the flaming altar.

“O Lord Shiva, accept me as sacrifice,”

he prayed, “accept my most sincere devotion!”

And the son of Drona walked into the fire.

A tremor in the air, a rushing wind,

and the great god Shiva stood before him,

smiling. “None is dearer to me than Krishna.

For him, I have protected the Panchalas.

But their time has now run out.” And with that,

Shiva gave a sword to Ashvatthaman

and entered his body. At once, the brahmin

was filled with energy. There was nothing

he could not accomplish!

Kritavarman

and Kripa were waiting for him. They agreed

that Ashvatthaman would enter the camp alone

while the other two would guard the gates,

killing anyone who sought to flee.

Unafraid, but walking cautiously,

Ashvatthaman stole into the camp.

All was silent. It was the darkest hour.

Knowing where to go, inspired by Shiva,

he found his way to Dhrishtadyumna’s tent.

Before him lay the prince of the Panchalas,

sprawled on linen sheets scattered with fragrant flowers.

He woke him with a kick, and Dhrishtadyumna

knew him at once. Ashvatthaman seized him

by the hair, wrenched his head back and ground his throat

beneath his foot. The Panchala fought, struggled,

tearing at Ashvatthaman with his nails,

but the brahmin’s arms were the arms of Shiva.

“Kill me with a weapon!” cried Dhrishtadyumna,

“so I can reach the heaven reserved for heroes.”

“Villain! There is no heaven for such as you,

one who kills his teacher!” And Ashvatthaman,

with naked strength alone, butchered his victim

as a sacrificial animal is killed.

The violent noise woke Dhrishtadyumna’s guards

but they froze, appalled at what they saw.

At the sound of screams and women’s shrieks,

the whole camp was thrown into a panic,

men shouting, running wildly in the dark

not knowing where the danger was, or who—

man or ogre—was attacking them.

Elephants ran wild, horses stampeded

raising dust, deepening the darkness.

Some men grabbed swords and, seized by mortal terror,

lunged at anything that moved. In this way

Panchala caused the death of Panchala.

Ashvatthaman stalked along the paths

and alleys of the camp, entering tents,

swiftly slaughtering every warrior

he found, with the sword Shiva had given him.

Many hundreds died. Drona’s vengeful son,

emissary of death, showed no mercy.

The flaming energy and fiery zeal