Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (66 page)

of fire-born Dhrishtadyumna had entered him.

More than a man, more, even, than a god,

it was violence personified that whirled,

howling in triumph, through the camp that night.

Learning of the death of Dhrishtadyumna,

the five courageous sons of Draupadi

were amazed. “This never could have happened,”

they exclaimed, “if our fathers had been here!”

They tracked down Ashvatthaman, and began

to shower him with arrows. Drona’s son

rushed at them with his celestial sword

and killed all five, one after another,

with hideous disfigurements. Shikhandin

pierced Ashvatthaman in the forehead

and was rewarded by being split in two.

Next, all the young Panchala princes

were massacred with Shiva’s blazing sword,

among them, Drupada’s remaining grandsons.

Some men, by chance, managed to reach the gateway

and ran out, sobbing with relief—to find

Kripa and Kritavarman ready for them.

Most were unarmed, having sprung bewildered

from their beds. They quickly met their deaths.

The assassins lit fires in three places,

which quickly spread, encircling the camp

with flame, making it even easier

for Ashvatthaman to do the thorough work

of the sacrifice, mad with blood-lust.

Violence and time. This holocaust

was like the entire Kurukshetra conflict

compressed. On many nights during the war

men had dreamed they saw a dark-skinned crone,

embodiment of all-destroying time,

smeared with red, her mouth agape, her eyes

seeping blood. In her hand she held a noose,

or halter perhaps, for leading men away.

This dreadful goddess now appeared to them

in solid form. They knew her for what she was:

their hideous escort to the afterlife.

The sky began to lighten. In the east,

streaks of orange and red grew ever brighter.

At last the camp was hushed, inhabited

only by corpses and by carrion-eaters

slinking among the shadows, getting bolder.

Ashvatthaman walked out of the gate,

his clothes caked with blood, and the bloody hilt

of Shiva’s great sword stuck fast to his hand.

He was at peace. At last he had assuaged

the wracking grief he had felt for Drona’s death.

He joined his two companions. They exulted

at their good night’s work.

In that moment

they felt that the achievement was all theirs.

Yet, in truth, only because Lord Shiva

had made them his instrument; only because

Krishna had allowed it, had they succeeded.

Effort had joined hands with the gods’ design.

“But,” asked Dhritarashtra, “if Ashvatthaman

was capable of such an outstanding feat,

why did he wait until the war was lost,

and my son lying helpless on the ground?”

“It was because he feared the Pandavas,”

said Sanjaya. “Had your nephews been present

this great slaughter never could have happened.”

Sanjaya continued:

The three hurried back to Duryodhana

and found him lying as before, attempting

to repel rapacious carnivores that sidled

ever closer. His groans of agony

were fainter now, blood frothing from his mouth.

The three men wept with pity and outrage

to see him, wept for you, his bereaved parents,

who soon would have no sons left in the world.

“Oh, woe,” said Kripa, “even this great warrior

is brought down by time. Look, his golden mace

that has never failed him, that was his friend

in every battle, is now lying by him

as a loving wife lies down beside her lord

when he prepares for sleep. Alas, this prince

to whom brahmins could always look for food

will soon himself be food for scavengers.”

They wiped his bloody face with their bare hands.

Then they told him all that they had done

and made him happy. “Blessings on you all!

You have achieved what even my great Karna,

even Bhishma, even your own father

could not accomplish. We will meet in heaven.”

Having spoken, he gave up his life.

And at that moment, best of Bharatas,

the power which, for eighteen endless days,

enabled me to witness every detail

of the war, and bring you news of it—

my divine vision—was suddenly withdrawn.

Dhrishtadyumna’s driver was the only man

who had escaped the carnage, slipping past

Kritavarman in the dark; and he it was

who brought the dreadful news to Yudhishthira.

The Pandava fell to the ground in shock.

The five brothers huddled together, weeping,

lamenting the loss of all their stalwart sons,

Draupadi’s children. “Ah!” cried Yudhishthira,

“if our kinsmen had only been more watchful

Ashvatthaman never could have breached

their guard, to murder them so savagely.

So brave they were! And such outstanding warriors

that they survived all eighteen days of war—

only to perish now like helpless sheep.

They are like travelers who, having sailed

the treacherous oceans and come back to port

without mishap, drown in a shallow stream.

“Now we who were victorious have been vanquished,

and our defeated enemy has conquered.

What does victory mean if what it brings

is the searing loss of all we cherish most?

Is it not just defeat by other means?

And how will our beloved Draupadi

bear this bereavement? How can she survive it?

Her father already killed; now two brothers

and all her beautiful, courageous sons!”

Yudhishthira sent Nakula by chariot

to Upaplavya, to fetch Draupadi.

Then, with his other brothers and Satyaki,

he went to the camp. Seeing crows and vultures

tearing at the bodies of their children,

they all collapsed, fainting, on the ground.

When Nakula brought Draupadi, next morning,

she hurried to the place where her five sons

lay lifeless and, crouching, cradled in her arms

each bloody, mutilated boy in turn.

“O my precious one, how can I live

and never see your handsome face again;

never hear your laughter in the distance;

never feel the warmth of your strong arms

as you embrace me?” She rocked to and fro,

then she, too, collapsed, undone by grief.

Bhima lifted her. Weeping, shaking,

she addressed Yudhishthira in anger.

“I hope you are happy with your victory,

your capture of the earth. I hope you enjoy her

after the slaughter of our shining sons,

the flower of youth, heroic kshatriyas.

Perhaps you will sleep undisturbed by thoughts

of Abhimanyu and these other children.

But I tell you now, Yudhishthira,

if you do not make Ashvatthaman pay,

if you do not rip his life from him

together with the lives of his wicked friends,

then, starting now, I shall sit and fast to death!”

“Draupadi,” said Yudhishthira, ashen-faced,

“all your sons have lost their lives with honor—

even now, they must be enjoying heaven.

You should not grieve. You understand dharma.

You know that the life of a kshatriya

is shaped for war from earliest infancy.

As for Ashvatthaman, our spies tell us

he has fled into the forest, like a cur.

We shall pursue him with all possible speed,

but if he is caught and killed as he deserves,

how shall we prove to you that he has perished?”

“I have heard,” said Draupadi, “that Drona’s son

was born with a jewel on his forehead.

When you bring me that jewel, when I place it

on your own head, Yudhishthira, only then

will I decide to live.” She turned to Bhima,

“Bhima, you have always been our refuge—

think of Hidimba, and the time you saved me

from that lustful wretch in Virata’s city.

Now, wreak vengeance on wicked Ashvatthaman!”

Bhima seized his bow, mounted his chariot

driven by Nakula, and galloped off

along the route taken by Ashvatthaman.

When Krishna learned of this, he was dismayed

and said to Yudhishthira, “You should realize

that you have put your brother in great danger.

Ashvatthaman has a deadly weapon,

capable of destroying the whole world—

the
Brahmashiras
weapon. Years ago,

Drona gave that weapon to Arjuna,

knowing he could be trusted. Ashvatthaman

was jealous, and kept pestering his father

to give it to him too. Drona, reluctant

because he knew his son lacked Arjuna’s

calmness and discipline, at last gave in.

‘But,’ he warned, ‘it never must be used

against human beings.’

“Some years later,

during the time of your forest exile,

Ashvatthaman came to see me. ‘Krishna,’

he said, smiling at me, ‘I have the weapon

called
Brahmashiras.
I will give it to you.

Please give me your discus in exchange.’

He had no idea what he was asking.

I told him to keep his weapon, but to take

whatever of mine he wanted. Delighted,

he seized my discus—but he could not lift it,

try as he might. Then I said to him,

‘Ashvatthaman, even Arjuna,

foremost of warriors, wielder of
Gandiva
,

he who is my dearest friend on earth,

he to whom there is nothing I would not give,

even my wives and children—Arjuna

has never asked of me what you just asked.

My precious son Pradyumna, my dear brother

Balarama, my cousins, my close kin

have never asked of me what you just asked.

Tell me—what use would you make of it