Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (68 page)

was engulfed in the most vivid grief,

screaming, sobbing, almost mad with horror

at witnessing the hideous devastation.

Nothing their anxiety had imagined—

not descriptions, not their restless dreams—

had prepared them for this.

Yudhishthira

looked for his aunt and uncle in the crowds

of women rooting among mangled bodies

and body parts for someone they recognized:

their man, among these thousands of mere things,

beloved flesh among the mounds of corpses.

Craving a face, an amulet, a ring,

anything familiar, they searched, keening

like ospreys calling for their mates at dusk.

Hundreds of women mobbed him, crying out,

“How can a king claiming to know dharma

kill his kin so cruelly? Can you stay sane

after killing your teacher? Your grandfather?

How will you rule without your kin around you?

Shame! Oh, shame on you, Yudhishthira!”

In dread, Yudhishthira and his brothers

announced themselves to their aunt and uncle

and paid them homage. Dhritarashtra managed

to embrace Yudhishthira, but when it came

to Bhima, lawless killer of his dear son,

rage welled up in him like molten lava.

Summoning all his power, he made to crush

his nephew, but Krishna, knowing the king’s mind,

pushed Bhima to one side and quickly shoved

an iron effigy into the old man’s arms.

Dhritarashtra pulverized it, injuring

his own chest in the process. He fell, bleeding,

crying, “Oh! Bhima!” And all-knowing Krishna,

seeing that the king’s anger had subsided,

told him he had only crushed a statue

and counseled him:

“Try to call to mind

the times when you betrayed the Pandavas

although they were blameless. You know the Vedas,

you know how a righteous king should act,

yet you followed your own stubborn path,

were deaf as well as blind. Because your son,

among his many wrongs, insulted Draupadi,

Bhima vowed to kill him. It was deserved.

Try to understand your own part in this.”

“It is as you say,” said Dhritarashtra.

“Love for my son undermined my judgment.

With all my sons dead, only the Pandavas

will give us consolation. Who else is there?

Who else will protect us in our old age?”

Weeping, and with trembling arms, he embraced

Bhima and his brothers, blessing them.

Then the Pandavas approached Gandhari,

standing tall and silent. In her agony

over her lost sons, she was at first

inclined to curse Yudhishthira. But Vyasa,

reading her thoughts from far off, instantly

appeared. “Excellent woman, this is no time

for curses—rather, this is the time for peace.

Eighteen days ago, when Duryodhana

asked for your blessing on his enterprise,

you said, ‘Whoever is in the right will win.’

And so they did—you always speak the truth.

Restrain your anger now.”

“Blessed one,

I have no animus toward the Pandavas.

I have no quarrel with what was done in war—

I know how war is, I know kshatriya dharma.

But when, afterward, Bhima killed my son

by striking him below the waist—it’s that

I find inexcusable. And when, earlier,

he gulped the blood of my Duhshasana—

that was how a barbarian would act!

How could Bhima, who knows dharma, do it?”

Bhima said, “I did not drink his blood—

it did not pass my lips. I smeared my face

and bathed my hands in it—so all would think

I had fulfilled that solemn vow I made

when your son dragged Draupadi by the hair

to the gaming hall. As for Duryodhana,

you know that I had vowed to punish him

for exposing his thigh to Draupadi.

I realized, as we fought, I could not win

by fair means—he was too skilled for me.

Rather than lose everything we’d fought for

I did what I did. Please forgive me for it.”

Gandhari understood. “But oh, Bhima,

could you not have spared us just one son,

one who had offended only slightly,

one who would live to comfort our old age?

Even in the bedlam of battle,

could you not have thought of us, and left

just one of them? Where is Yudhishthira?”

Grim-faced, Yudhishthira approached his aunt.

“I am the killer of your sons, great lady,

I have caused devastation on this earth;

I am not fit for wealth, not fit to govern.

Curse me, for I deserve to be cursed.”

And, though he was afraid of his aunt’s wrath,

Yudhishthira prostrated himself before her.

Gasping with rage, Gandhari looked down

and glimpsed the tips of Yudhishthira’s fingers

below her blindfold. Instantly, his nails

shriveled and turned black. Nervous, Arjuna

moved away, but Gandhari’s anger

had spent itself. She blessed the Pandavas.

Having observed the proper etiquette,

the Pandavas could now go to their mother,

Kunti—the mother none of them had seen

since they left Hastinapura to begin

their long exile. Imagine with what joy

they held each other now; what scalding tears

streamed from their eyes. But Kunti did not forget

Draupadi, whose sons would never again

embrace their mother, and who now was crouching

on the unyielding earth. “Oh, Kunti,” she cried,

“where are your grandsons, all my lovely boys

and Abhimanyu? What use is the kingdom

now that my courageous sons are dead?

For years, in the affliction of our exile,

the thought of them was a bright talisman

I kept safe in my heart. Now they are gone.

What was it all for?”

Kunti raised her up

and comforted her. Then they went to join

Gandhari. Together they stood, trying

to console each other. “We must accept it,”

said Gandhari. “We have to think this carnage

was the will of the gods. It had to happen.”

Acknowledging her spiritual strength,

Vyasa gave a gift to Gandhari:

standing where she was, blindfolded still,

she could now see the entire battlefield,

distant and close, by means of divine vision.

Her inner eye was opened. She exclaimed

to Krishna at everything she saw and heard.

“Ah! I can see this sweeping, blood-drenched plain

of Kurukshetra, in all its dreadful detail.

Everywhere is chaos, mangled flesh,

the aftermath of massacre. Everywhere

I look, in all directions, countless bodies

lying in abandon, heads and limbs

at sickening angles, mouths gaping as if

their final cry should still be reaching us.

Eyes that shone with every heartfelt passion

now are empty pits, cleaned out by crows.

Gashes and holes in the silk of skin

show where a cunning spear has found its way

between the panels of bright, well-wrought mail.

Some wear their armor still, and seem unscathed

as if lapped in the luxury of sleep,

while others are half-naked, stripped of all

that marked them out from the mire they’re made of.

“Krishna, who am I now? I am Gandhari,

childless mother of a hundred sons.

But is there no word for women such as I,

a word like ‘widow,’ another word for ‘empty’?

“Look at these fine young men, embracing Earth

as if discovered in the act of union

with a beloved bride—arms spread, their faces

oblivious to everything but this.

Oh, Earth has stolen them! Earth has triumphed

over all of us, defeated women.

“What priceless wealth is scattered all around—

crowns, jeweled bracelets, ropes of gold

twisted round the muscled upper arms

of so many heroes; anklets, torques,

all the regalia of rank. How useless

is that wealth—why, it could not protect them

from the smallest dart; and it cannot keep

monsters and other scavengers from feasting

on their fat and flesh. Look at those kanka birds,

tall as men, looking so disdainful,

picking their way among the piled-up corpses,

yet ripping flesh from bone with cruel beaks

as ruthlessly as any rakshasa.

“A month ago, who could have imagined

that men who loved the music of the bards

would now hear only the despairing cries

of their beloved wives. They who slept soft

now lie uncushioned on the filthy ground.

Men who plunged deep in the sumptuous flesh

of women now lie, torn, gnawed by jackals,

their rigid arms locked hard around a mace.

“Oh, these poor women! Some are mute with shock;

most are wailing, shivering in their pain.

They call like cranes for mates that will never come.

Some try to find the body that belongs

with the head they love, then they realize

it is not his. Some fail to recognize

the face of their own brother.

“And, Krishna—

there is Duryodhana! Oh! my tragic son,

caked in blood, your strong legs smashed, distorted,

your breastplate still in place. I remember

how you looked when you asked for my blessing,

full of pride and foolish hope. I knew then

it must end in defeat. All I could manage

were lukewarm words—not what you most wanted,

not the heartfelt prayer for victory

men need from women when they go to war.

“Time turns. You died a hero, Duryodhana.

Devoted women once fanned you to sleep;

now only the urgent wings of hungry birds

make a breeze around you. Here’s your poor wife,

Lakshmana’s mother, weeping for her son,

and for you. That broad-hipped, lovely girl

is huddling in the crook of your strong arm.

No more good times for her; disregarded,

she’ll spend her life alone.

“So many women,

trying to wash blood off their men’s dead faces;

others whirling, screeching like lunatics

at vultures circling on creaking wings.

What must we have done in a past life?

What sin could have deserved this utter horror?

“And look at my other fine sons! There they lie;

distinct in life, with differing looks and gifts,

each with his individual voice, his laugh,

now meat for undiscriminating crows.

“There is Abhimanyu, still beautiful,

that brilliant warrior who outshone even

his father. And there is Uttaraa, his wife,

crouched beside him, kissing his cold face.

Now she has undone his gilded armor,

stares intently at his wounds, and cries,

‘Oh, Abhimanyu, my beloved husband,

my world, soul of my soul, how your injuries

gape for all to see. My heart, too, is pierced

by death’s pitiless darts, but invisibly.

You were like Krishna in your strength and courage,

so alive. Yet now you sleep too soundly.

Your skin is soft, delicate as a girl’s;

isn’t the rough ground grazing you? Your arms

flung wide, you sprawl as though you are exhausted

by grinding labor. Rest, my love.’

“She cradles

his head in her lap and strokes his tangled hair.

“‘Where were their hearts, those Kauravas who trapped you,

a solitary boy? Where were your uncles,

your natural protectors? How can a kingdom,

however rich, however well deserved,

be worth your life, my prince, my precious one?

I wish I too could die. I long to join you!

But no one dies before the gods decide.

You are no more; I have my wretched life.

In that world you’ve gone to, will there be

a woman to caress and laugh with you

as if she were me? Oh, my Abhimanyu,

be happy in your heaven, but remember

what I was to you, how we loved together!’

“Her father’s wives are pulling her away

from Abhimanyu’s corpse. Now they themselves

collapse. They have seen Virata’s body—

and that of Uttara, the bragging boy

whom Arjuna transformed into a man.

“There is Karna. His wives are sitting round,

their hair in disarray, crying miserably

for him, and for their courageous sons.

So many heroes looked upon his face

as the last they saw on earth, until Arjuna

cut him down. He was the most loyal friend

to Duryodhana, most brave, most steadfast.

Firm as the Himalaya, brilliant as fire,

unforgiving, stern, that great warrior

lies like a tree felled by a tornado,

ruined, defaced, unrecognizable.

“Look at Jayadratha. Puffed with pride,

full of uncalled-for animosity

toward the Pandavas, now he is laid low,

dragged into a ditch by growling beasts,

though his weeping wives tried to guard his body.

The Pandavas might have killed him when he tried

to abduct Draupadi, but they refrained

out of consideration for my daughter.

If only they could have thought of her grief now.

She runs this way and that, quite distracted,

searching, searching for Jayadratha’s head.

“And there lies Shalya, complicated man.

We never knew whose side he really took;

perhaps, in the end, he didn’t know himself.

Now it is all the same—and, look, two crows

are pecking at his lolling, facile tongue.

“Bhishma, on his tormenting bed of arrows,

is still alive. He looks like the sun itself,

fallen to earth. That man is a hero

like no other. Skilled in warfare, steeped

in wisdom and dharma—what other warrior

would have told Yudhishthira how to kill him!

Who will there be as a bright lodestar

for the Bharatas, once Bhishma is no more?

“And Drona, the great teacher—all those weapons

acquired from the gods were useless in the end.

Kripi, his loving wife, sits, eyes downcast

beside his body. His bow still in his hand,

gauntlet and greaves in place, it almost seems

that he could rise and resume the fight. But look,

his feet, honored by so many pupils,

are gone, already gnawed by scavengers.

“There is Somadatta’s sorrowing widow,

lamenting for their son, Bhurishravas:

‘Oh, husband, fortunate that you cannot see

our son—his arm, his lovely arm, hacked off.

His wife is bathing it with her hot tears,

mourning the hand that lately would have loosened

her clothing, stroked her breasts, caressed her face.

Lucky that you cannot see his parasol

broken, splintered, lying across his chariot.’

“Her bereaved daughters-in-law are shrieking

and crying, a pitiful thing to witness.

Arjuna acted wickedly. Still more

horrible was Satyaki’s sinful act—

killing him as he sat in meditation.

The world will censure you for allowing it,

Krishna. I’d like to think you are ashamed.

“So many shields strewn on the bloody field

like fallen moons; and scattered spears and bows

shining like shafts of sunlight in the gloom.

Look at Shakuni, fallen where he belongs,

that mischief-maker. This war was his doing.

I warned my son—told him that his uncle

walked with death. He it was who stirred up

the quarrel, as he loved to do. He hated

the Pandavas. What a barbed tongue he had.

But he died in battle; the heroes’ heaven

awaits him, as it does all my brave sons.

He cared for no one, not even himself.

“There are the womenfolk of old Drupada

killed by Drona, his lifelong enemy,

as an elephant is savaged by a lion.

He was a heroic warrior. See, Krishna,

his beautiful white parasol is gleaming

in the light. His body is already burned.

His grieving wives and daughters-in-law circle

the pyre clockwise, heads covered, sobbing softly.

“Oh, so much sorrow! It is women’s fate

to love and lose, love and lose again.

What joy it is to give birth to healthy sons,

to play with them, sing to them, to see them

grow in strength, acquire a warrior’s skills

ready to take on a world of enemies.

What’s wrong with us? Why do we not start weeping

as soon as we see our newborn is a boy?

But no, we glow with pride—as if this creature,

these perfect arms and legs, this lusty voice,

this future food for crows, were an achievement.

Broodmares for corpses—that’s what women are

if they are born unlucky kshatriyas!”

Gandhari sank down, broken, desolate.

“Krishna, when your peace mission failed, and you

returned to the Pandavas, then my poor sons

were as good as dead. You could have done more

to save them, but this was what you wanted,

this war, and all my precious sons are lost.

I curse you, Krishna! For presiding over

this tragic conflict, kinsman against kinsman,

a time will come when you will pay in kind.

In thirty-six years’ time, having killed

your sons, brothers, cousins, you will meet

an ignominious end. And then your own

womenfolk will weep and tear their hair,

as inconsolable as these women now.”

Krishna smiled. “Excellent Gandhari,

you give words to what I already know.

I, and I alone, shall destroy the Vrishnis,

and your curse will help me carry out that task.

When the time is right, they will kill each other;

I shall decide.

“But don’t give way to anguish.

Grief breeds grief; you are wise enough to know that.

You yourself are by no means blameless.

You thought too well of Duryodhana

and tolerated his pernicious acts.