THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 2 (74 page)

Krishna heaves a sigh and says cheerfully, “He has been away from Dwaraka for a long time. He will forget his anger when Revati gives him his first bowl of wine.”

But Bheema stands crestfallen. After Balarama’s tirade, even Arjuna, who reminded him of his oath during the duel, stands away from his brother. Krishna goes up and embraces Bheema fervently. He cries, “I am proud of you! Only the rare man fulfils even some of his oaths. You, Bheemasena, have kept all yours. I am so proud of you!”

Then, from a way off, Yudhishtira smiles at Bheema. With a cry, Bheema rushes to his brother and prostrates himself at his feet. “Bless me, my lord! All your enemies are dead. The long story of hatred has ended and I lay the world at your feet. Panchali will not sleep on the floor any more. Bless me, my brother!”

Yudhishtira raises him up and embraces him. All the Pandavas and all those with them break into loud cries, of’Jaya’! Now everyone rushes to Bheema to hug him. Conches are blown, drums beaten; the name of Vayu’s son resounds in that place.

With an inscrutrable look in his eye, Krishna turns to Duryodhana. He says slowly, “We need not bother to kill this man, he is as good as dead. He was the worst sinner and retribution has found him. He had many wise men to tell him what the way of dharma was. Time and again, he spurned their wisdom.

How much poor Vidura begged him to mend his ways. Duryodhana would only listen to that serpent Shakuni. The time to pay has come and he must pay alone. Look where he lies now, broken on the ground, yes, even he who was the greatest king, the most powerful man on earth. Let us leave him here to pay in full. He is just a dry log of wood now, not worth bothering with.”

Duryodhana lies gasping in unbearable pain. But at what Krishna says he rears up on his palms like a cobra and hisses, “Stop, you son of a sudra! You are not even a kshatriya or a king, that you dare speak to me like this. Wretched cowherd, you have been the death of me. You remembered Bheema’s vow. He fought fairly, until you whispered in Arjuna’s ear and he slapped his thighs.”

There is untold hatred in his voice, “Black cowherd, son of Kamsa’s slave, you caused this war by poisoning my cousins’ hearts. And you dare call me a sinner? Who brought Shikhandi before Bheeshma and made him lay down his bow? Who told Yudhishtira to lie to Drona that Aswatthama was dead? And the Acharya put down his weapon. You think I did not watch you, cowherd? I saw everything you did. Who turned day into night and the unsuspecting Jayadratha was murdered? Who sacrificed the monster Ghatotkacha, so your precious Arjuna would not have to face Karna’s Shakti? And who told Arjuna to shoot Karna down when he knelt to lift his chariot-wheel? You did, evil one, always you. It is your cunning and not their valor that won this war for the sons of Pandu. Without your plotting, Bheeshma, Drona and Karna could never have been killed. You may deceive the world, Krishna, but I know you. Of us all, you are the worst sinner!”

Krishna laughs in his face. “So now you would blame it all on me! But the truth, Duryodhana, is that your greed cost these millions their lives. The truth is that all your brothers and friends died because of you. Bheeshma, Drona, Karna and all the rest died because they fought for you and for evil. Bheeshma should never have agreed to fight. Drona could have left Hastinapura and gone away. Karna knew you were in the wrong; he knew you would lose this war. But he loved you too much to abandon you.”

His eyes are hard as diamonds and Krishna continues, “You blame this war on me, Duryodhana? Have you perhaps forgotten how I came to Hastinapura before the war began? Have you forgotten how I begged you to make peace? Then you would not listen. Your greed held you firm. You would not part with five towns, why, you said you wouldn’t give the Pandavas enough land to set on a needle’s point. What you taste now is the fruit of the bitter tree of envy, which your father and your uncle Shakuni planted in your heart when you were a boy. The tree has matured, its fruit are ripe.

You speak so glibly of treachery. What about Abhimanyu, whom you cut down in the flower of his youth? Just for that crime you should die, again and again. Yudhishtira wastes his sympathy on you. I feel no pity for you; you have got what you deserve.”

Despite his agony, a familiar sneer curls Duryodhana’s lip and a thin brow is still arched in disdain. Though his breath comes torturedly from him, he wheezes defiantly, “I have lived a full life. I have studied the Vedas. I have always been generous to anyone who came to me in need. I have been king of all this earth and tasted her fruits to the full. I have trodden on my enemies’ heads. I am a fortunate man, cowherd. I have lived a joyful life and I look forward to a joyful after-life. Dying in this most sacred place, I will find the heaven where kshatriyas go who die in battle and there my brothers and my Karna are waiting for me. As for the rest of you, you have years still to spend in this world of sorrow, this earth that is just a shadow of what it was.”

His eyes are undimmed, glittering and fierce as ever. He pauses, his breath becomes more labored with every moment. Painfully, he resumes, “As for Bheema stamping my head, I am past caring for that. In a short while, crows and vultures will feed on this head and by what he did, his place shall be with the scavengers.” With a final effort, he manages to say again, “I have died like a kshatriya. I will find swarga for myself!”

He sinks back on the ground and lies writhing and gasping in savage pain. Then, out of the sky falls a shower of petals, like crystal fireflies on the dying Duryodhana! They fill Samantapanchaka with the fragrance of Devaloka, for the Gods themselves bless the Kaurava for his indomitable courage. Duryodhana’s body may be broken, but not his spirit. The sky has grown lambent to honor the fallen kshatriya and the Pandavas hang their heads to see that heaven seems to take their cousin’s side.

Krishna turns on them in rage. “Of course Bheeshma and Drona and Karna were killed with deceit! Did you imagine for a moment that they could have been killed otherwise? They were the very acme of the warrior’s prowess. You could never have beaten them fairly, let alone killed them. They lived upon the earth like Gods; not all your devastras, not Arjuna’s archery or Bheema’s strength could have brought those men down. Why, this serpent Duryodhana could never be killed in a fair battle.

Listen to me now and hear me well. Years ago in the Kamyaka vana, I wiped the tears from Draupadi’s eyes and I swore to her I would bring death to those that had tormented her. Yudhishtira, you did not seem to mind that your wife had been humiliated in the sabha of Hastinapura. You only spoke of the dharma or the adharma of what happened. You allowed these beasts to drag her into that court, to revile her, to try to strip her naked. And you would not let Bheema kill them, as they deserved, because you said it was not dharma.

It seems that to you there were other things more important than Panchali’s tears. But to me, Yudhishtira, there was nothing in the world more momentous than her tears. I swore I would kill those that had made her cry. Bheeshma and Drona never raised a hand, never spoke a word to help her; for that, they have died. I believe in only one thing: the tears of the oppressed must be wiped and justice given to them. Draupadi could hardly help herself against the men who abused her and not even her husbands were sure that they would redress what she had endured. But not I. I said I would kill the devils that made her cry and I have kept my word. I have no doubts, no regrets. I see clearly where dharma lay in this war and where adharma.

As for the sin of the deceit we used to kill our enemies, let it fall on my head! I care nothing for it. I will bear those crimes gladly for the sons of Pandu, because they are my very life to me. If we had not used some judicious deceit, this war would have been lost. You would all have died. Duryodhana would still sit upon the throne in Hastinapura and the earth would be plunged in a rule of hell. For me, nothing could be worse than that.”

At what he says, the Pandavas feel as if a burden has been taken from them. They breathe more easily and guilt lifts away quite magically from their hearts. Krishna says, “The sun has sunk to the western mountain and night is upon us. Come, let us go back.”

They turn and walk away from Sampantapanchaka. Duryodhana, lord of the earth, lies alone in the gathering dusk. His blood and seed have spilt together on to holy ground and pain sears through his every limb. He lies dying, with not a living soul at his side.

BOOK TEN
SAUPTIKA PARVA 

AUM, I bow down to Narayana, the most exalted Nara and to the Devi Saraswathi and say
Jaya
!

ONE
IN HASTINAPURA 

The war is over: eighteen days that have been like eighteen years, longer. The Pandavas ride back to Kurukshetra. Custom demands they should enter the vanquished enemy’s camp; and they do now, blasting on their conches. The Panchajanya and the Devadatta resound above the rest. Krishna is the most cheerful one in the company. More than anything, he does not want the sons of Pandu dejected at what happened in Samantapanchaka. He does not want their moment of victory dimmed by remorse.

They find the Kaurava camp, which had once teemed with eleven aksauhinis, deserted. Nothing stirs save a twilight breeze, which murmurs endlessly about all the killing and dying on yawning Kurukshetra. The last shafts of the sun light that desolation with scarlet and gold. As soon as they arrive, Krishna turns to Arjuna and says, “Climb down from the chariot, bring the Gandiva and your quivers with you.”

Arjuna is puzzled, but does as Krishna asks. Krishna puts down his whip and reins and he, too, alights from the white ratha that Agni once gave Arjuna in the Khandava vana. The Pandavas stand watching curiously. The moment Krishna climbs down there is a flash of light above the chariot, on the flag with Hanuman’s form. They see the immortal vanara fly out and vanish into the sky! The banner is empty of its emblem. That is not all: the white chariot bursts into flames; it burns like tinder. The gandharva horses are ablaze and in a few moments, all that remains of chariot and steeds is a mound of ashes.

Arjuna cries to Krishna, “My Lord! What is this? Krishna, I don’t understand.”

Krishna’s face is stern, as he says, “Their purpose in the world is served. Arjuna, your chariot was struck by the brahmastras of Drona and Karna, by Aswatthama’s agneyastra. The truth is that both chariot and horses were consumed long ago; but as long as I sat at your chariot-head and drove your horses, they did not perish. Now we have no further use for them and they are ashes. All things in this world exist for a purpose; when their purpose is served, they cease to be.”

Krishna’s face softens. More gently now, he says, “And so it is with men, Arjuna. Each man is sent out on this mysterious journey called life and he comes into the world to achieve a purpose. Once his mission is over, the earth has no more need of him. It is so with all of us: even me. I have come into the world for a mission and as soon my mission is complete, I will leave.” He sees the look of alarm on Arjuna’s face. “My tasks are not yet over and neither are yours or your brothers’. We have much to do still. But don’t grieve for your chariot and horses: they accomplished what they were created for and now they have gone.”

Krishna turns to Yudhishtira. He takes his hand and says, “You have won the war and I am proud of you. It is the custom for the victors to spend the night outside their defeated enemies’ camp. Let us spend the night somewhere in these woods.”

Yudhishtira is deeply moved by the miracle of the chariot. He says fervently to Krishna, “My Lord, we have won the war only because of you. Now I understand what Vyasa Muni once said to me, ‘Where there is dharma, Krishna is. And where Krishna is, there is victory.’“

Krishna says, “You and your brothers fought heroically. You deserve to have victory.”

They ride a short way and decide to stay beside the river flowing nearby. They have just settled under some trees, when Krishna sees a shadow on Yudhishtira’s face. He asks, “Why are you distraught?”

Yudhishtira has turned pale. He says slowly, “By your grace we have won the war and the earth is ours now. But, Krishna, I fear the wrath of Gandhari. She is a bhakta and a righteous queen and she is a mother who has lost all her sons. She could burn the world with her grief and she may curse us, when she hears how Duryodhana died. I beg you, go to Hastinapura and pacify Gandhari.”

Krishna is thoughtful. He says softly, “You are right. Gandhari must not curse you: there are others to bear her wrath. I will go at once.”

Krishna has his own chariot fetched and sets out for the Kuru capital.

Meanwhile, hiding among the trees in Samantapanchaka, Sanjaya saw Duryodhana fall. Shocked and weeping, he flew back to Hastinapura. His arms raised above his head, he came wailing into the palace and Dhritarashtra’s presence. Dhritarashtra sat with Gandhari and his daughters-in-law around him. Vidura was there, as well.

Sanjaya ran in and cried, “My lord! Fate has robbed us of everything we had.” Then he could not go on, but sobbed like a child. Water was fetched for him and when he drank, he grew calmer. He managed to say, “The war is over and we have lost. Shalya and Shakuni were killed, Uluka is dead and…” he broke down again.

Vidura asked, “What of Duryodhana?”

Sanjaya cried as if he had lost his own son, “Bheema felled Duryodhana in a gada-yuddha! He lies dying at Samantapanchaka.”