THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 2 (22 page)

Yudhishtira knelt again before his master. As the Pandava approached Shalya, Krishna saw Karna come out to look at the armies. Quietly, the Dark One sought him out. Taking him aside, Krishna said urgently, “I am told you will take no part in the fighting until Bheeshma dies.” He gripped Karna’s arm, “It is still not too late, Karna, come away with me now! At least for a few days, fight for the Pandavas. Fight Bheeshma, who has mocked you repeatedly and let the world see your worth. When you have killed the old man, you can go back to Duryodhana and Arjuna will fight you then.”

Karna began to laugh. “I am not a child, my Lord, that you can persuade me with children’s temptations!”

“We are all children of one kind or another,” replied Krishna.

Karna said, “I am moved to see how much you love the Pandavas and, perhaps, even me. But I have already told you, Krishna, my life and my loyalty belong to Duryodhana. It would break his heart if I did what you ask.” He laughed again to think of it. “Even for a few days!” Then, he was full of sorrow. “Krishna, leave me to my fate; not even you can change what was written for Karna before he was born. Go now. I thank you for your concern, but I am with the Kauravas.”

Krishna turned away sadly. When Yudhishtira had the blessings of his Pitama and his gurus, he turned back to his own army. As he walked across the empty ground between the two forces, a thought struck him. He stopped and turned back to the legions of Hastinapura. Loudly he called, “If there are any Kaurava soldiers who want to fight for dharma, they are welcome to join us!”

The Pandava’s arms were opened wide to receive anyone who came to him. A lone voice called, “I will join you if you will have me, Yudhishtira!”

A fine kshatriya and a loyal childhood friend, came forward. It was Yuyutsu who, from his earliest days, had preferred the friendship of the Pandavas to that of his half-brothers; Yuyutsu, who had once warned Bheema that Duryodhana meant to kill him.

Yudhishtira welcomed Yuyutsu, embracing him; while, some way off, Duryodhana was tight with fury. Yudhishtira said loudly, so all the Kaurava army heard him, “At least now, when my uncle Dhritarashtra dies, he will have one son left alive to offer tarpana for him.”

He glanced at Bheema, who shone ominously on that field. For a moment, the Kauravas felt a tremor of fear as they remembered Bheema’s oath that he would kill Dhritarashtra’s hundred sons. Back among their own soldiers, the Pandavas donned their armor again. They picked up their weapons and they were stern and fearsome to behold. They climbed into their chariots and their legions seethed around them. Conches were blown, trumpets blared; the drums of both armies rolled like spring thunder.

Duryodhana watched the Pandava army forming the formidable fighting Vajra and he rode up to Drona. The Kaurava said, “Here we are at last, my lord. The moment of fate is upon us, the moment we have waited a lifetime for.”

Drona stared across Kurukshetra at the sea of men massed against them. Weapons and armor flashed in the sun, vivid banners waved; the whinnying of horses filled the crisp air and the lusty shouting of footsoldiers, to embolden themselves. Excitement swept the field, over both armies. Drona smiled at his pupil and said, “Yes, Duryodhana, the moment of truth is upon us. Do you see the enemy, all the kshatriyas?”

Duryodhana’s gaze was riveted to the Pandava force. As in a dream, he said, “I see Yudhishtira’s vast legions, Acharya, I see his jewel-like vyuha. I see your sishya Dhrishtadyumna at its head. I see Satyaki, his eyes full of fire, I see mighty Bheema and Arjuna in Krishna’s chariot. I see all these matchless kshatriyas turned out against us and my blood thrills to the occasion. So many of these warriors are your disciples. All your lessons will find final fruition today, as if this war is being fought for just that. I exult at it, Acharya. Truly, this is the most glorious day of our lives!”

His pale eyes ranged over the enemy ranks. “Look, beyond the front lines are Drupada and Virata, side by side, masters of experience. How youthful they seem, their faces flushed with anticipation. Beyond them are Dhrishtaketu, Chekitana and the lord of Kasi, breathless for the fighting to begin. Acharya, I see the pulse throbbing at their temples and they moisten their lips in eagerness. Beside them, are Purujit, Kuntibhoja and Saibya; flanking Arjuna’s chariot, are Drupada’s other sons, Yud-dhamanyu and Uttamaujas, so tall and bright. And, away to their left, another cluster of maharathi-kas: Draupadi’s brilliant princes, Abhimanyu a crest-jewel at their head.”

Drona listened to Duryodhana in surprise, that the Kaurava was so admiring of the enemy. Now, Duryodhana turned his gaze back to his own legions. He said, “But we are greater than the sea of men that confronts us, my lord. For here, we have you, Acharya and Pitama Bheeshma who has never known defeat in battle and Acharya Kripa and the tameless Karna. Aswatthama and Vikarna are with me and Somadatta’s son Bhoorisravas, who is as strong as a hundred men. These are just a few of the kshatriyas, who have come to risk their lives for my sake. If the enemy is a sea, Acharya, we are an ocean; and we shall drown them!”

Drona, the master, could not help but smile fondly at his sishya, so dauntless on the brink of war. Drona thought, regretfully, what a magnificent king this prince would have been but for his one overmastering weakness: his envy. Duryodhana was saying, “Truly, we have an ocean with us, my lord. Yet, to my mind, Pitama Bheeshma is our key to victory. The Pandavas will not contain him; the rest of us must guard him with our lives at all times.”

From across the Kaurava army, his fond grandsire Bheeshma saw Duryodhana, with Drona at his side. Bheeshma saw a frown knit Duryodhana’s brow and, wanting to hearten his favorite grandchild, the Kuru patriarch raised his war-conch and blew an echoing blast on it; then he threw back his head and let out a roar. Duryodhana turned with a smile and waved to his Pitama. But to answer Bheeshma’s bass, from across the battlefield, from the Pandava army, floated the crystal notes of an unearthly conch. That sound was at once beautiful and terrible and it shook the Kaurava soldiers to their very souls. In Arjuna’s chariot, his dark sarathy had raised the Panchajanya to his lips!

Now both armies erupted with conches of every pitch, ringing back and forth across Kurukshetra. Arjuna echoed Krishna’s clarion call with a long note of his own on the Devadatta. Bheema raised his Paundra to his lips and thunder rolled across the field. Yudhishtira took up the Anantavijaya and blew into the echo of Bheema’s sea-call, a sound as tremendous as his brother made. Nakula and Sahadeva blew in unison on the Sughosha and the Manipushpaka.

After being taken briefly unawares by the Pandavas’ conches, the hundred Kauravas raised their own sankhas and blew resoundingly on them. Without a moment’s hiatus, they were answered by Kasiraja, Shikhandi, Dhrishtadyumna, Satyaki, Virata, Drupada, Draupadi’s sons and Abhimanyu. All these kshatriyas blew on their great sea-conches at once; heaven and earth quaked at the sound they made.

THREE
A MOMENT OF CRISIS 

As the multitudinous sound of conches shook Kurukshetra, Arjuna said to his incarnate charioteer, “Krishna, let us ride out some way between the armies before the fighting begins.”

Krishna coaxed his gandharva horses forward; Hanuman was a little lion-tailed monkey on his banner. A hush fell again on the two armies, when they saw Arjuna’s chariot emerge from the Pan-dava ranks on its own. The sea of men grew quiet, watching that chariot. They saw the warrior in it spoke earnestly with his sarathy, the dark Avatara
¹
. But they could hear no word the two exchanged; the space between the chariot and the legions was considerable.

A morning breeze ruffling their hair, Krishna said to his soldier of light, “Look, Arjuna, at the glorious Kuru armies! And the one we must fight, with Bheeshma and Drona at its head. Look at all the kshatriyas who have come to die at your hands.”

Suddenly, Arjuna grew very still, Krishna saw the Pandava tremble. Arjuna bit his lip and moaned. In an excruciating insight, he saw not enemies before him any more, but sires and grandsires, masters, uncles, brothers, sons, grandsons and childhood friends! A sob tore its way out of Arjuna and he cried, “Krishna! My hands shake and my mouth is dry. My body shivers and my hair stands on end.”

His eyes were full of tears as he looked at the Kaurava army. Stricken with fear, Arjuna whispered, “The Gandiva slips from my grasp, my skin burns as if it is on fire. I see omens of evil in the sky and my head reels when I look at the enemy I am meant to kill. Oh, Krishna, what good can come from killing one’s kinsmen?”

Krishna realized it was best if Arjuna confessed what disturbed him so much; a yawning sense of destiny was upon the Dark One. He, too, shivered, knowing that he, Krishna, had been born for this moment between two armies, senayor ubhayor madhye, which divided two ages of the earth, more than for any other time of his life. It was the Avatara’s loneliest hour. Yet, he knew this was a moment of infinite opportunity, an hour of miracles, when he could speak to dim generations of the future. Arjuna was the key to this war. If Krishna could not convince the Pandava to fight, the cause of dharma would be lost on Kurukshetra and the forces of darkness would have sway over the world.

Krishna knew that, though he bore no weapons to this war, he must fight now: a battle of the spirit, a deeper battle than any he had fought before. As the two armies on both sides froze in time, as if in a mural of war, evil, which had already seized Arjuna in coils of dread, clutched at Krishna with cold tentacles. Krishna knew the price of defeat if he lost this duel of the soul.

But Arjuna, possessed, ranted at him, “I don’t want victory! I don’t want a kingdom, its power or pleasures. Of what use is a kingdom, or life itself? Men who could be my father and grandfather, others that are my masters, uncles, nephews and cousins—with whom, for whom, I could enjoy a kingdom—stand armed to fight us to the death. I cannot bear it!

Even if they kill me, how can I think of harming them? No, I don’t want this terrible war. I would not have it if it were for the throne of the three worlds, how much less for a miserable earthly kingdom. How can I even dream of killing Dhritarashtra’s sons? They are my cousins. Let them be the most monstrous men. I shall be worse than they are if I kill them; my crime shall be more horrible than any of theirs. How can I dare spill the same blood that flows in their bodies and mine, blood that unites us? How will I ever find peace again?

Even if they are demented with envy and greed, even if they see no fault in murdering family, or in being treacherous to childhood friends, should we imitate them? Shouldn’t we know the sin in this hideous thing and shun it?”

Krishna said nothing yet. He saw what Arjuna did not: that this battlefield trembled on the verge between one age and another; both were unsteady now. Arjuna burned with anxiety. He swayed in his chariot like a green sapling in the wind. Helplessly, he said, “When a noble house like ours is divided by war, it is ruined. The old ways are forgotten, the ancient rituals and truths. And when laws perish, evil and vice take all the clan. You know what happens then; the women become loose, castes are mixed and the age turns dark.

My Lord, it is straight to hell that such a clan goes, first of all, those who began its destruction. Because the spirits of the manes fall from heaven! The sacred covenants are broken and all the generations of such a house are doomed to hell. What a heinous sin you and I have plotted: to murder our family out of greed for a throne. Instead, let Duryodhana kill me in battle while I am unarmed and unresisting!”

Arjuna sat down in the chariot, buried his head in his hands and wept. Krishna realized he must answer the Pandava, coax him out of his despair, or all would be lost. As calmly as he could, he began, “From where this cowardly spirit at such a critical time? This is not for a kshatriya. It will not lead you to heaven, Arjuna, but to disgrace. Don’t give in to this womanliness, it is beneath you. Cast it aside and arise, O Vijaya!”

But evil was truly upon the Pandava. He cried in anguish, “How will I attack Bheeshma and Drona with arrows in battle? When I should worship them instead! I would rather be a beggar in the world than kill my gurus. How could I dream of enjoying a kingdom stained with my masters’ blood? When I see who the enemy is, I don’t know if I would rather win or lose this war. This is not weakness; it is the strength of compassion. How could I live if I killed my cousins? Krishna, help me! Confusion roils my mind; my soul is weak with pity. I am sick with sorrow and fear. Teach me, my Lord, tell me what I must do.”

Again, Arjuna sobbed. “No! Nothing can drive out the grief that dries up my senses, paralyzes me. Not unrivaled kingdom on earth, why, not the sovereignty of the Devas could rid me of this terrible sorrow!” His face grim, he said, “I will not fight,” and fell silent.

Krishna smiled at him as at a petulant child. He said indulgently, “You grieve for those you should not, Arjuna; but you speak to me of wisdom. Wise men do not grieve for either the living or the dead. You and I and these kings of men, have always existed and always shall. Childhood, youth and old age are three stages of life and death is only the fourth: as natural, as inevitable, as the other three. Death is the stage by which the soul passes from one life to the next; with death, the soul assumes a new body. The wise are not troubled by this; because the soul, which pervades all the living, the aging and the dying, never dies itself. It was never born or begun; it neither kills, nor is killed. It is primeval and indestructible. It always was and shall always be.