THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 2 (27 page)

His face in the grass, his eyes shut tight, Arjuna prostrated himself at the Vision’s feet. He breathed, “O Krishna, it is well the world honors you, I understand it now. Hail, hail to you! A thousand times, hail! For whatever I said rashly to you, thinking of you as just my cousin, not knowing who you really are, calling you Krishna, Yadava, or friend, I beg your forgiveness, O Father of worlds.

Bear with me as a father with his son, as a friend with a friend, as a lover with his beloved. I cannot endure this vision of you. Be merciful; be as you were before, O million-membered One!”

God said, “My love has shown you this Form of fire, luminous, primeval, which no one has ever seen before on earth. Not by the Vedas, by sacrifice or study, not by the sternest tapasya, will anyone else in this world ever see this Viswa Rupa. But look and do not be afraid.”

Again, Krishna, his cousin and friend, stood smiling and gracious before Arjuna and gently pulled the Pandava to his feet.

Red-faced, hands still folded, Arjuna panted, “Lord! I am quiet again.”

The panic drained from his body, though he still shook where he stood. And Krishna was reminded of another purpose of the Avatara: to allay the terror of man faced with absolute Godhead.

He said, “Even the Devas, Arjuna, are always eager to see me as you just did. Only by bhakti can I be seen like that.” He embraced the trembling warrior, “He who worships me and has no enmity with any creature, he comes to me, O Kshatriya. Consecrate all that you do to me; think of me as your nearest kin. Know that I am your only refuge, be one with me in your heart.

When you are with me, I will take you over every trial and sorrow. But if your are conceited and do not listen, you will be lost. It is your vanity that says, ‘I will not fight’. You will fight, Arjuna, your own nature will compel you to. You yourself create the karma that binds you; and caught helpless in its power, you will do even what you want to avoid.

God abides in the hearts of all his creatures. He turns them round on the wheel of his maya. Surrender to him, Arjuna. By his grace you will find supreme peace and the place beyond change.”

Krishna smiled at Arjuna, “Now you know the wisdom that is the secret of secrets. Think carefully on it and then do as you decide. These are my last words to you for now. You are the friend I chose over all others and I speak for your good.”

The Blue God was a being of pure love. He said, “Give me your heart; love me, worship me always. Bow only to me and you shall find me. This is my promise, who love you more than you can imagine.

Relinquish your karma to me, I am your sanctuary. Fear no more, because I will save you from sin and from bondage. Arjuna, you must never tell this holy truth to anyone who has no faith or restraint, or who hates his guru and mocks me. But the man who loves me and teaches my bhaktas this supreme secret of the Gita, will surely come to me.

If any man meditates upon this song of ours, I will know he has worshipped me in spirit. And the man who just listens to it, without derision, will be freed of his sins and attain the swarga of the just.”

His deep hour between the two armies over, his battle of the spirit, Sri Krishna embraced his cousin and soldier. Around them, time unfroze: horses moved, chariots and soldiers. Kurukshetra resounded again with conches, drums and tabors. Arjuna stood forth; the river of light, the Song of God, was a sea in his heart. Enfolded in his charioteer’s fathomless calm, at peace with himself, the Pandava shone with faith.

Krishna said, “Has your soul heard everything I have said, Arjuna, have I dispelled your fear?”

From his new peace, Krishna’s given peace, the archer replied, “Achyuta, your grace has made my mind firm, its doubts have gone. I will do as you say. I will fight.” And he picked up the Gandiva again.

Krishna looked at Arjuna and wondered whether, when faced with his kin, the Pandava would truly aim to kill. The Dark One’s eyes twinkled at his cousin.

Krishna took the silver horses’ reins in his left hand. With a flick of the whip, he plunged his chariot toward Bheeshma and the Kaurava army. With a ringing cry, the Avatara bore his warrior of light into the war on the crack of the ages.

TEN
THE GHASTLY WAR 

The war of Kurukshetra begins fiercely, as, roaring, the two armies rush at each other. A clash of armor and weapons rends the air like spring thunder and men fall in hundreds. Death dances there, horrific and celebrant. Above every other noise ring the roars of Bheema, excited as a lion let loose from a cage! Like a hunting lion, he charges Duryodhana’s army, while elephants and horses spray urine and excrete in terror.

The enemy is prepared for him. Twelve Kauravas, Duryodhana’s brothers, cover him in arrows, beating him back for a time. Seeing their uncle beset, Draupadi’s sons fly to his side, their bows singing. Quickly, Abhimanyu, Nakula, Sahadeva and Dhrishtadyumna are with Bheema, too, drawing blood, driving the twelve Kauravas back. Arrows flash in the sun climbing toward his zenith.

Elsewhere, Bheeshma rides at the Pandava army and Arjuna bars his way. They match each other shaft for shaft. Satyaki faces Kritavarman; the two Yadavas fight, one for darkness, the other for light. Abhimanyu finds himself facing Brihadbala, lord of Kosala, the kingdom perfect Rama once ruled. An inspired Brihadbala cuts down Abhimanyu’s banner.

Breaking through the enemy flank, Bheema sees Duryodhana before him. The Kaurava roars, “So, at last we fight like men, cousin! Are you ready to die?”

Bheema replies with a rash of arrows. Dusasana faces Nakula and Durmukha, Sahadeva. Yudhish-tira sees his uncle Shalya before him. The Pandava bows to his elder and raises his bow to fight. Quick as thinking Shalya breaks his nephew’s weapon in his hand with a sizzle of arrows. Roaring, Yudhish-tira seizes up another bow and covers Shalya’s chariot in a cloud of fire, forcing him back.

While the great kshatriyas fight exhilarantly from their wheeling chariots, all around them millions of common footsoldiers battle and a hundred die every moment. The very first hours of the war are horrible. It is a macabre dance performed to the roars of fighting men, the screams of the dying and deafening conches and horns that echo under the bland sky: a dance inspired by a savage God, who would purify the earth in a day by washing her in blood.

No duel lasts long and antagonists change in moments. For, when a contest is too even, the charioteers veer away to seek a weaker adversary. But Dhrishtadyumna and his master Drona fight, evenly for an hour. Morning wears into noon; though, in the violent mandala of battle, the passage of time is counted not by moments or hours, but by deaths. It is quickly obvious that, just as Duryodhana shrewdly predicted, the Kuru patriarch takes the heaviest toll. Bheeshma is like Yama on the field of fate. Not Arjuna, no-one can contain the old master. His bow is a wizard’s staff and his arrows are spells of fire that flow from it like the ancient bowman’s wishes. He kills thousands, even while he holds up a magnificent Arjuna.

It seems no one can stand before Bheeshma, or stem the wave of death he brings to the Pandava army. Then, a splendid young kshatriya’s chariot erupts on the knot of warriors that surrounds the Pitama. From a flank, Abhimanyu scythes through the legion that rings Bheeshma and attacks Shalya, Kritavarman and Bheeshma himself. He strikes Shalya’s arm deep, so he drops his bow and has to leave the field. Kritavarman stands just briefly against Abhimanyu, before he has his bow snatched from his hand by a shaft of huge velocity. Then, no warrior stands between Arjuna’s son and his great-grandsire.

Abhimanyu fights like an angry Deva and, stunned by his archery, the older kshatriyas cry that the youth was a match for his father. The Kaurava army shrinks from Abhimanyu’s brilliance and he cuts his Pitama’s banner from his chariot. The Pandavas, who fled before Bheeshma’s inexorable advance, come roaring back to fight; and the Kaurava soldiers, who had surged forward with Bheeshma, sensing swift victory, now cower from Arjuna’s son.

The advancing Kaurava frontlines are breached; through the breach ride Virata and his sons, Dhr-ishtadyumna, Bheema, the wild Kekayas and Satyaki. As Duryodhana’s footsoldiers flee in panic, the Pandava archers kill a thousand of them. From other parts of the field, mighty Kaurava warriors rush to stop the rout.

Drona, roaring, splits Dhrishtadyumna’s bow in his hands. Aswatthama sees Shikhandi flit forward, maneuvering toward Bheeshma; and Drona’s son looms before Shikhandi and covers him in a mantle of arrows, arresting his dangerous careen. Shouting in fine fury, both draw blood.

Battle is truly joined and the feral spirit of war grips the two armies. Now, as always happens, the sacred conditions of a dharma yuddha are violated everywhere. In the heat of war, its madness, few care to remember that a warrior in a chariot must not fight a footsoldier, or that the elephant-mounted must not use their beasts to trample men fighting on the ground. Why, Bheeshma kills a thousand Pandava soldiers, none of whom is remotely his equal. War has its own dharma. It is a world unto itself, where everything is measured by the violent moment, when each man either kills or is killed. All their lives swimming before their eyes, death an immediate presence, the two immense forces fight, common soldiers and kshatriyas. Kurukshetra exists as much in Yama’s realm, as it does on earth.

Renewed by rage that young Abhimanyu smashed the bow in his hand, Shalya comes roaring back into battle. In moments, he kills a hundred Pandava soldiers, until, another youthful kshatriya mounted on a grey tusker lumbers up to him. It is Virata’s son Uttara Kumara who, just days ago, fled at the sight of a raiding Kaurava force. Now, Duryodhana’s soldiers fly before him, because today he also fights like a young god, death riding with him.

As the sun creeps toward the western hills, Uttara Kumara and Shalya fight a radiant duel. The prince shoots his arrows in a blinding flurry and it seems that Shalya must give way before him. Shalya’s horses rear at the grey elephant’s advance and his sarathy cannot hold them. In a flash, prince Uttara shoots down those beasts; he draws blood on Shalya’s sarathy and smashes his chariot under him with a terrific volley. Shalya finds himself stranded, his bow fallen and Uttara Kumara advancing on him.

Then, the Matsya prince gives in to a moment of youthful exhilaration. He roars that he had vanquished such an opponent and raises his own bow over his head in triumph. In a blur, Shalya seizes up a javelin from his broken chariot and casts it like a bolt of lightning. The prince’s roar dies in a gurgling scream, as the lance flashes into his chest, striking his young heart in a crimson burst. Like a bird from a tree, he topples from his elephant’s back.

Nearby, his older brother, Sweta, hears Uttara Kumara roar when he had Shalya at his mercy and turns his chariot just in time to see him die. Shalya still stands on the ground, unarmed beside his shattered chariot. With a howl, Sweta flies at his brother’s killer. Fortunately for Shalya, seven Kauravas quickly form a ring around him. Still, Sweta fights like ten kshatriyas.

Red-eyed, Virata’s son rushes at the enemy and beats back the seven warriors around Shalya. Across the field, Bheeshma sees the threat to Shalya and aims a terrible shaft at Sweta, plumed with the feathers of the kanka bird. It is an astra, the first of the war and it flares at that prince from a long way. Weaving elliptically through a hundred chariots, the missile finds Sweta. It burns his armor to ashes, then pierces his heart. Shalya heaves a sigh of relief. His tears streaming, Sweta’s sarathy drives his prince’s corpse away from the field.

The sun sinks behind the western hill. Conches blare from both sides and the first day’s fighting ends. The Senapatis withdraw their legions and each army collects its dead, to cremate them beside the golden river. So many have died, that they are burned in coarse heaps, with hardly any dignity. A brazen moon rises over Kurukshetra and the blood spilt on the field glimmers in its flowing light.

The first day belongs to the Kauravas. Bheeshma by himself has killed ten thousand men. Uttara Kumara and Sweta have died and their father Virata cries like a boy, all night. Across the Saraswati, a delighted Duryodhana calls for a fireside feast to celebrate; there is drinking and singing, dancing-girls entertain the Kaurava troops. Duryodhana has no doubt that victory will be his sooner than he could have hoped: in three or four days, no more.

Across Kurukshetra, Yudhishtira is plunged in despair. Late at night, after all the others are asleep, he comes alone to Krishna’s tent. In a whisper, he says, “The Pitama is more terrible than we imagined. Thousands of precious lives have been cut off in a day and I am to blame.

Bheeshma is invincible, Krishna; we can never win this war against the Pitama. I have no right to ask millions to die for me, because I want a kingdom. I should return to the forest before all our men are slaughtered. Another day like this one and that is what I will have to do anyway.

Only my Bheema fights with any heart, but I know they have marked him out. How long will he escape the astras of Bheeshma and Drona? You saw how Uttara Kumara and Sweta died and Virata cries in his tent. What will it matter to him now, even if we win the war? Can victory restore his sons to him? How will I live with myself, if anything happens to Bheema?

Krishna, dread fills me. How can we reverse our fortunes tomorrow? Only you can help us against the Pitama.”

Krishna says, “You take too much upon yourself, Yudhishtira; we are all with you. The men who have come to fight your cause are not children. They came knowing their lives are at risk. They know what is at stake in this war and for what they are fighting. If you do not stand against the evil ones, Yudhishtira, who will? Darkness will rule the earth.