THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 2 (30 page)

The battle grows with each moment of the day. It shifts, inscrutable and fabulous, like some fleeting tapestry of violence; the roars and screams of vanquisher and vanquished are a dire symphony.

Abbreviated in an hour on Kurukshetra, ten thousand lifetimes find brutal conclusions. A gory work of art, the war rages.

Aswatthama, Bhoorisravas, Shalya, Chitrasena and Sala’s son ride at Abhimanyu. The young hero holds them all off, easily, until Kripa and the Trigartas attack him, too. From across the field Arjuna shouts proud encouragement to his son. But Kritavarman and Shalya ride at Abhimanyu from two flanks and the boy is pushed back and wounded. Dhrishtadyumna, who ranges the field, sees the unequal fight and flits to Abhimanyu’s side. Krishna, also, swerves his chariot nearer the scintillating youth.

Dhrishtadyumna casts a mace at Sala’s son and smashes the young kshatriya’s head. Screaming, Sala rushes at Dhrishtadyumna, who coolly fells that king; Sala is borne off the field in a swoon. A scathing duel breaks out between Dhrishtadyumna and Shalya. Seeing Sala’s son killed, the other Kauravas who fought Abhimanyu turn on Dhrishtadyumna in wrath, which is what the Pandava Senapati intends. Quickly, Abhimanyu and Arjuna draw some of the Kaurava fire and the three of them hold up twenty kshatriyas.

Duryodhana shouts to his brothers and, from different parts of the field, ten sons of Dhritarashtra ride to their king’s side, arrows streaming to cover the chariots of Arjuna, Abhimanyu and Dhrish-tadyumna. Away to the left of the Pandava army, another warrior raises his head from butchering the Kaurava legions. He sees his brother, his brother-in-law and his nephew beset by a swarm of enemies. Bheema gives a roar that drowns every other sound on Kurukshetra and flies to the rescue! He kills a hundred men on his way, his mace smashing heads like fruit. Drenched in blood, he flashes at Dhritarashtra’s sons. He has sworn to kill them all and in a moment, the Kauravas’ assault turns weak.

Duryodhana sees Bheema coming, bloody-eyed, like death’s specter and roars to the king of the Magadhas, who fights from elephant-back, “Stop him!”

The Magadhan, the other Sahadeva, orders his elephants to charge Bheema. He himself leads the charge and they thunder down on the Pandava. From the corner of his eye, Abhimanyu sees the danger to his uncle. Quick as thought, he shoots an arrow straight into the heart of the first elephant, the king’s and the leviathan collapses with a scream, just a few paces behind a surprised Bheema. Jarasandha’s son is on his feet in a wink and takes to his heels. Then Bheema is a lion loose among the elephants of the Magadhan army. He hews at them with his mace and the lumbering creatures fall, with grey brow and temple split open, their gore splashing everywhere, their trumpeting filling the air. The Pandava massacres the kshatriyas that rode on the beasts’ necks, those not crushed under their falling mastodons.

Soon, Bheema dances, roaring, among the hilly corpses of the elephant legion and blood flows in streams around his ankles. His face is crimson and he drips blood as if he had bathed in it in a savage ablution. The son of the wind is like Siva, dancing his tandava on Kurukshetra. Dhritarashtra’s sons tremble to watch him.

Duryodhana sends more soldiers, a thousand of them, to stop his cousin. Dhrishtadyumna, Shikhandi and now, Draupadi’s sons rush to Bheema’s side. Bheema stands like the peak of Mount Meru ringed by clouds: the corpses of the warriors and elephants he has killed. With every moment that passes, he fells more beasts and men. Mayaa’s mace in his hand, the strength in his sinews, the swiftness in them, of his father, the airy Deva, he is a storm that blows on Kurukshetra: his roars are thunder, his mace is lightning and blood is his rain.

Bheeshma comes to stop Bheema’s carnage. He shoots a hundred arrows at his grandson. Bheema’s arms are a blur, as he knocks the whistling shafts aside with his mace, disdainfully as he might a barrage of twigs. Seeing him struck by some barbs, Satyaki rides to Bheema’s side, covering Bheeshma with fire.

Now the Kaurava lines part and a weird and wild being comes to battle, mounted in a black chariot. He is twice as tall as any other warrior, has claws for hands and fangs for teeth; his lean, naked body is covered in coarse fur. He is a spy and friend of Duryodhana’s: the rakshasa Alambusa. He is so hideous, his eyes green and his breath awful, that even the Kaurava footsoldiers shrink from him. As he comes, he kills a hundred men with a curved sword, from which he licks the blood from time to time. He is a devil with power; arrows fall tamely off his hide.

Alambusa springs into Satyaki’s chariot and they fight hand to hand. Strong as the rakshasa is, he is no match for the Yadava, who is perhaps the finest swordsman on earth. Their duel lasts just moments, before Satyaki buries his blade to its hilt in Alambusa’s chest, drawing a geyser of black blood. The jungle demon flees, screaming; he will heal his wound with herbs and sorcery. Satyaki steadies his chariot, wipes his sword and picks up his bow.

Suddenly, Bheema sees an opening in the Kaurava ranks to the left of Bheeshma’s chariot. He darts through it and, running headlong, he is among Dhritarashtra’s sons like a wolf at a herd of calves. Before the first of Duryodhana’s brothers can flee, the son of the wind has felled him with a blow of his mace, which strikes that prince’s head off his neck, so it lands ten feet away.

With a laugh that transfixes the other Kauravas, Bheema yells, “Ninety-nine to go!”

As they stand stupefied by him, he kills another eight, while they hardly raise their weapons to defend themselves. Bheeshma calls desperately to Bhagadatta, the lord of Pragjyotishapura, who fights from a wonderful Airavata-sired elephant’s back. “Bhagadatta, Ride between Bheema and the princes!”

That warrior thunders up on his beast. His elephant is one of a kind, as big as two common elephants and the earth shudders at its tread. The kshatriya who sits on its neck is the son of the Asura Naraka, who was a son of Bhumi Devi and Vishnu’s Varahavatara. Krishna once flew to the secret Himalayan city, Pragjyotishapura, on Garuda and killed Bhagadatta’s father. Bhagadatta is immense and as fierce and strong is his elephant Supritika. With ichor, the juice of rut, flowing down its temples, the beast fights like a vyuha by itself, goring and trampling Pandava footsoldiers.

Bhagadatta casts a sorcerer’s lance at Bheema. It strikes the Pandava senseless. Supritika rushes forward to crush Bheema underfoot, but suddenly another elephant looms in his path, with a black and implacable warrior on its neck, whose smooth head shines in the sun: Ghatotkacha come to save his father! Hidimbi’s son fights with maya. At times, Bhagadatta sees him and at others, he is an eerie mist. He fights from elephant-back and from the ground; and then, again, he flies through the air, so it seems he is in many places at once. Wherever he is, invisible or plain to the eye, he fights splendidly. Ghatotkacha’s smaller elephant locks tusks with Bhagadatta’s monumental animal and, mastering him with sheer courage, pushes him back. Trumpeting shrilly, Bhagadatta’s elephant turns tail.

Meanwhile, Bheema is on his feet again; shaking the stupor from his head, he fights more wildly than before. Bheeshma cries to Drona and Duryodhana, “Fly to Bhagadatta! Before he is killed.”

They surge forward in their chariots and a hundred men with them. They cannot stand against Bheema and his rakshasa son. Ghatotkacha’s maya bewilders the Kaurava legions; the very sight of him, black, sleek and ferile, strikes terror into them. The soldiers panic and the rakshasa lets another sluice of blood on Kurukshetra, with Bheema roaring encouragement. Until, Bheeshma roars above the hellish bedlam of war, “Sound the conches! We will fight again tomorrow.”

He turns his chariot and leaves the field. The conches blare and, at once, the fighting stops, two hours before sunset today. Bheema and Ghatotkacha cease their festival of slaughter and stand glowing and bloody with their arms around each other. A cheer goes up from the Pandava ranks and they carry Ghatotkacha back to the camp in triumph, where Yudhishtira embraces his favorite nephew. There is no doubt the day belongs to the quiet rakshasa who, now that the fighting is over, is shy of the praise showered on him.

There is celebration in the Pandava camp and even the cautious Yudhishtira allows himself the thought that victory might well be theirs and soon, if the war continues like this.

Darkness has fallen over the Kaurava legions. Dejected soldiers seek their beds early that evening. Duryodhana cannot sleep. He sits alone in his tent, spurning even the company of Karna and Shakuni. He sits with his head buried in his hands and hot tears flow down his face. The night amplifies his fears that he will lose this war.

He has lost eight brothers today. Duryodhana feels as if eight organs of his body have been cut from him. Terror grips him that, before this war is over, Bheema will keep his oath: he will kill Dhri-tarashtra’s hundred sons. Duryodhana remembers what the Pandava had sworn he would do to Dusasana and he shudders.

After a time, Duryodhana crosses to his bed and lies down. Still, he cannot sleep. The night wears on with visions of doom and near midnight he gets up and walks out from his tent. Wrapped in a shawl, under a glaring moon like an angry eye above, he walks to Bheeshma’s tent. He enters and sits in a chair beside his Pitama’s bed. He feels a little comforted in his grandfather’s presence, just as he used to when he was a boy and would grow unaccountably afraid at nights.

For a while Duryodhana sits there, thinking Bheeshma is asleep; until the old man speaks softly from his bed, “Couldn’t you sleep as well, my child?”

Duryodhana grasps Bheeshma’s hand. Fervently he says, “Pitama, I am afraid! Bheema killed eight of my brothers today, even when our greatest warriors protected them. Every day, we go out to fight and they rout us. Already, I fear their numbers are greater than ours though we began with four aksauhinis more. I cannot understand it, Pitama, this is not natural.”

He clutches the old man’s hand and sobs. Bheeshma holds Duryodhana to him, as he had when the prince was a boy. He strokes his head and says gently, “My child, my poor child, this is what we tried to warn you of, all these days. It is not too late, Duryodhana. Go to Yudhishtira, make peace with him. It will hurt you, surely; but it will be far cheaper than losing all your brothers and friends, your elders and masters and then your own life. At least now, you must realize that no force on earth can stand before the Pandavas. Do you know why? Why not Drona or I can contain them? It is because they have Krishna with them. No host of heaven or earth can resist the Dark One. He is God come down as a man to purify the earth. I have lived many years in this deep world; I know it well and all that is in it. I know the Avatara when I see him. Duryodhana, you must relent.

In just four days, they have killed a third of our men. If you still cannot see how this war is going to end, you are blind. We shall all be killed; those like me, who are more than ready for death and others who are young and far from prepared. All our fates are in your hands. Come with me, let us go to Yudhishtira and offer him an honorable peace. You will be remembered as the king who saved the world, as Duryodhana who conquered himself. Come, this is the time to be a kshatriya!”

Duryodhana has grown stiff as a corpse. For a while he sits gazing numbly at his grandfather’s face. Then he lets go the patriarch’s hand, rises and, without a word, walks out of his tent. Bheeshma sits staring out of the open tent-flap at the mooned night outside. Duryodhana would never relent; his pride would not allow him. His mind wanders back to the day’s battle. He sees Arjuna on the field again. He sees Abhimanyu, as great an archer as his father, his face a boy’s. Bheeshma smiles in the dark. The House of Kuru was still the noblest house on earth. A pang of grief convulses him again, for this house divided against itself in war; and to think what its glory would have been, if all its sons had stood together. Tears fill the old man’s eyes.

Bheeshma lies on his bed. He remembers another moment from the day, when he thought his Salvation had come to him: when Krishna leapt down from his chariot and strode at him in wrath, the Chakra livid over his hand. How ecstatic that death would have been! But it was not to be. The aged warrior sighs.

As he lies there, he drifts back to his childhood, to the tangled banks of a holy river. He sees his mother’s face, Ganga’s face. She seems so real he can almost reach out and stroke her cheek. He imagines he is a child, once more, lying with his head in her lap and her telling him wondrous tales of the eldest days of the earth. He hears her soft voice clearly; sleep steals over the tired old kshatriya.

FOURTEEN
THE FIFTH AND SIXTH DAYS 

Dawn of the fifth day of the war and Bheeshma is up with the sun and deploys his troops in the makara vyuha. Across the chasmal field, Arjuna, Dhrishtadyumna and Yudhishtira decide that the garuda vyuha will hunt the patriarch’s crocodile. They set Bheema at the beak, behind him is Satyaki, the eagle’s head and behind Satyaki, Arjuna is the bird’s neck. Drupada and Virata form the avian’s left wing and the Kekaya brothers, the right. Abhimanyu and Draupadi’s sons are the eagle’s back and its tail is Yudhishtira, with Nakula and Sahadeva beside him.

Again, the bass of conches, as the cinnabar sun climbs over the horizon. The armies run roaring at each other, with Bheeshma and Bheema at the head of the Kaurava and Pandava legions. Arrows hum across the field, in fatal song and stick quivering in enemies’ flesh. Sword rings against sword, spear on spear. Thousands die, quick as thinking, all their intricate days on earth cut suddenly short.