Read THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 2 Online
Authors: Ramesh Menon
Arjuna and Krishna make their way to Yudhishtira’s tent through a sea of soldiers, all shouting both their names and those near enough reaching out to touch their heroes.
The news reaches Yudhishtira before they do and he is waiting for them in a fair tumult of joy. Arjuna leaps down from his chariot, runs to his brother, his guru and prostrates himself at his feet.
With a sob, Yudhishtira raises him up and embraces him. Yudhishtira clasps Krishna. Krishna says, “With Karna, Duryodhana’s last hope has died. Yudhishtira, your wrath of thirteen years burns brightly and it consumes the Kauravas. Already, you are lord of the earth again.”
Yudhishtira, the bhakta, says humbly, “You have won this war for me. You are always my hope and my strength. When you are with me, victory must be mine.”
Yudhishtira is deeply relieved; some peace comes to his spirit. It was always Karna he had feared, Karna who had been Duryodhana’s main hope. The eldest Kaurava and the eldest Pandava knew, instinctively, how great Karna was; and the duel that would decide the outcome of the war would be the one between Arjuna and him. Now it is over and Yudhishtira wants to be driven to the place where Karna fell. He wants to see the corpse of the man who haunted him with anxiety for so many years. He wants to see it with his own eyes.
Krishna takes him to the field in his chariot. The Pandava sees Karna’s sons all lying dead and then at last he sees Karna himself, his head cut from his body and restored to calm, after life’s brief, harsh, fever. He sees the great body pierced all over by arrows, like a kadamba flower with its thousand filaments. He sees the thousand lamps lit around that headless trunk, fed by scented oil. A pang grips him and Yudhishtira stands gazing at his dead brother. The Sun is setting behind the western mountain, slanting his last light across his slain child’s face, when finally, the Pandava heaves a sigh and says softly, “He is dead and he is so splendid even in death. Come, Krishna, let us go back.”
The sun sets, but Duryodhana sits unmoving in his tent, paralyzed. His mind is also blank, until he remembers the day of the exhibition in Hastinapura again, the day he first saw Karna. How glorious Karna had been on that day, when he put Arjuna in the shade. Duryodhana sees his friend once more. He sees him so clearly, he can reach out and touch his face.
A sob tears itself out from the Kaurava’s very entrails. The vision of the exhibition fades and that of Karna with it. He remembers where he is and what has happened. It is midnight now and no one is about. A stark compulsion seizes Duryodhana: he has to see Karna at once. Not caring to cover himself against the cold, he stumbles out into the night. Like a beast of the wild to its dead mate, Duryodhana runs to where Karna lies.
A bronze moon has risen into the sky and hangs low over Kurukshetra. By its burnished light, Duryodhana finds his friend, cut in two by Arjuna’s arrow. Tenderly, the Kaurava picks up the severed head. He strokes its handsome face, its eyes shut in sleep forever. He kisses those eyes, the proud lips curled in their last smile, mocking death. Duryodhana gathers Karna’s headless trunk in his arms and sits on the ground, mourning.
Suddenly panic grips him. He jumps up like a madman and dashes here and there, sobbing and laughing, crying Karna’s name to the moon. He plunges across the field, falling over the corpses of Kurukshetra, while grief dissects his heart. Summoned by a subtle impulse, Duryodhana runs to his Pitama on his bed of arrows. Sobbing, he falls to his knees beside Bheeshma.
Painfully, the patriarch stirs. He reaches out a gnarled hand and strokes Duryodhana’s head. Tears in his aged eyes, he says, “Don’t grieve for Karna, my child. His death was fated and he is happy now. He was a kshatriya and he died as a kshatriya should. He is at peace.”
Duryodhana stiffens. His voice quivering with excitement, he whispers, “So I was right! Karna was a kshatriya, all along. Tell me who he was, whose son. I must know everything. Tell me, Pitama! I must tell the world. At least now let them know he was a kshatriya and they taunted him vainly.”
His hand trembles in the patriarch’s. Bheeshma says, “I cannot tell you who Karna was, unless you swear you will tell no one else. It was his own wish that no one should know; not even you, until he was dead.”
Puzzled, that Karna kept something from him that Bheeshma knew, Duryodhana says, “If he wanted it kept a secret, would I ever tell anyone? I swear it will not pass my lips. Tell me, Pitama!”
Bheeshma hesitates. “Can you bear what I have to tell you? You are already unhinged with grief.”
Duryodhana says, “I have seen Karna lying on the field with his head cut from his body and I am still alive. My heart is made of stone; it can bear anything. Tell me, Pitama, who was he?”
His grandsire says, “Listen, then. I will tell you because you must know how much he loved you. Duryodhana, Karna was Kunti’s eldest son.”
Duryodhana reels. He clutches Bheeshma’s hand and breathes, “The Pandavas’ brother! Tell me more.”
Under the witnessing moon, Bheeshma tells him all about Karna’s tragic life. He tells him about Surya Deva, whom Kunti invoked and of the child born of the Sun’s visitation. He tells him how Kunti floated her infant on the river, how Atiratha saw the wooden box and took the golden child home. Of Karna’s dreams, Bheeshma tells the Kaurava and how he discovered he was not the suta’s son; how he wanted to be an archer and was refused by every master in the land, until he went to Parasurama. Bheeshma tells Duryodhana about Bhargava’s curse and the brahmana’s, how Karna gave away his kavacha and kundala to Indra and, finally, when Karna himself discovered who he was, when Krishna told him. The Kuru patriarch tells Duryodhana how, just before the war, Kunti went to her firstborn son and begged him to join his brothers’ army, as their king. Bheeshma tells Duryodhana what Karna’s answer had been. ‘I will never abandon Duryodhana. He is the only one who ever loved me and I love him more than my life.’
Duryodhana listens to him in silence, his tears dripping onto the old man’s hands. Bheeshma falls silent. Duryodhana says, “He knew and he still stayed with me. He died by his own brother’s hand for my sake, because he loved me so much. Why am I not dead? Why doesn’t this heartless earth open and swallow me for what I have done?”
Duryodhana whispers feverishly, “Karna, my friend, there is nothing left to live for when you are gone. Not now, that I know how you loved me: more than I had dreamt. I am coming to you soon, my brother, very soon.”
Bheeshma says, “Karna was the noblest man that lived in our times and he has found the heaven he deserves.”
Duryodhana says quietly, “Nothing can hurt me now that I have heard who my Karna was and what he did for me. Pitama, I do not want the kingdom any more, for which this war is being fought. Now that Karna is not here, with whom I can share it, I don’t want it at all. I want nothing but to die and I will die a noble death. You will see, Pitama, how this grandson of yours dies. You will be proud of me. I promise you: at last, you will be proud of your Duryodhana. I must leave you now, I must prepare for death.”
A smile lights Duryodhana’s face, one of such relief, almost of peace: the smile of a man who has finally found his true direction. He kisses Bheeshma’s hand, then, rises quickly and walks away. Bheeshma lies on his incredible bed under the moon and his tears flow for his grandson, for all his grandsons. There is also a new light in his eyes. He can feel the war drawn near its end and his own life, as well.
AUM, I bow down to Narayana, the most exalted Nara and to the Devi Saraswathi and say
Jaya
!
The next day, with the rising sun, Acharya Kripa comes to Duryodhana’s tent. He finds the Kaurava wide awake, his eyes red, intent. Obviously, he has not slept all night. Kripa takes Duryodhana’s hand and speaks to him.
“Curb your sorrow, my prince, it drains you. How cruel this kshatriya dharma is, which venerates killing and dying above everything else. Just look at you, my poor child. I have seen you since you were an infant and look at the pass you have reached. Duryodhana, real dharma is to protect precious life, not destroy it.
You know how fond Aswatthama and I are of you. Listen to an old man that loves you. When this war began you had the bigger army and you were certain of victory. That is not how it has turned out. Bheeshma fell, then Drona was killed and now Karna is dead. So many of your brothers are dead and your son Lakshmana. At least now, you must realize that Arjuna is invincible. Krishna is his sarathy and no one can stop him.
Look at your army today: like stragglers of a caravan attacked by bandits. Do you remember what it was, eighteen days ago? How many men have perished, how many noble kshatriyas. We were all there when Dusasana was killed; none of us could stop Bheema. We were all there when Jayadratha died; could we stop Arjuna then? The truth is that you are in the wrong and dharma is against you.
How can you hope to win this war? Duryodhana, even now it is not too late. You still have that most precious treasure: you have your life. Don’t throw it away.
Go to Yudhishtira; offer him peace. He will welcome you, share the kingdom with you. Krishna will welcome peace. The rishis say you must fight only when you are strong. When you are weak, peace is the sensible course. You will still save thousands of lives and every living soldier on Kurukshetra will bless you. I beg you, Duryodhana, listen to me!”
Kripa is so overwrought his eyes roll up and he faints. Duryodhana revives his Acharya, sprinkling water on his face. Kripa wakes and still sobs. Duryodhana takes his old master’s hand and says kindly, “Only you, who love me, will speak like this. Everything you say is true. Before the war began, you spoke strongly against it; once battle was joined, no one fought as you did. I saw you, always in the van of our legions, like a man half your age. You are my first guru. Drona came much later. You were my master since the day I was born and you speak not out of fear or ambition, only love.
But it is too late to think of peace. We are men of the world. We know how much the Pandavas have suffered at my hands. Think just of the day of the dice. How will they ever forgive me for what happened on that day? This war has opened my eyes. Once, I only thought of what I wanted and I would do anything to get it. Today I can almost feel the Pandavas’ pain in my own body.
Bheema and I played together as boys. I confess to you now, he was always an affectionate fellow, wild but loving. Did you see what he did to Dusasana yesterday? Did you see the look in his eyes when he cut off my brother’s hand, ripped open his chest and drank his blood? What rage he must have carried in his heart, for thirteen years, that a loving man like him could do a thing like that. You think Bheema will forgive me? Never.
Then, think of Abhimanyu. Perhaps if he had not died, we could still have sued for peace with the Pandavas. Now, even if they do make peace, do you think Krishna and Arjuna will forget how Abhimanyu was killed? And do you think Bheema and the others will forgive what we did to Draupadi on the day of the dice? She will never forgive us. She has sworn she will sleep only on the floor until Bheema kills me.
Acharya, your love blinds you with hope. Peace is impossible, let us not even think of it. The Pandavas have suffered too long and too much to accept peace now. Besides, I do not want peace.
Perhaps you are right and they might still settle for peace. Yudhishtira is so full of dharma, that if I make the offer he may accept it. Krishna and Arjuna might forgive me for Abhimanyu’s death, since I have also lost my brothers and my son. But what will I do with peace, Acharya? You forget that for thirteen years I have ruled the earth myself. How can I bear to share it with anyone? And it will hardly be an equal sharing. Yudhishtira and his brothers will rule and I will be no better than their servant. I have shone alone all these years, dimming the glory of every other king in Bharatavarsha. How can I bear to walk behind my cousin now? Think of the shame of it. It will be far worse than dying.
Yes, I have ruled the earth these thirteen years and mine has been a splendid reign. Do you think that otherwise all these lords of men would have come with their armies to fight for me? Many more came for me than for Yudhishtira. I have tasted power like no other man. I have known wealth and luxury that even other kings hardly dream of. I have given away as charity more than many kings own in all their lives. And now you want me to be my cousin’s subject and to rule half a kingdom, if that, at his mercy? Ah Kripa, you mean well, but the dying man does not relish the bitter medicine that can cure him.
I am set on war and for me it is the only course. I might be many things, Acharya, but I am not a coward. I have never been afraid of anyone. I have lived the life of a great king: no pleasure I have not tasted in surfeit. I have the blessings of my poor because I have been generous in charity. Night and day, since I was a boy, I have heard the Vedas chanted; and you know how many yagnas I have performed. I have set my foot on my enemies’ heads and I have been munificent with my own. I never turned away any man who came to me in need. My conquests are numberless and far-flung and I ruled my kingdom ably. Which man who has lived the life I have will willingly serve the rest of his years as the Pandavas’ slave?