THE MAHABHARATA: A Modern Rendering, Vol 2 (76 page)

Suddenly, Aswatthama knows what he must do. In a frenzy, he wakes the others. Thinking they are being attacked they spring up, drawing their swords. It is only Aswatthama, trembling with excitement, burning in the night.

Kripa says sleepily, “What has possessed you now, Aswatthama? Go back to sleep, child.”

His nephew cries, “I cannot sleep! I know how to have revenge on the Pandavas.”

“What do you mean?”

Aswatthama’s eyes gleam insanely. “We must kill them when they are asleep! We must attack them now, when they don’t expect us.”

Kritavarman and Kripa gasp. Kripa cries, “How can you even think such a thing?”

“A sovereign of the earth, a master of eleven aksauhinis, lies dying by himself: his manhood shattered by cowardly Bheema. How else, uncle, do you suggest that we avenge him? The Pandavas have won this war with guile. Now we must also fight them with deceit. There is no other way.”

Kripa says, “A warrior must be brave, but he must also be virtuous. You must remember Duryodhana was no king of dharma himself. He was greedy and ruthless. He humiliated the Pandavas. He cheated them out of everything they owned and banished them for thirteen years. Still, they sued for peace until the last moment. But Duryodhana was unrelenting. We must not take his death out of its context, or forget everything he did to the sons of Pandu. And as for the manner in which Bheema struck him down, it was only as he swore he would. Perhaps you are right that the gada-yuddha was not the occasion to do it. That isn’t cause enough for us to commit the crime you want to.”

But Aswatthama is adamant. “Was the way they killed my father, their guru, dharma? The time for dharma has passed. This is the time for revenge.”

“And we will seek revenge, openly. We will challenge the Pandavas tomorrow and fight them to the death. That will be honorable and fate will smile on us. Yours is a dastardly plan, my son. I beg you, don’t even think of such a sin.”

Aswatthama is past listening to reason. “I have sworn to Duryodhana that I will kill the Pandavas. I am his Senapati now. This is the only way I can keep my word to him.”

Kripa says, “I am tired and I cannot think clearly. Let us seek Dhritarashtra’s counsel, queen Gandhari’s and the wise Vidura’s, before we do anything we might regret.”

Aswatthama says, “I have made up my mind and I mean to do this thing tonight.” A fearful smile touches his lips. “It is their first night of rest after the war. The Pandavas will be asleep. They would have taken off their armor and be lost in dreams. They will never wake up again.”

Again, Kripa says, “You are so tired and sad that you don’t realize what you are saying. Sleep now, Aswatthama; tomorrow we will fight the Pandavas together.”

“Sleep! How can a man who is in the grip of anger or desire, anxiety or sorrow, sleep? I am churned by all four! I will sleep only after I have killed the sons of Pandu. If you won’t come with me, I will go alone. Farewell.”

He strides away toward his chariot. He has not gone ten paces when Kripa and Kritavarman cry after him, “Wait! We will come with you.”

They realize that it is later than they imagined. The kali yuga is upon them and the time for dharma is past. They are all that remain of Duryodhana’s army; from now, they will have to act together, whatever they did, or they would die. The last three warriors of Duryodhana’s numberless legions ride in the pitched night to avenge their fallen king.

THREE
THE SAVAGE CAMP 

Riding through the darkness across Kurukshetra, the three warriors approach the Pandava camp. Aswatthama lets Kripa and Kritavarman down near the main gate. He says, “See no one escapes this way.”

He rides off into the night. He means to find another way in. As he goes, the dark wind in his face, suddenly a rakshasa looms in his path, its hundred strangely beautiful eyes glowing red, round its waist a tiger-skin dripping fresh blood and the skin of a black buck covering his radiant chest. A writhing serpent is his sacred thread and his many arms hold aloft diverse weapons. Flames issue from his fanged maw. Aswatthama looses a few arrows at the demon. The rakshasa yawns his mouth wide and swallows those shafts. Aswatthama summons the rathashakti. The apparition swallows that fiery missile as well. Leaping down from his chariot, Aswatthama draws his sword, golden-hafted and its blade the color of the sky; but it disappears from his hand and into the demonic being’s body like a mongoose into its hole! So does the great mace he seizes up next.

Aswatthama thinks this is no ordinary rakshasa; it makes no move to come any nearer, or to attack him. Drona’s son folds his hands and stands on one foot. He prays to Siva, by whose grace he was born. Abruptly, the rakshasa vanishes and in its place, a golden altar appears before the brahmana. In moments, all sorts of strange spirits materialize from that altar.

Some have three heads, some no head at all. Some are naked, pale phalluses erect; others wear tiger-skin. Some have three eyes and others just one. Some have four and five arms; some have tails. Some are minotaurian, others have bull’s heads and men’s limbs and still others are indescribable, for they have no human feature, or any bestial one. Many have the complexion of the lotus and they carry all kinds of weapons. Yet, these weird beings do not threaten Aswatthama in any way, only sing and dance bizarrely before him; they shriek and yodel, too. The Siva-bhakta knows these extraordinary creatures are his Lord’s ganas, come to announce their master.

The golden altar blazes up in flames. Bracing himself, Aswatthama climbs the steps that lead to the vedi. He cries, “Lord, I offer myself to you! I am born in the line of Angiras and I beg you to accept me as the sacrificial animal.” and is about to step into the flames, when a light illumines heaven and earth and Siva stands before his devotee. The God wears deerskin; he is three-eyed, irradiant and carries his trisula. Matted jata covers his head, the crescent-moon peeps out from his topknot and the Ganga glimmers there. Aswatthama falls on his face to worship that vision.

Siva says, “Krishna is my finest bhakta and so far I protected the Panchalas for his sake. But the time of their lives has run out. Here, take this sword, Aswatthama and may your enemies perish.”

In a daze, Aswatthama takes the shining sword from awesome Sankara and the Lord vanishes. Just the ineffable fragrance of him lingers on the midnight air. Rising from where he knelt, Aswatthama stalks into the Pandava camp, the sword a long flame in his hand. To his right and left, unseen rak-shasas march. He peers into the first tent he comes to in the dark and dimly sees Dhrishtadyumna lying asleep on a white bed, on satin sheets, scented with powdered dhupa. Aswatthama steals into the tent.

For a moment, he stands staring at the sleeping Panchala prince. His lips curl, his eyes blaze and then, with a screech like the hunting owl’s, he lashes out with a kick at his father’s killer. Dhrish-tadyumna is startled awake and Drona’s son is at him. Dhrishtadyumna tries to get up, but Aswat-thama seizes his long hair, flings him down on the ground and begins to kick him relentlessly: in his stomach, his groin, his face, again and again. Dhrishtadyumna curls up in agony. In a flash, Aswatthama rips the string from the Panchala’s bow lying nearby. He plants his knees on Dhrish-tadyumna’s chest and quick as rage, winds the bowstring around his throat and throttles him. Dhrishtadyumna’s eyes bulge from his head, his tongue lolls out of his mouth. He grips his attacker’s hands and manages to gasp, “Don’t kill me like this! Kill me with an arrow like a kshatriya, or I won’t reach swarga.”

Aswatthama’s face is a mask, its eyes slit in hatred. Drona’s son, the Panchala’s boyhood friend, hisses, “You killed your own guru! swarga is not for men like you. I have come to send you to hell. You will be damned forever and that is what you deserve.”

Still throttling him with the bowstring, Aswatthama drags Dhrishtadyumna around the tent, kicking him, killing him in the most brutal way. Long after life has left the fire-prince’s body, Aswatthama continues to savage his corpse. At last he stands panting above the dead Dhrishtadyumna and his eyes gleam in satisfaction.

Aswatthama takes up Siva’s sword he had set down so he could kill that kshatriya with his bare hands. Now he goes through the rest of the Pandava camp as the white owl did among the sleeping crows. Aswatthama slaughters the other Panchalas, Shikhandi and his brothers. He comes to another tent and sees Draupadi’s sons asleep. They are hardly more than children. The brahmana enters stealthily and, covering their mouths so they did not cry out, he cuts their throats or plunges his sword into their hearts, killing them before they awake. He finds Yuddhamanyu and Uttamaujas and kills them
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Meanwhile, Kripa and Kritavarman have set fire to the camp from three sides and the tents blaze up like yagna flames in the dark. Roused by terrified screams in the feral night, the other sleeping soldiers wake up and try to run from the rakshasa attacking them at the midnight hour. Like Yamadutas, death’s messengers, Kripa and Kritavarman cut them down at the only gate.

Aswatthama stalks that camp like Yama himself
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. His roars drown the screams of those he murders with Siva’s sword, flashing like a moon-sliver in his hand. Drona’s son attacks the elephants and horses that stampede through the camp, felling them at will and is drenched in their innocent blood. Whinnying and trumpeting in terror, those beasts plunge away from the demented avenger; and on their panicstricken careen, they trample a hundred Pandava soldiers who try to escape Drona’s dreadful son.

Soon, the three Kaurava warriors meet again at the gate. Lit by the flames of the burning camp, their faces are wet with blood. Their mission is accomplished; their macabre sacrifice is complete: every man in the Pandava camp is dead and most of their beasts. Scavengers descend on the camp and begin to feast. Rakshasas and pisacahas arrive, to quaff the flowing blood. Gorging on flesh, fat and sucking marrow out of the corpses’ bones, they dance in joy. Drunk with murder, Aswatthama, Kripa and Kritavarman embrace one another, roaring at the stars. They climb into the waiting chariot and ride back to Samantapanchaka like an evil, three-headed wind.

Duryodhana lies alone where he fell. He keeps his mace close beside him, because the night has flowered with a hundred baleful eyes. The jackal and hyenas packs have discovered him and every moment they pad closer. He roars and screeches at them and they retreat. But in a few moments, they come snuffling forward again, with low growls and the hyenas’ mad cackling. The pain in Duryodhana’s loins threatens to make him faint at any moment and he knows that will be the end: the scavengers will tear him apart.

Then, the animal eyes vanish as if by magic. It takes the Kaurava a few moments longer than it has the jackals and hyenas to hear horses flying toward him through the night, bearing Aswatthama and his army of two. Even before they stop and alight, Duryodhana senses their excitement. Next moment, the three are at his side. He sees they are covered in blood and their eyes shine.

Smiling, Kripa says, “My lord, I see you mean to take your gada with you into Devaloka: a friend who remained faithful to the last!”

Aswatthama takes his king’s hand fervidly and cries, “I did not fail you, Duryodhana! I killed all your enemies tonight. The Panchalas and Dhrishtadyumna are dead; Draupadi’s sons are slain. What remained of the Pandavas’ army is dead, their camp burned to the ground. But I did not find Yudh-ishtira and his brothers there and I did not find Satyaki or Krishna. Of the two forces that faced each other on Kurukshetra, my lord, from your army just Acharya Kripa, Kritavarman and I still live; and from the enemy’s, only the five Pandavas, Krishna and Satyaki.” He pasues a mont, then cries, “When you meet your guru, my father Drona, in heaven, tell him I have slain Dhtrishtadyumna, his sons and the sons of the Pandavas!”

By now, Duryodhana is gasping for his last breath. A faint smile touches his lips and there is a glitter of triumph in his hooded eyes. He manages to whisper to his final Senapati, “Aswatthama, you have done what Bheeshma, Drona and Karna could not! I am proud of you. May God bless you.”

Duryodhana’s eyes are full of death and his three warriors hold his hands tightly. Their king breathes, “I am going now, my friends, we will meet again in swarga.”

Then he has gone and peace suffuses his dead face. At last, the tumult and anguish of that great and terrible life have ended. One by one, his warriors embrace their dead king and, their hearts full, they walk away from him. Once more, the night sprouts hungry eyes, as the scavenger packs arrive for their feast. But then, unearthly protection is upon Duryodhana’s corpse. It begins to glow so eerily in the dark that the scavengers back away from it and run yelping into the night.

It is told that the moment life left Duryodhana’s body, Sanjaya’s eyes lost the miraculous sight with which they had been blessed so he could relate the events of the war of dharma to Dhritarashtra.

The most terrible morning of the Pandavas’ lives dawns. They are roused by a man who comes howling to the tree under which they spent the night. It is Dhrishtadyumna’s sarathy, the only one to have escaped Aswatthama’s carnage: by pretending to be dead. He cries to Yudhishtira, “They are all dead, my lord! Aswatthama killed them in the night. Your sons are slain, the Panchalas are killed, my lords Shikhandi and Dhrishtadyumna have been murdered!”

Yudhishtira falls where he stands and Satyaki catches him. For a moment, the other Pandavas stand turned to stone. It is the hour of atonement: for they, too, have killed thousands on Kurukshetra. Shock rages through their bodies, maddening them and then, mercifully, each one of them faints. Even Krishna seems shaken.