hymns, praising your celestial sweetness.
“I see you stretched between sky and earth.
Lord!
I see your countless gaping mouths, terrible with tusks.
Lord!
I tremble, faint with dizziness and fear.
Now I am drawn to your glowing eyes,
I reel in terror and in rapture.
I am like a speck of dust before you,
powerless and storm-tossed.
“Now I can see Dhritarashtra’s sons
with Bhishma, Drona, Karna—
and many of our foremost warriors too—
all sucked toward your fearful, flame-licked mouths,
jagged with fangs. Some are impaled, oh, their heads
crushed to pulp! As moths fly
heedless and headlong into flame and are destroyed,
so are these heroes rushing to their deaths
pouring in thousands into the flaming maw.
Oh! the devouring flames, the blood—
surely it is the end of everything.
Tell me, terrible being, who you are.
Oh, supreme god, have mercy!”
“I AM TIME, DESTROYER OF WORLDS.
Even before you act, all these warriors,
rank upon rank in the opposing armies,
are already dead. I have destroyed them.
From the perspective of eternal time,
the everlasting present,
those men you see lined up, eager for battle,
full of the vigor of their youth and strength,
are dead already.
The bodies which have known cold and heat,
pleasure and suffering, already carry
death and decomposition in their bones.
“The Pandavas will be victorious. Now
rise up, hero. Be my instrument!”
Arjuna’s limbs tremble in fear. He cries,
“Praise, a thousand times praise to you!
You are all gods—the wind, the god of death,
Agni the fire, Varuna the sea god,
mighty and imperishable Vishnu.
Unceasing homage to you, supreme being.
Forgive me for the times I treated you
as my old friend and my dear companion
and spoke rashly—casually perhaps.
I knew no better. I was ignorant.
Forgive me, lord, as a father would his son,
as devoted friends forgive each other,
or a lover her beloved.
“I rejoice
that I have seen what was never seen before
but my heart quakes with terror—
I beg you, return to your familiar form.”
“What I have just shown you,” says Krishna,
his human self again, “could not be shown
even to the most extreme renouncer.
Due to the love between us, you have seen it.
Have no more fear. Now I am the friend you know.”
Arjuna breathes more freely. “Now I see you
in your beloved, gentle, human shape,
my heart is beating steadily again.”
“Thinking of me, Arjuna, you will transcend
all obstacles. If, out of egotism,
you think I will not fight, it will be pointless;
your nature will impel you—you will do
precisely what you are trying to avoid.
My dear friend, at the heart of all beings
the Lord stands still, moving them with his power.
Turn to him with all your soul, and know peace.
“This is the mystery of mysteries
that I have taught you. Consider it—and act.
I am the love that fills the universe
and you are my beloved, Arjuna.
“My final word is this: fix your mind on me,
worship me with sincere and devoted love,
dedicate your acts to me; I promise
that I shall release you from all evils.
“You must never repeat this sacred teaching
to an audience unworthy of it.
But whoever shares this supreme secret
with the deserving shall surely be rewarded.
People who learn this dialogue of ours,
and study it with faith, and worship me,
will attain the blessed worlds of the righteous.
“Arjuna, have you listened to my words,
and have your ignorant doubts been dispelled?”
Arjuna stands, Gandiva in his hand.
“Krishna, they have. I have regained myself.
I shall do my duty, as you have shown me.”
33.
THE WAR BEGINS
Time unlocks.
Sanjaya said, “O king, what I have witnessed
is so wonderful my hair stands on end.
How privileged I was to hear this teaching!
Majesty, as I keep recalling it
I tremble with a joy past all describing.
“Wherever Lord Krishna is, there, surely,
will be virtue, wisdom—and victory!”
Sanjaya continued his narration:
When they saw Arjuna rising to his feet,
tall on his chariot, Gandiva in his hand,
a great shout exploded from the ranks
of the Pandava army. Filled with joy,
they blew their sea-born conches, clashed their cymbals,
and shouted “Jaya! Jaya!”
The two armies,
at a pitch of readiness, swayed and heaved,
straining to rush forward. But at the point
when it seemed they could hold back no longer,
but must break and crash on one another,
Yudhishthira, unfastening his armor,
walked toward the enemy front line.
Everyone, observing him, fell silent.
What was he doing? Had he lost his nerve?
Was he about to give up after all?
Removing their own armor and their weapons,
his brothers walked beside him. But they, too,
were surprised and bewildered. What did this mean?
“Where are you going?” they asked him as they went.
Yudhishthira walked on, not answering.
Krishna smiled. “I know where he is going,”
he said to them. “In ancient times, a warrior
sought the elders’ sanction on the eve of war.
Yudhishthira is making sure that he
incurs no blame, does everything correctly.”
Making his way through the bristling spears
of Duryodhana’s ranks, Yudhishthira
approached Bhishma, bent, and clasped his feet.
“Great one, I salute you on the brink of war.
I have come for your permission in this matter
and for your blessing on our undertaking.”
“My son,” said Bhishma, “if you had not come
I would have uttered a curse for your defeat.
As it is, I am pleased with you, and wish you
victory in battle, and good fortune after.
You know the saying, Man is the slave of wealth
but wealth is no man’s slave. I am not free,
indebted to the Kauravas as I am.
I have to fight for Duryodhana,
and I shall do my best to win for him.
But, that apart, you can ask me a favor.”
“Then tell me how our forces can defeat you,”
said Yudhishthira, “you who are known to be
invincible. Say, how can you be killed?”
“No one can overpower me,” said Bhishma.
“The time for me to die has not yet come.
Speak to me again.” Yudhishthira bowed.
Next he went to Drona and, similarly,
sought his blessing, asking the master too
how he might be defeated. “With Krishna
on your side, you certainly will win,”
said Drona. “But I will not be defeated
unless I quit the fight; and that will be
only if a man whose word I trust
gives me heartbreaking news. I shall fight
for the Kauravas, but pray for your success.”
Yudhishthira requested Kripa’s blessing.
“I am as useless to you as a eunuch,”
said the old teacher. “Since I am duty bound,
by ties of obligation, to support
the Kauravas, giving you my blessing
must be a vacuous formality.
It is impossible for you to kill me.
But, best of men, I will pray sincerely,
every morning, for your victory.”
Lastly, Yudhishthira sought out Shalya,
who had meant to join the Pandavas
until seduced by Duryodhana’s
lavish hospitality. He confirmed
that when the time came for him to act
as Karna’s charioteer, he would contrive
to undermine the nerve of the driver’s son.
Krishna had a private word with Karna.
“Since you are determined not to fight
while Bhishma is alive and in command,
why should you not come over to our side?
Then, when Bhishma falls, you can go back
and take up arms for Dhritarashtra’s son.”
“You know that is impossible,” said Karna.
“I will not cause pain in any way
to Duryodhana. I know how things will go,
but Duryodhana has been my only friend
and I will cast away my life to serve him.”
Yudhishthira, his obeisances over,
called to the assembled Kaurava princes:
“Anyone who wishes to fight with us
will be made most welcome as an ally.”
Scowling and shuffling among the Kauravas.
There must have been many who were tempted.
Then Yuyutsu, son of Dhritarashtra
by a vaishya woman, stepped forward, saying
“I’ll fight for your cause if you will have me.”
“Welcome, my friend,” smiled Yudhishthira.
“Only you among your foolish brothers
will live to be a comfort to your father.”
Then the Pandavas shouldered their bright armor
and returned to their lines to the beat of drums.
Everyone who had seen Yudhishthira
clasp the feet of his respected elders
shouted out, “Well done!” and “Worthy king!”
The troops approved of him; so did the audience
of gods and gandharvas who had assembled
to watch this spectacle, this war of wars.
Even those who had chafed at the delay
were moved by what he had done. Now they felt
even more fired up than they had before.
Sanjaya said:
Now nothing could hold back catastrophe.
Any weak hope that this insane conflict
might, after all, be just the stuff of games
died in the din of drums, of thundering hooves,
the clash of cymbals that forced out all thought:
pure experience without reflection.
At the deafening sound of instruments,
hoarse yells, the trumpeting of elephants,
the whinnying of thousands of fine horses,
the armies hurled themselves toward each other:
the Kauravas with Bhishma at their head,
the Pandavas with Bhima in the vanguard
roaring like a storm cloud—so terrifying
that elephants and horses pissed and shat
as though they heard a lion in the offing.
From a distance, the two armies looked
like painted figures on an immense canvas,
men running with fixed attention, while dense showers
of arrows flew all round them and above them.
The air vibrated with the thrum of bowstrings
as arrows found their mark, or fell to earth
bouncing harmlessly off casque and breastplate,
off shields and gauntlets made of toughened leather.
The battlefield was like a mighty river
with bows for crocodiles, arrows for snakes,
swords, glinting fish, and the seething infantry
tempestuous waves, churning, crashing, breaking.
The din was so great as to drive men witless,
such was the thunder of hooves, the heavy tread
of troops weighed down by armor, the clanging bells
adorning elephants, the trundling wheels.
Both men and animals had trained for this.
Yet, really, how could anything prepare them
for the sheer noise, the terror, the scale of it,
the confusion of not knowing what to do,
who was in charge. This was not an everyday
skirmish, a cattle raid, trying one’s luck;
not like some exercise, some bold adventure.
But those watching saw how accurately,
how elegantly, the princes of both sides
who had been Drona’s pupils used their weapons.
There were many dozens of two-man contests,
opponents well matched, marked out for each other
sustaining bitter, often fatal, wounds.
Arjuna and Bhishma fought hard and long
but, however strenuously they tried,
neither could get the better of the other.
Abhimanyu, favorite son of Arjuna,
fought powerfully with the Kosala king.
“As good as his father!” onlookers exclaimed.
Nakula fought Duhshasana; Ashvatthaman
tackled Shikhandin—but it seemed at first
that none of them was seriously determined,
none of them yet willing to deliver
a death blow—although some cut down the standards
of their opponents or slashed at their horses.
Bhishma penetrated the Pandava lines.
His oriflamme, with its palmyra emblem,
was seen everywhere and, where it flew,
men fell by the hundred. Bhishma danced
high on his chariot, powerful as a youth.
Then Uttara, King Virata’s son,
whom Arjuna had forced to become a man,
riding on a great bull elephant,
charged at Shalya, making his massive mount
stamp on Shalya’s horses, crushing them.
Shalya hurled an iron spear at Uttara
killing him outright; then, leaping down
from his horseless chariot, he cut off the trunk
of Uttara’s magnificent elephant
which shrieked and fell down dead.
Uttara’s brother,
Shveta, on seeing his brother killed, flew
at Shalya, who had boarded the chariot
of Kritavarman, and, consumed with grief,
fought bitterly with Shalya, and with others
who came to his defense. These included
Rukmaratha, Shalya’s beloved son
whom Shveta assailed with broad-headed arrows
and wounded fatally. A great skirmish
coalesced around Shveta and Shalya
with many warriors rushing to protect them.
Shveta battled like a man possessed,
killing hundreds. Seeing this from far off,
Bhishma rode across to join the fight,
a chaotic fray. Thick clouds of dust,
stirred up by many hooves and wheels, made seeing
difficult, so that, in the mêlée,
brother hacked at brother, father at son,
comrade blindly swung his sword at comrade.
Shveta’s assault was so terrifying
that the Kauravas drew back in panic,
leaving Bhishma facing him alone.
The two fought on, mighty warriors both.
Shveta hurled a heavy mace with such force
that Bhishma’s chariot was reduced to splinters.
Now both men were on foot. Bhishma aimed
but Shveta shattered his bow with one arrow,
and cut down his standard, so his troops
feared he must be dead. But no, he stood
resplendent as Mount Meru, his white hair
and upright bearing utterly distinctive,
another shining bow grasped in his hand.
Shveta flew at him, but swiftly Bhishma
mounted a nearby chariot. Then he heard
a voice from nowhere, It has been decreed
by the Creator that Shveta’s time has come.
Bhishma, galvanized, gathered his strength
and, despite the several powerful Pandavas
rallying to brave Shveta’s defense,
the patriarch nocked a single deadly arrow
and invoked the powerful Brahma weapon,
just one of his many celestial astras,
which, flying faster than a shaft of light,
pierced Shveta’s armor, and sliced cleanly through him,
striking the earth. Just as the setting sun
carries away light from the world, so
the arrow, exiting from Shveta’s body,
carried away his life. So it was
that, amid the lamentations of his friends,
a splendid warrior, rich in bravery,
rich in promise, was flung prematurely
from the world—one of a million heroes
whose early death in this cataclysmic war
would make their mothers weep; and live in legend.
This was just one fragment of the damage
Bhishma inflicted on the Pandavas
on that first day of war. With his great skill
and his mastery of celestial weapons
he was invincible, sending dense cascades
of arrows scorching through the Pandava ranks,
killing thousands. As the sun sank low
the downcast Pandavas withdrew their troops
to rest overnight. So did the Kauravas,
who came rampaging, laughing back to camp
where cooks had prepared steaming vats of food.
They drank and feasted far into the night,
exulting in their first day’s victory.
In his tent, Yudhishthira was downcast,
counting the dreadful losses of the day.
“Krishna, this can’t go on. Today, Bhishma
was like a raging fire fed by butter,
licking up my troops like piles of chaff.
He is unstoppable. I am not prepared