launched a fierce assault on Duryodhana.
Nakula did battle with Vikarna,
the two warriors fighting as furiously
as two bulls horn-locked over a herd of cows.
Bhima fought with Shalya, and with many
valiant heroes of Duryodhana’s force.
His roars terrified the troops.
Drona,
skilled in the art of reading omens, knew
this day was inauspicious. He had heard
the jackals howling, seen the sun obscured
by a dull crimson mist. The Kauravas
would not have fortune on their side that day.
Sensing that Bhishma was in serious danger
from Arjuna and Shikhandin, Drona sent
his son and other heroes to protect him.
Bhishma was fighting like a man possessed;
his chariot was like a blazing fireball,
unleashing devastation near and far.
He was not giving up his power; it must be
taken from him. His nemesis, Shikhandin,
managed to wound him, but not mortally;
he was too well defended. Bhishma laughed.
He invoked a fiery celestial weapon
and aimed it at Arjuna, but Shikhandin
rushed between them, and Bhishma called it back.
Several times Arjuna, with Shikhandin,
tried to move closer to the patriarch.
Each time, he was deflected by a challenge
from a formidable Kaurava warrior.
Bhishma battled on but, more and more,
he felt how futile was the woeful slaughter
he was engaged in. He was prepared for death.
Seeing Yudhishthira nearby, he said,
“This body has become a burden to me.
If you love me, see that Arjuna
attempts to kill me soon.” Yudhishthira
mobilized his forces to converge
entirely on Bhishma. The Kauravas
did the same, and the ensuing battle
was the most terrible of the war so far.
How did it end? Bhishma knew the Pandavas
could not be killed with Krishna to protect them.
Otherwise, he could have used such skill
as would have defeated them single-handed.
He thought of the boon given him by his father
many years before: that he would not die
except by his own decision—he would choose
the moment of his death. Now, Bhishma thought,
the proper time for him to die had come.
He heard the voices of celestial beings
—Vasus, his brothers—calling from above.
“Do as you have decided, best of Bharatas;
withdraw your mind from violence.” A shower
of fragrant flowers rained down on Bhishma’s head
as if to show the approval of the gods.
The sun was sinking in the western sky.
Bhishma told his charioteer to drive
straight into the heart of the Pandava force.
There he stood, tall, calm and beautiful,
hands together, bow unflexed by his side.
He was smiling. Duhshasana was with him.
Ambidextrous Arjuna, half sheltered
by Shikhandin, shot with either arm,
inflicting massive damage. Shikhandin, too,
shot many arrows into the patriarch
and destroyed the large and lovely standard
that, all along, had inspired the Kauravas.
Bhishma murmured to Duhshasana,
“I feel the arrows traveling toward me
in one straight stream; these are not Shikhandin’s.
My vital organs are being pierced, as if
by a bolt from heaven—not by Shikhandin.
These shafts that cut me like the cold of winter
must come from Arjuna, not from Shikhandin.
Only he can inflict such pain on me.”
Now Bhishma, as if in a final gesture,
as if he could not bring himself to die
passively, despite his resolution,
hurled a spear at Arjuna, who blocked it
and cut it in three pieces. The old warrior
took up a sword and gold-edged shield, and started
to climb down from his chariot. Arjuna
smashed the shield to fragments. Then it seemed
that the entire army of the Pandavas
was shouting joyfully and vengefully,
“Throw him down! Capture him! Cut him to pieces!”
shooting at Bhishma an arrow shower so dense
that soon his body was entirely hidden
His chariot was awash with blood. He staggered.
He toppled over, headlong, to the ground,
his head toward the east and, as he fell,
the earth shook, and everyone who saw him
screamed, “Bhishma the invincible has fallen!”
Trumpets and conches blared from your nephews’ side.
Seeing him fall, the hearts of everyone
lurched with him. His body did not touch earth
but was suspended, as if on a bed,
by his exoskeleton of arrows.
A shower of rain refreshed him, and he heard
voices lamenting. Rishis disguised as geese
flew overhead, crying to one another,
“Why should this mighty, great-souled warrior
die here, now, at this inauspicious time?”
“I am alive,” whispered Bhishma through his pain.
“I know the sun is on its journey southward.
I will postpone my death.”
A strange sound
filled the battlefield—the sound of stillness,
of nothing happening. All stood motionless,
having no appetite for battle now.
Some wept, some fainted, some extolled Bhishma,
some cursed the order of kshatriyas.
The Pandavas were glad, relieved, and yet
the disappearance of the patriarch
seemed unthinkable. He has been present
all their lives—affectionate, wise counselor,
principal link with the ancestral past.
When news of Bhishma’s fall reached Duryodhana
he was stunned beyond all telling, deathly pale.
Drona could hardly catch his breath, and fainted,
falling, unconscious, from his chariot.
Warriors on both sides laid down their weapons
and clustered around Bhishma. He greeted them,
then asked that a headrest be found for him—
his head was hanging down uncomfortably.
Many fine, luxurious pillows were brought
but he refused them all. “These are too soft.
I need a pillow for a hero’s head.
Arjuna, find me something suitable.”
Arjuna took up his bow Gandiva,
consecrated it, and shot three arrows
into the ground, at just the right height
to hold up Bhishma’s head. The patriarch
was pleased, “This is a pillow for a warrior!
This is how a fallen kshatriya
should be supported on the field of battle.
I will rest until the sun is journeying
toward the north, after the winter solstice.
Then I will relinquish my last life-breath.”
Surgeons came, skilled at removing arrows.
Bhishma honored them, but then dismissed them.
“I am content. I have reached the highest state
available to a kshatriya. In time,
I wish to be placed on a funeral pyre
and burned with these arrows still in my body.”
Later, Krishna spoke with Yudhishthira.
“I rejoice t
hat fortune has favored you,”
said Krishna. “It is through you and your grace,”
answered Yudhishthira, “that we succeed.
With you as our refuge and our guide, nothing
is impossible!” Krishna smiled at him.
The following morning, there was no battle.
Both Pandavas and Kauravas attended
the son of Ganga. Around his bed of arrows
throngs of people jostled—the kind of crowd
that might be gathered at a holy site—
pushing for a glimpse of the great man.
The pain from Bhishma’s wounds was agonizing,
and he burned with fever. “Water! Bring water!”
Pots of cooling, citrus-flavored water
were brought at once, but Bhishma rejected them
and called for Arjuna. The Pandava
took his bow and, consecrating it,
shot into the earth a well-aimed arrow.
Up gushed a fountain of pure, sparkling water
of heavenly scent and taste. All who saw it
trembled in awe.
Bhishma quenched his thirst.
He praised Arjuna, so that Duryodhana
heard every word. “Most excellent of warriors,
performer of feats of which the very gods
are incapable. Just as the eagle
is to other birds, as Mount Himavat
is to mountains, so are you to archers.”
Then he said to your son, “Listen to me—
you’ll never defeat this man; even the gods
together with the asuras could not do it.
I beg you—make peace with the Pandavas.
Divide this prosperous kingdom as before.
Too many brave men have already died;
think now of the thousands upon thousands
who could still return to their far-flung homes,
seeing their wives and children lit by joy,
who otherwise will sleep their final sleep
here in the choking mud of Kurukshetra.”
Having said this, Bhishma became silent.
To rise above the torture of his wounds,
he closed his eyes and moved into a state
of profound meditation. Duryodhana,
having heard him, frowned, turning away
like a dying man refusing medicine.
Later, when the crowds had dispersed, Karna
went to where Bhishma lay, and sat quietly
at the patriarch’s feet. Apprehensive,
choked with tears, he spoke. “Best of Bharatas,
I am Karna, son of Radha—Karna
whom you have always looked upon with hate.”
Slowly, Bhishma opened his clouded eyes
and reached out to Karna like a father.
“Come, my young rival, I know who you are—
Vyasa told me. You are not Radha’s son,
but Kunti’s. I feel no hatred for you.
If I have been harsh, dismissive even,
it was because you were so full of pride,
so scornful of true worth. I know your virtues,
your military prowess, your devotion
to truth, your generosity with alms,
your loyalty—though it is unfortunate
that you attached yourself to such company,
becoming hard and envious yourself.
You set your face against me—that is why
I have been harsh. And also to avert
family discord. But all that is over;
now I feel only goodwill toward you.
I only wish that you could find it in you
to join with your true brothers, the Pandavas.”
“Bhishma,” said Karna, “that is impossible.
Having for so long enjoyed the wealth
and friendship of Duryodhana, I cannot
betray him now. For him, I will abandon
my wife, my children, everything I own,
my life itself. Besides, I have done so much
to antagonize the Pandavas,
and I am incapable of giving up
my fierce hostility to Arjuna.
I know he is invincible, and yet
I am resolved to conquer him in battle.
With a cheerful heart, I shall go to fight him.
I ask your approval for my enterprise,
and beg that you forgive me for anything
I may have said to you—whether from anger,
brashness or a lack of due respect—
that gave offense. I beg you, pardon me.
“Death is not the worst. A kshatriya
should not die feebly, stewing in his bed.
I must do what is right.”
“Go then,” said Bhishma.
“You shall have my blessing on your choice.
For years, I have done all within my power
to prevent this futile war, and I have failed.
Fight your necessary fight with Arjuna.
Fight him calmly, with no pride, no anger.
Through him, you will certainly attain
the afterlife a kshatriya deserves
who dies in battle, firm of heart and mind.”
Karna knelt to receive Bhishma’s blessing.
Then he went back to Duryodhana.
VII
THE BOOK OF DRONA
37.
DRONA LEADS THE KAURAVAS
Janamejaya said:
“After the great Bhishma was cut down
and the news was carried to Dhritarashtra,
how did the blind king survive the sorrow?
Tell me in detail, Vaishampayana.”
Vyasa’s disciple spoke:
Hastinapura. Endless days of waiting.
For the blind king, life seems to be suspended
as he sits and waits, waits for Sanjaya
to come with further news from Kurukshetra.
He mourns the bitter loss of the great Bhishma—
how can the Kauravas prevail, deprived
of the patriarch? They must be floundering.
But even now, even though Bhishma lies
dying on his painful bed of arrows,
Dhritarashtra entertains some hope
that his son will yet defeat the Pandavas.
At last Sanjaya arrives with recent news
and the news is worse than nightmare—great Drona,
who had succeeded Bhishma as commander,
has been struck down. The master is no more.
When Dhritarashtra heard from Sanjaya
of the death of the supreme weapons master
his limbs turned to water and he fell
fainting to the ground. The women with him
rushed to lift him up, and gently placed him
on the throne, weeping, fanning him
until he began to move. When he revived
he cried to Sanjaya, “Dead? Impossible!
Greatest of warriors, the man who taught
generations of fine kshatriyas
everything they know of the arts of war
cannot be dead! It must have been some chance,
some freak accident. Oh, Sanjaya,
I foresee a time when you and I
will have to kneel before Yudhishthira
as abject supplicants with our begging bowls.
It is clear that, struggle as we may,
the gods’ design, pitiless time, propels us
where it will. It is as if I too am dead,
as if Mount Meru had collapsed, the sun
fallen from the firmament . . .
“But tell me
how it came to this. Who brought himself
to kill that peerless brahmin? Dhrishtadyumna?
But why was he not stopped? Why was Drona
not protected by his friends and allies?
Yet—who could stand against the might of Krishna
and those he prote
cts, for he and Arjuna
are Nara and Narayana incarnate,
one divine soul split between two bodies.
Oh, how is my son bearing this disaster?
What’s to be done? Who has replaced Drona?”
Seeing that, even now, Dhritarashtra
was hoping for victory for the Kauravas,
Sanjaya described the dire events
that culminated in the death of Drona.
When Bhishma lay down on his bed of arrows
never to rise again, the Kauravas
were utterly bereft. They were like a boat
foundering far from land on violent seas.
Their thoughts turned to Karna—he was the hero
who could save them from terror and defeat!
“Karna! Karna!” they cried. The driver’s son
came to them at once. The time had come
for him to play his part. He addressed the troops.
“The Kauravas have lost their great protector,
their pinnacle. If the patriarch, towering
like a mountain, can be thrown like this,
should we not reflect on the impermanence
of all things? Surely all of us are drifting
toward the jaws of death, all transient.
Considering this, all that remains is duty.
Why should we be afraid? I am ready
to take up the burden left by Bhishma.
“Bring my bright armor, sparkling with gold and gems;
heft it onto my shoulders. Bring my fine bow,
my quivers, my belt patterned like a serpent.
Bring out my horses, my well-fashioned chariot,
my standard, adorned with blue lotus flowers.
I will fight with all my reserves of strength
in the cause of noble Duryodhana.
I shall crush his enemies, or else
I shall sleep soundly on the field of battle.
Either is honorable.” When they heard this
the Kauravas, heartened beyond measure,
sent up a great cheer.
Then Karna went
back to the place where Bhishma lay, his eyes
closed in meditation. A small awning
had been erected over him, to shield him
from the sun’s relentless rays. Karna wept
to see that paragon of mind and spirit,
that prince of warriors, foremost Bharata,
reduced to this. Karna approached him humbly
with joined palms. “It is I again, Karna,
come to seek encouragement. I know
the power residing in the Pandavas.
Who could defeat Arjuna if you,
with all your skill, all your celestial weapons,
could not prevail? Yet I must believe