He advanced on Bhima riding his elephant,
a battle-hardened monster of great cunning,
rolling its eyes, eager for the kill.
Bhima was, by this time, on the ground
and, rather than trying to escape, he ran
under the beast’s body, and began
to slap it with fierce blows, which made the creature
turn like a wheel to face the Kauravas,
menacing his own side, mad with musth.
As he emerged, Bhima was nearly strangled
by the elephant’s trunk, but wrestled loose
and ran away to safety.
Bhagadatta
then began to attack Yudhishthira.
High on his elephant, he was besieged
by Pandava forces, blasted by an onslaught
of well-aimed arrows. But his elephant
trampled hundreds of horses and infantry,
and he broke free. Just as the scorching sun
sheds its rays on everything around,
so Bhagadatta, on his monstrous mount,
sprayed lethal arrows on his enemies.
Terror spread among the Pandavas
and they scattered. No one could withstand
this champion of elephants and his master,
the best elephant warrior in the world—
except Arjuna.
It had struck Karna
and Duryodhana that the son of Kunti,
faced with the choice between Bhagadatta
and the Trigartas, would very likely choose
the latter—the men who had challenged him.
Now, as Arjuna and Krishna traveled
to rejoin the main battle, they heard, far off,
distinctive sounds, and guessed that Bhagadatta
and his elephant were wreaking havoc.
But Arjuna was torn. He heard behind him
the thundering hooves of the Trigarta horses—
the survivors, pursuing him to the end.
He turned and, concentrating on the mantra,
he unleashed the deadly Brahma weapon,
filling the air above the pursuing troops
with white-hot arrows, trailing flashing fire,
annihilating hundreds, like men of straw.
Even the solid block of infantry
cracked apart like an overheated vessel
faced with his unearthly energy.
Krishna raised his hands in admiration.
“Quick! Drive to Bhagadatta,” cried Arjuna.
The encounter between Bhagadatta
and Arjuna was fierce in the extreme.
Bhagadatta had a height advantage
and could rain down arrows by the hundred.
But Arjuna deflected them. Krishna whirled
the chariot round to the rear of Bhagadatta
where Arjuna could have killed him easily,
but the Pandava held back, respecting
the rules of fair fight.
Bitter and prolonged
was the struggle between those fine warriors,
with many wounds inflicted on both sides,
and many deadly darts and spears deflected.
Hard pressed and desperate, Bhagadatta hurled
straight at Arjuna’s chest an iron hook
charged with the celestial Vaishnava mantra.
Krishna swiftly stepped in front of his friend
and the weapon, striking him instead,
turned into a garland of lovely flowers,
blue lotuses, glowing with tongues of flame.
Arjuna complained, “You should keep your word
and drive the chariot. I can defend myself.”
But Krishna told him Bhagadatta’s weapon
could not be survived by anyone but him.
Arjuna raised his bow and, with great force,
struck the forehead of the elephant
with a long, thick arrow. As lightning
can split a mountain, so the arrow drove
deep into its head. Though Bhagadatta
urged it on, the beast fell, paralyzed
and, trumpeting its last cry of distress,
it died. Quickly, Arjuna let loose
a crescent-headed spear at Bhagadatta.
Arrows and bow fell from the king’s hands.
His world became a mesh of darkness, heart
skewered by Arjuna’s unerring weapon,
and the celebrated warrior, wreathed in gold,
slid from the elephant, his gorgeous headdress
unraveling as he plummeted to earth.
With the death of mighty Bhagadatta
the Kauravas, in anger and dismay,
thirsted for revenge against Arjuna.
Two of Gandhari’s brothers, skilled archers
standing side by side in their chariot,
let fly shaft after shaft. But very quickly
Arjuna pierced them with a single arrow
and, as one body, they fell to the ground.
Then their brother Shakuni, the gambler,
took on Arjuna by means of sorcery.
Spiked clubs, iron balls, daggers, tridents, spears,
rocks, scimitars and snake-headed shafts
began to fall on Arjuna and Krishna.
Hordes of wild and hungry animals
appeared all around them, baying and snarling.
Laughing, Arjuna countered all of this
by wielding well-chosen celestial weapons.
Next a thick and choking fog engulfed them
and, after that, huge waves of foaming water
which Arjuna dispelled. Then Shakuni,
seeing that his tricks were ineffective,
fled the battlefield like a craven coward.
With Gandiva, Arjuna released
his arrows like a humming flight of locusts
and each one found its mark in man or beast.
Panic surged through the Kaurava divisions
as fighters, desperate to save themselves,
abandoned kin and comrade, left their horses
and trampled on the wounded as they ran.
“Help, Lord help me!” Everywhere were heard
cries of the dying, untended and alone.
Meanwhile, to the south, Drona was leading
a furious assault on the Pandava force
led by Dhrishtadyumna. Extensive damage
was sustained by both sides, and the Pandavas
lost Nila, one of their greatest bowmen.
Karna fought with Satyaki, a duel
that ended with each wounded, but intact.
Arjuna and Krishna joined them, killing
three of Karna’s brothers. So it went—
an ecstasy of violence and rage,
until night fell, and the two sides withdrew.
On the whole, it seemed the Kauravas
had come off worst from the day’s events.
38.
THE DEATH OF ABHIMANYU
Sanjaya continued:
Morning broke over the dismal plain.
From the vast carnage of the days before,
the jumbled bodies, limbs and carcasses,
too numerous now to be attended to,
littered the field as far as the eye could see.
Reviewing the events of the previous day,
Duryodhana concealed his boiling rage
as he addressed Drona before the troops.
“Drona,” he said, “you made me a promise
which, it seems, you conveniently forgot,
since you failed to seize Yudhishthira.
He was within your grasp; you did not grasp him.
I am wondering whose side you support.”
Despite the fact that he had made every effort,
Drona was ashamed. “I promise you:
before the sun sinks on another day
I will put in place a battle formation
so large, so tight,
so intricately designed
that no man will escape—a trap for heroes!
And I swear to kill a prominent warrior
from among the Pandavas. But, once again,
you have to entice Arjuna away
from the main action. He is invincible.”
That thirteenth morning, there was no eagerness
for what was coming. For the weary troops,
despite brave words and boastful declarations,
endurance was the order of the day,
not confidence.
The hot-blooded Trigartas,
as had been planned, challenged Arjuna
to fight them in the southern part of the field.
Drona directed ten thousand of his men
into the wheel formation, a rotating,
winding, circular shape, impossible
to penetrate, save by a very few.
This was a hand-picked and experienced force
who had solemnly sworn never to break ranks.
They had smeared themselves with sandal paste
and, terrible to see, all wore red robes
with gold ornaments, and scarlet banners.
Ten thousand trained, courageous warriors,
yet they advanced as one, shoulder to shoulder,
shields edge to edge, standards overlapping—
a sight to strike fear in all who witnessed it.
At the front rode Drona, and behind him
were proud Jayadratha with Ashvatthaman.
Duryodhana, shaded by his parasol,
was flanked by his greatest chariot warriors—
Karna, Kripa, Duhshasana among them.
The Pandavas met Drona’s force head on.
A fierce battle followed, with many hundreds
massacred or wounded mortally.
The wheel was unassailable, and from it
a storm of missiles rained on the Pandavas
who could make no headway, but instead
time and again took dreadful punishment.
Yudhishthira drew Abhimanyu aside.
He was still a boy, but in accomplishment
and in beauty he rivaled his great father.
All the virtues, all the martial skills
of the five sons of Pandu, and of Krishna,
were united in him. Abhimanyu
was admired and loved by all who knew him.
Yudhishthira addressed him. “With your father
engaged elsewhere, you are the only one
who knows how to break into the wheel.
Child, for the sake of all of us you must try
to penetrate what Drona has constructed
or else, when Arjuna returns, he’ll blame us.”
Abhimanyu was fired up with zeal.
“Today, the world will witness my great feats;
I shall slaughter all who challenge me
or I’ll not call myself Arjuna’s son!
Only—my father taught me how to enter
the wheel, but not how to come out again.”
“Once you have broken in,” said Yudhishthira,
“you will force a path for us to follow.
Never fear, we shall be close behind you
and we can smash it open from within.”
“Then,” said Abhimanyu, “I will fly
like a mad moth into a searing fire!”
Hearing what Abhimanyu had in mind,
his charioteer was woebegone, fearful
that the task was far too dangerous.
“You have scant experience of war;
Drona with all his skill will surely crush you.”
But Abhimanyu, full of cheerfulness,
said, “Oh, Sumitra! It will be glorious!
Who is Drona? Is he omnipotent?
Even if I were to face my father
or my uncle on the battlefield
I should not be afraid. Now, driver—drive!”
Thus Abhimanyu, dressed in flashing armor,
tall and beautiful as a flowering tree,
standard flying over his splendid chariot,
urged his driver on. The Kauravas
rejoiced to see him coming to the trap.
The Pandavas followed closely in his wake.
Mocking catcalls, whistles, ululations
reached him from the jeering Kauravas
but Abhimanyu was the first to strike
hard and precisely, like a human scythe
shearing a field of grass. First, he lopped off
arms by the hundred still grasping spears and bows.
Then Kaurava heads were rolling on the ground
surprised by death, fine turbans still intact
adorned with precious jewels. Single-handed,
the boy brought chaos to his adversaries.
Duryodhana advanced to engage with him.
At once, at Drona’s urging, the best warriors
moved forward to protect your noble son,
courageous as he was, and Abhimanyu
was forced to back off, roaring like a lion
whose prey has been denied him. Savagely,
he hurtled through your son’s brigades, dispatching
countless men with his swift-flying arrows,
feats so dazzling that even the Kauravas
shouted in admiration.
Fighting free
of this initial skirmish, Abhimanyu
managed to break open the wheel formation
and entered. At once, he was surrounded.
The Pandavas were following hard behind
but, before they could enter, they were blocked
by Jayadratha. Violent and rapacious,
the powerful king of Sindhu had long harbored
bitter hatred toward the Pandavas,
ever since Bhima had prevented him
from abducting Draupadi in the forest,
and savagely humiliated him.
After he had engaged in austerities
great lord Shiva had granted him a boon—
that at the crucial time he would have the power
to hold in check the might of the Pandavas.
Now, that time had come. The Pandavas,
try as they might, could not penetrate the wheel.
smashing their weapons in their helpless hands.
Soon, the route by which Abhimanyu entered
closed again, as elephants, troops and chariots
rearranged themselves. The young prince stood
quite alone, surrounded, unprotected
before the legions of the Kauravas.
O majesty, what followed will be sung
as deathless legend, generations hence.
The young hero gathered his resources
and demonstrated his unearthly skill
and courage. Many great Kaurava warriors,
the best there were, died at his hands that day.
Beautiful as a flame in a dark place,
it was as if this were a delightful game.
A kind of joyful calm pervaded him.
He crowed in exultation as he aimed
unfailingly with arrows and with spear,
with sword and mace—with every kind of weapon,
earthly and celestial.
He received
many painful wounds, and still he fought,
inflicting thousands more on his opponents.
He fought like a young god, and all who saw him
would remember it to their dying day.
Drona rejoiced that his favorite pupil
had passed on all his prowess to his son.
He killed Karna’s brother, and he slew
Lakshmana, Duryodhana’s cherished son.
He caused many strong, courageous fighters
to fall back. Wave after wave of warriors
rushed at him; and he repulsed them all,
slicing off hands, arms, ear
s, so that the ground
was an altar sluiced with sacrificial blood.
And yet, because of his respect for kindred,
Abhimanyu battled with restraint;
as Drona remarked, he often chose to wound
rather than kill. “Ah,” sneered Duryodhana,
“our Drona has a soft spot for the princeling;
if he wanted, he could finish him,
master that he is; yet he does not do it.”
For hours, Abhimanyu appeared tireless.
Although the Pandavas could not reach him,
they saw his amazing deeds and cheered him on
until the dust of battle hid him from them.
How could it not end in tragedy
when no help was at hand for Abhimanyu?
One by one, his weapons were destroyed,
his bow broken, his chariot smashed, his spear
splintered. Finally he fought on foot,
only a mace to defend himself, for now
he was the target more than the attacker.
As cowardly wolves prefer to hunt in packs,
six of the most powerful Kauravas—
Drona, Karna, Kripa, Kritavarman,
Ashvatthaman and Duhshasana’s son—
set upon the exhausted Abhimanyu.
These were great warriors; they knew full well
that a mob attack on a lone opponent
was contrary to dharma. Yet they did it.
Duhshasana’s son delivered the final blow
with a mace, smashing the young hero’s head
as, already down, he tried to rise.
Abhimanyu, Arjuna’s best beloved,
beautiful in death as he was in life,
fell to earth, and did not move again.
It was as though the full and luminous moon
had fallen from the sky to the black earth.
The Kauravas, a much depleted army,
whooped with delirious joy.
It was dusk.
The last fiery filaments of the sun
streaked the sky over the western hill.
The warriors surveyed the devastation,
the battlefield resembling a sacked city.
Scavengers were gathering already
to feast on the abundant human flesh:
crows and ravens, jackals, kanka birds
ripping at the frail skin of the fallen
to drink their fat, lick marrow from their bones,
guzzle their blood.
These were fallen comrades,
brothers, sons, fathers reduced to this
welter of mere matter, food for birds.
Unable to perform the proper rites,
the living felt defiled, grief unresolved.
The somber troops slouched silently to their tents.
The Pandavas were overwhelmed with sorrow