together with elephants and cavalry.
The battle was fierce at first, but gradually,
having been in the field throughout the day
and into the night, both armies lost their verve
and were drooping with weariness, staggering
blind with sleep around the field. Arjuna
decided that the Pandava troops should rest
and Drona called a halt for the Kauravas.
Some lay down on the backs of elephants,
some on chariots, but most collapsed
on the bare ground, sleeping like the dead,
or as if they lay upon their lovers’ breasts.
The full moon rose, cool as a white lily,
casting a silver light, dispelling darkness.
Misty at first, its light grew ever brighter
until the field stood out in stark relief.
It woke the troops, who stretched their limbs, yawning,
then made ready to resume the fight.
Duryodhana was tense and discontented.
He spoke to Drona in a peevish tone:
“We should have attacked while they were sleeping
but you were kind to them, and now—you’ll see—
they’ll rise up even stronger. You always act
for their benefit, and not for mine.
With your mastery of celestial weapons
you could finish off their entire army
at a stroke; and yet you favor them.”
Drona grew angry. “It would be ignoble
to use such weapons on the rank and file,
yet even this I am prepared to do
for your sake. But you forget Arjuna.
You forget that, once he is roused to fight,
no one can overcome him.”
“That’s fear talking,”
scoffed Duryodhana. “Karna and I
together with Duhshasana and Shakuni
will kill Arjuna today.”
“Good luck!”
said Drona scornfully. “Only a fool
would talk as you do. But by all means try it!
Fight with the foremost hero of the Pandavas
and die as a virtuous kshatriya.”
Dawn was breaking on the fifteenth day.
The opal sky was reddening in the east
and soon the sun, like a great copper disc,
lifted itself above the far horizon
and cast its image on the nearby river,
the river that reflects experience
in its quiet waters, that witnesses
joys and tragedies, triumphs and horrors,
and keeps them to itself, flowing onward
imperturbably toward the sea.
Sunlight fell on the carnage of the night,
on bodies pitiful in death, their attitudes,
even their faces, strangely similar
as if, already, they had been reduced
to mere substance, meat for scavengers.
Sunlight fell on Karna’s radiant face
while he stood deep in prayer, as every morning.
Now he knew who his true father was
he worshiped him with even more devotion.
Sun fell on the diminished infantry
as each man too, his hands joined together,
made obeisance to the lord of light.
Hungry, thirsty, they rubbed their aching limbs
and grumbled to each other. Yet already
they were looking round for their commanders,
shouldering their weapons, their blood stirring
in anticipation of heroic deeds.
Useless to list each and every duel.
It was as if the war was a kind of dance
where partners changed in endless combinations
and squared up to each other, jeering, wounding,
but often with an inconclusive outcome.
Drona focused on the Panchalas
and killed three of Drupada’s brave grandsons.
Enraged, Drupada, backed by Virata,
unleashed an assault on his old enemy.
With a couple of well-directed arrows,
Drona killed them both. Then Dhrishtadyumna,
shaking with grief and rage, uttered this vow:
“May the merit of all my piety
be lost to me; may I be consigned to hell
if I do not send my father’s murderer
to the realm of Death before this day is out!”
A major battle centered around Drona
with Dhrishtadyumna leading the Pandavas
and Drona reinforced by Duhshasana.
It was a fair fight; no improper means
were used on either side—no poisoned arrows,
or ones with rusty tips, or barbs, or ones
with many-pointed heads, or made of bone,
or arrows that pursued a crooked course,
awkward to extract. Bhima grew angry
at the lack of progress, and he charged
through the enemy lines, making for Drona
although he was protected.
Duryodhana,
seeking to give support to Drona, joined in
and was about to fight with Satyaki
when a sudden memory struck him—childhood,
when he and Satyaki were the dearest friends.
They paused and gazed at one other, smiling.
“A curse on war, my friend,” said Duryodhana,
“a curse on anger, folly, greed, revenge!
We were dear friends once, yet here we are,
aiming our deadly weapons at each other.”
“That was then,” said Satyaki with a laugh.
“We are no longer playing around in school;
we’re warriors now.”
“Where did those times go?”
said Duryodhana, “and how did this war
overtake us? It seems we can’t escape
the web of time.”
“That’s how it’s always been,”
Satyaki said. “We are kshatriyas
and warfare is our way. If I am dear to you
kill me at once, and I shall happily
proceed to the realm where virtuous warriors go.
I do not like to see this tragedy—
friends murdering friends.” Then the Vrishni
launched into an attack on Duryodhana.
The two wounded each other bitterly
yet still they smiled, and still they fought each other.
Karna rushed to support Duryodhana,
but Bhima blocked him.
Then Yudhishthira
urged the Panchalas and the Matsyas
to attack Drona together. They fought hard
but Drona so fiercely staved off their attack
that soon they had to go on the defensive,
struggling against defeat. Arjuna,
who could have pressed his teacher hard, held back
from fighting all-out with him.
“Come, Arjuna,”
said Krishna, “things are serious. What we need
is rather less scruple, much more stratagem.
Drona cannot be overcome in battle
but if his son were dead, then, I think,
he would not fight. Therefore, let someone tell him
that Ashvatthaman has been overcome.”
Neither Yudhishthira nor Arjuna
liked this plan. But Bhima took his mace
and killed a mountainous bull elephant
named Ashvatthaman, with one blow to the head.
“Ashvatthaman has been killed!” he yelled.
Drona heard, and his head swam with the shock.
But then he thought, “This must be a false report.
Ashvatthaman is too skilled a warrior
to be overcome.” And he renewed
his powerful assault on Dhrishtadyumna,
though without success.
He was desperate
to obliterate the Panchalas.
He invoked the Brahma weapon, becoming
a whirlwind of destruction, killing thousands
of Panchalas with that celestial astra.
To direct a weapon of mass destruction
at ordinary mortals was unrighteous,
as Drona knew. There appeared before him
a group of rishis from the celestial realm
who censured him. “Drona, you are a brahmin,
well versed in the Vedas, devoted to truth.
It ill becomes you to act so cruelly.
Your time on earth is very nearly over;
lay down your weapons.”
Drona was chastened.
He thought again of the voice he had heard shouting
in triumph: “Ashvatthaman has been killed!”
Knowing Yudhishthira would not speak untruth,
he called to him, “Tell me, is my son no more?”
Krishna spoke quietly to the Pandava:
“Drona is quite capable of destroying
your entire army. To prevent that
you know what you must say. To speak untruth
in order to save lives is not a sin.
Do it, Yudhishthira!” Reluctantly,
but earnest in his longing for victory,
Yudhishthira called back, “Ashvatthaman
[the elephant] is indeed dead!”
Until now,
Yudhishthira’s chariot had always glided
a handsbreadth off the ground. After this deceit
it became earthbound.
Drona was seized
by profound despair. He felt ashamed
of what he had done with the Brahma weapon.
Now, he almost lost his mind with grief
at the loss of Ashvatthaman. Dhrishtadyumna,
who had long thirsted after Drona’s life
to avenge the insult to his father,
rushed forward with his blazing bow drawn back
and aimed at Drona. “Yield, wicked brahmin,
I was born to kill you!”
Drona rallied
to resist the Panchala, but his weapons
would not obey him as before. Nonetheless,
he tried. He still had much of the old skill,
and made things difficult for Dhrishtadyumna.
The battle became general. But the Panchala,
with fixed resolve, was dodging around Drona,
sword in hand, now leaping on his chariot shafts,
now darting beneath the horses—a marvelous
sight to see.
Drona was reckless now.
He rushed into the thick of the Pandavas
knowing that he would die, indifferent,
inflicting enormous harm on all around.
And always Dhrishtadyumna followed him,
mounted on Bhima’s chariot. “Quick, my friend,”
said Bhima, “no one but you can kill the teacher.”
Then Bhima, grabbing Drona’s chariot shaft,
said, “Drona, you have abandoned dharma.
Although you are a brahmin, you have pursued
the calling of a kshatriya, for gain,
and for your only son—who now lies dead
somewhere on the field. You should be ashamed.
Because of men like you, kshatriyas
are being exterminated.”
Hearing this,
Drona laid down his bow and other weapons
and, seated on his chariot, composed himself
in yoga, in profound meditation.
As he sat, seemingly still alive,
his soul was liberated from his body
and traveled to the domain of the blessed.
Some men saw his spirit flying upward
like a meteor, merging with the firmament.
Dhrishtadyumna, unaware of this,
took his sword and raised it high in triumph.
Although the Pandavas cried out in horror,
he hauled the seated Drona from his chariot,
grabbed the old man’s hair, cut off his head
and flung it on the ground contemptuously
in front of the Kauravas, who backed away
in dread. And when they looked for Drona’s body
they could not find it among the headless trunks
lying in their thousands all around.
Bhima roared and slapped his arms like thunder.
Leaderless, the Kaurava foot soldiers,
seized by terror, weeping, fled the field,
scattering like a flock of frightened birds.
Each intent on saving his own life,
men stumbled wildly over one other,
and animals, infected by the panic,
stampeded, so that many men were trampled
or crushed, or sliced in half by chariot wheels.
Many crowded round Duryodhana
seeking direction, but he was so shocked
he was incapable, and turned away.
Even Karna and Shakuni took flight.
“The Kauravas are totally destroyed!”—
that was the cry everywhere. The troops
dropped their weapons and armor as they ran,
convinced they would not now be needing them.
In a far part of the field, Ashvatthaman,
fighting still, caught sight of the main army
fleeing headlong, and he was astonished.
He ran to Duryodhana. “What’s happening?
I’ve never seen the men behave like this.”
Duryodhana could not bear to tell him.
Kripa, weeping, forced himself to speak.
“Ashvatthaman, your father is no more.
He was fighting against the Panchalas,
and his troops were suffering many casualties.
So then Drona invoked the Brahma weapon
and killed the enemy by the thousands—
he was fighting like a fit young warrior,
not like the ancient brahmin that he was.”
Then Kripa told him the entire story.
Ashvatthaman almost lost his senses
for his duplicity. Then he attempted
to console himself, knowing that his father
was now certainly in the heavenly realm.
Then he became distraught again, to think
that Drona had died undefended, while he,
the son who should have been his father’s mainstay,
his principal protector, was elsewhere.
But he railed most against Dhrishtadyumna:
that he, a former pupil of his father,
could have treated Drona so brutally.
He swore revenge on all the Panchalas.
He swore revenge on all the Pandavas.
He swore that he would use celestial weapons,
of which he, like his father, was a master,
to grind his enemies into the dust.
Hearing these brave words from Ashvatthaman,
the Kauravas were heartened, and began
again to gather weapons, fasten armor,
harness horses to the chariots, prepared
to rally to the banners of their chiefs.
At a distance, the Pandavas picked up
the sounds of battle-readiness, and wondered
who would lead the Kaurava forces now.
“It must be Ashvatthaman,” said Arjuna.
“Protecting Dhrishtadyumna will be hard,
but we must try. The brahmin must have heard
how his father was unrighteously killed
after he had laid aside his weapons.
Dhrishtadyumna was wrong. I tried to stop him
but not hard enough, and for this fault
I’m overcome with shame.” Bhima was furious,
“You sound like a hermit living in the woods,
or like some priest! You are a kshatriya!
The task of a kshatriya is to rescue
others from harm. That means he must also
protect himself. You sound like an ignoramus.
You have done nothing you should be ashamed of.
Fix your mind on all the humiliations
we endured at the hands of Duryodhana.
We went into this war to be avenged,
yet now you seem half-hearted, almost scared
of what Ashvatthaman can throw at us.
Well, I am not afraid. If necessary,
I can destroy that brahmin single-handed!”
Dhrishtadyumna, too, vented his anger
at Arjuna. “Answer me this! Name me
the six duties of a brahmin. I’ll tell you—
performing sacrifices, teaching, giving,
assisting at sacrifices, receiving gifts,
and study. Which of these did Drona follow?
He was too occupied with martial skills
to observe the dharma of his own order.
He himself acted shamefully; he was killed
by trickery—what’s wrong with that? I killed him,
but I was born expressly to avenge
the insult that man offered to my father.
He used the Brahma weapon improperly.
Why should he not be killed by any means
available to us? Why, you killed Bhishma
through strategy. You should be offering
congratulations, not reproaching me.
I have only one regret—that I did not,
instead of throwing his gray head on the ground,
toss it among the dead untouchables!”
There was a shocked silence. No one spoke.
Then Krishna’s cousin Satyaki burst out,
“Is no one going to strike this evil man
for what he just said? As if his sinful act
were not bad enough! You say that Bhishma
has been killed by Arjuna. But in fact
Bhishma’s death will be of his own choosing,
and Shikhandin was the true instrument.
Wretched Panchala! Just let me hit you
with this mace, and you can return the stroke—
if you’re still standing!”
Dhrishtadyumna smiled.
“Strong words, Satyaki, but I forgive you.
Reflect on all the wrongs the Pandavas
have suffered at the hands of the unrighteous
Duryodhana. Just think about the death
of Abhimanyu. On this side of the balance
there is Drona and, yes, the defeat of Bhishma.
But sinfulness cannot always be countered
by narrow virtue. Ends justify means.
Being yourself unrighteous, nonetheless
you would rebuke those of us who are honest.
You are a sinful wretch from head to toe.