“Come out and fight! Either win the kingdom
or else die honorably at our hands
and pass on to the realm reserved for heroes.”
Duryodhana’s voice rose from beneath the water.
“Without my friend and brothers to share it with,
the kingdom of the Bharatas means nothing.
Without heroic kshatriyas to enjoy her,
Earth is like a widow—you can take her.
I still, however, wish to crush your pride,
bring low the Pandavas and the Panchalas.
Take the kingdom! Enjoy it if you can,
stripped as it is of warriors, all its wealth
devoured by devastating war. As for me,
I no longer wish to live. I shall retreat
to a life of contemplation in the woods.”
“I do not pity you,” said Yudhishthira.
“You may well, now that everything is lost,
be willing to give up the kingdom to me.
But the kingdom is no longer yours to give.
And how can you think I would accept
a gift from you, when you refused to cede
even as much terrain as would be covered
by a needle’s point?! Do you not see
that if both of us remain alive,
no one will understand who won this war?
You cannot choose to live. I could choose
to let you live; but I will not do so.
Come out of there and fight!”
Duryodhana,
unused to being talked to in this way,
was mortified, and sighed like a hissing snake.
“This is unfair—there are so many of you,
all well equipped and in good health, while I
am stripped of everything, badly wounded;
and I am all alone. Nevertheless,
if you agree to fight one at a time,
I shall kill each one of you with my mace.
I am not in the least afraid of you.
Today I shall discharge my debt to my friend,
my brothers and those kings who died for me.”
“I see you now remember what is due
from a kshatriya,” said Yudhishthira.
“A pity your sense of what is a fair fight
deserted you when you and your companions
killed Abhimanyu, tearing at his flesh
like a pack of wolves. Every one of you
was a trained warrior; you were all steeped
in the protocols of war! Nevertheless,
I agree that we will fight you singly.
So come out. Prepare to meet your death!”
Hearing this, Duryodhana stirred the water
and struggled, dripping, from the lake, his body
streaked with blood. His mace was in his hand.
“Shoulder this armor,” said Yudhishthira,
“and bind your hair; here is a well-made helmet.
Furthermore, you may choose your opponent.
And if you win, then you shall have the kingdom.”
“I am prepared to fight each one of you,”
roared Duryodhana, “and I shall kill you
one after another. No one can match me!”
While Duryodhana boasted in this way,
Krishna took Yudhishthira aside.
He was alight with anger. “You are mad!
By letting him decide his adversary
and promising the kingdom if he wins,
you’re gambling with your future—it’s as if
you’re back in the gaming hall, taking a chance!
Who but a fool would risk losing the kingdom
when it’s within his grasp? Duryodhana
is a master with the mace. All those years
when you were exiled in the forest, he
practiced every day against a statue
shaped like Bhima.
“Bhima’s your only hope.
He has enormous strength and stamina
but Duryodhana has the greater prowess,
and prowess always wins. None among you
is capable of beating Duryodhana
in a fair fight. We are in great danger,
thanks to your stupid gesture. It seems to me
the Pandavas were born to live in exile!”
Duryodhana chose to fight with Bhima,
the man he hated most in all the world.
Having heard Krishna reprove his brother,
Bhima said, “Krishna, you should not despair.
I have waited thirteen years for this,
living in torment, knowing that vile villain
was enjoying every luxury, while we
wandered in deerskins in the wilderness.
Duryodhana may have practiced with his mace,
every iniquity that wretch committed.
Be happy, brother, today I shall regain
your kingdom—and restore my peace of mind.”
Krishna applauded him, “That is heartening talk!
But in fighting Duryodhana, take care
not to rely on strength and rage alone;
you will need all the skill at your command.”
The two cousins squared up to one another.
But at that very moment, Balarama,
Krishna’s older brother, was seen approaching.
A great mace warrior, he had been the teacher
of both Bhima and Duryodhana.
Before the war, rather than take sides,
he had gone on an extended pilgrimage
to the sacred fords. Now he had returned.
He suggested that the fight take place
at Samantapanchaka, part of the field
which was revered, in the domain of gods,
as the sacred northern altar of Lord Brahma.
Whoever died in battle there was certain
to go straight to heaven, to dwell with Indra.
The group set off, Duryodhana ill at ease
walking with his hated enemies.
The auspicious place chosen by Balarama
was beside the river. The ground was firm,
trees grew on the slope, providing shade
for the spectators. Then a formal challenge
was issued by Duryodhana, and all noticed
disturbing portents—fierce winds skittering
pebbles along the ground, clouds of dust,
thunder rumbling in a clear blue sky.
Bhima exulted, “This is a sure sign:
today Duryodhana will be defeated!
Today he will rest his head on the bare earth;
never again will he see his loving parents,
never enjoy the company of women.
Today the sufferings of the Pandavas
will be requited!”
Then the fight began.
Never were combatants more furious.
Half a lifetime’s hatred and resentment
went into every blow. They were well matched,
and each took special pleasure in the knowledge
that he was pitched against a worthy foe.
Both were beautiful in their massive strength,
their graceful footwork as they made their moves
dodging, defending, attacking, circling
in intricate maneuvers. When they clashed
sparks flew, the ground shook with the force of it.
Body blows drew torrents of blood, and made
the fighters reel and stagger; but that served
only to reinforce their strength of purpose.
“Who is doing better, in your view?”
Arjuna asked. “Bhima has strength,” said Krishna,
“but he will never win in a fair fight;
indeed, I see that he is struggling now.
He must bend the rules—especially
since Yudhishthira has been so foolish.�
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Standing to Duryodhana’s left, Arjuna
slapped his own thigh. Bhima saw the sign.
Soon Duryodhana, to avoid a blow,
jumped—and Bhima, seizing his chance, smashed
his mace full strength against the Kaurava’s thighs,
breaking both instantly. Duryodhana
crashed to the ground groaning. The Pandavas
were filled with joy. Bhima had won. The war
was over!
Bhima strode round Duryodhana
and scuffed his head with his foot. “Not boasting now?
Where is your scorn, your dirty tricks, you wretch?”
Many onlookers were scandalized
by Bhima’s behavior to a dying man
and Yudhishthira reproved him, “Bhima,
stop now! You have fulfilled your vow at last.
For all his evil actions, Duryodhana
is a Bharata, our kinsman. You must not
touch a kinsman with your foot.” He approached
Duryodhana, with streaming eyes. “Oh, cousin,
it is your own folly and wickedness
that have brought you to destruction. Destiny
cannot be averted. But I envy you.
Heaven will welcome you as a brave hero;
we must face the widows’ bitter grief.”
Balarama was extremely angry.
“Shame on you, Bhima! All the treatises
are clear that in a fight, no blow must strike
below the belt. Surely you know that!”
The furious Balarama rushed at Bhima,
but Krishna wrapped his powerful arms around him
and stopped his brother in full flight. “Come now,”
he said, “the Pandavas are our friends and kin.
Bhima was fulfilling a vow he made
when Duryodhana insulted Draupadi.
The rishi Maitreya cursed Duryodhana
himself, saying Bhima would break his thigh.
And we have now entered the age of Kali;
breaches of dharma are to be expected.”
Upright Balarama was unconvinced
by his brother’s fraudulent reasoning.
“Bhima will be known as a crooked fighter.
Duryodhana, on the other hand, acted
with propriety, and will go to heaven.
His blood is a libation on the ground
of this auspicious place.”
Krishna spoke
to Yudhishthira, reproving him.
“Why did you do nothing when Bhima kicked
Duryodhana in the head?” Yudhishthira
was unhappy. “I don’t approve that action
but, remembering all Bhima has endured,
I felt he should be forgiven for that act,
righteous or otherwise.” Half-heartedly,
Krishna said, “So be it,” and turned away.
Bhima bent before Yudhishthira
with joined hands, lit up with happiness.
“Today, O king, the earth, restored to peace,
is yours. May you rule justly and well.”
With a grateful heart, Yudhishthira thanked him.
Bhima was reveling in the victory,
rejoicing in the rout of his enemies.
All his friends and allies gathered round
to wish him well, shouting, blowing conches,
twanging their bowstrings, dancing in delight.
“Bhima, your fame will spread throughout the world,
bards will sing of you, eulogists praise you
for defeating the wicked Kaurava.
Jaya! Jaya!”
Krishna upbraided them.
“It is not right for one who has been slain
to be slain a second time with cruel words
and triumphant glee.”
Meanwhile, your son
was lying on the ground in agony.
Raising himself painfully on his elbows
he spoke to Krishna. “Don’t think I don’t know
that Bhima recalled his vow to break my thigh
only because of you. That is just one
of many devious and sinful actions
perpetrated by you in this war.
But for you, Bhishma would be uninjured,
Bhurishravas and Drona would be alive.
And the virtuous and mighty Karna
would still be by my side to comfort me.
Only because you acted wickedly
the Pandavas, who should have lost this war,
have won.”
“Son of Gandhari,” Krishna said,
“virtue has won. Your defeat, and the killing
on this bloody field of Kurukshetra
are due to you alone, and your sinful envy.
Bhishma and Drona are dead because of you.
Karna is dead because he followed you,
so are your brothers. I tried to counsel you.
Your father, Bhishma, Vidura and Drona
all tried. Enslaved by all-consuming greed,
you would not hear the wisdom of your elders.
Now, bear the consequences.”
Duryodhana,
sweating with pain, replied, “Listen, Krishna,
I have followed the duties of my order;
I have ruled well, have given generously;
I have governed the wide world, and her riches—
who is more fortunate than I? I have fought
as a kshatriya should, and fallen gloriously.
I have enjoyed the pleasures of the gods—
who is more fortunate than I? Today
those I love most will welcome me in heaven—
who, then, is more fortunate than I?
As for you and the cheating Pandavas,
you must live on in this unhappy world,
bereaved, burdened by sorrow and regret.”
After he spoke, a shower of fragrant flowers
fell from the sky, and voices were heard singing—
celestial beings, praising Duryodhana,
lamenting the unrighteous deaths of Bhishma,
Drona, Bhurishravas and Karna.
At this, the Pandavas became ashamed
and wept, their previous joy contaminated.
Krishna spoke to them in a voice like thunder.
“Listen to me! Each of those mighty warriors
was unbeatable by lawful means.
Knowing that righteousness was on your side,
I arranged that you would overcome
those great opponents. If I had not done this,
victory would never have been yours;
war would have dragged on indefinitely.
The same applies to Duryodhana’s death.
“In war, faced with defeat, foul means are fair.
When the enemy has superior numbers
any stratagem is permissible.
The gods, in their battle against the demons,
trod the same path, and what the gods think fair
men can surely emulate. Now, friends,
go back to your tents for well-earned rest.”
Much cheered, the Pandava party returned
to their camp. But the five sons of Kunti
went with Krishna to the Kaurava camp,
riding on Arjuna’s great chariot.
As soon as they arrived, and had stepped down,
the splendid vehicle, with its monkey standard,
turned into a ball of flame. In no time,
it was just a pile of ash. Earlier, Drona
and Karna had destroyed it, but Krishna’s power
had stopped it from imploding until now.
They contemplated Duryodhana’s tent,
now stripped of its luxurious appointments,
dismal, like a festive amphitheater
when the audience and players have departed.
They found large boxes full of gold, silver
and precious j
ewels: Yudhishthira’s by right.
Krishna advised them not to go back to camp.
To mark the new reign, it would be auspicious
to spend the night, together with Satyaki,
beside the sparkling river Oghavati
that formed one boundary of the battlefield.
Once settled there, Yudhishthira asked Krishna
to travel on his behalf to Hastinapura
and speak with you, his cousin’s grieving parents.
He is on his way here as I speak.
“Explain to me,” said Janamejaya,
“why the Dharma King requested Krishna
to go to Hastinapura. Why did he
not come here himself?”
“Yudhishthira knew,”
said Vaishampayana, “that Queen Gandhari
had spiritual powers, which she had earned
by her great austerities. He was afraid
that if he went himself to visit her
she would curse him to burn up on the spot,
blaming him for the death of all her sons.
Krishna would be able to console her
with wise words.”
Arriving in the city,
Krishna hurried to where Dhritarashtra
and Gandhari sat, despairing, desolate.
He bent before them and addressed the king.
“Sir, you understand the workings of time.
You know the complete history of the conflict
between the sons of Pandu and your own.
Yet, it seems, fate can stupefy even those
who understand it—so when I came to you
to broker peace, despite the best advice
of Vidura and all the other elders,
you failed to curb your son. Whether from love
or avarice, you acted foolishly.
Defeat is the result. I beg you, therefore,
not to blame the Pandavas, who behaved
righteously, courageously. The future
of the Bharata line now rests with them.
Yudhishthira has nothing but goodwill
toward you and his aunt. He grieves for you.”
Turning to Gandhari, Krishna said,
“Best of women, remember your own words
in the assembly: ‘Foolish Duryodhana,
the course that you propose is not virtuous,
and victory will be where virtue is.’
Thinking of this, let your heart be steady.
Do not wish destruction on the Pandavas.”
“You are right,” said Gandhari. “This dreadful news
made me blaze with fury. But now I am calm.
My husband is like a child—may the Pandavas
and you, Krishna, be a refuge to him,”
and Gandhari was overcome with sobs.
Dhristarashtra said, “I cannot believe
that my son, strong as ten thousand elephants,
could have been cut down. Oh, what misery!