He joined his two companions. They exulted
at their good night’s work.
In that moment
they felt that the achievement was all theirs.
Yet, in truth, only because Lord Shiva
had made them his instrument; only because
Krishna had allowed it, had they succeeded.
Effort had joined hands with the gods’ design.
“But,” asked Dhritarashtra, “if Ashvatthaman
was capable of such an outstanding feat,
why did he wait until the war was lost,
and my son lying helpless on the ground?”
“It was because he feared the Pandavas,”
said Sanjaya. “Had your nephews been present
this great slaughter never could have happened.”
Sanjaya continued:
The three hurried back to Duryodhana
and found him lying as before, attempting
to repel rapacious carnivores that sidled
ever closer. His groans of agony
were fainter now, blood frothing from his mouth.
The three men wept with pity and outrage
to see him, wept for you, his bereaved parents,
who soon would have no sons left in the world.
“Oh, woe,” said Kripa, “even this great warrior
is brought down by time. Look, his golden mace
that has never failed him, that was his friend
in every battle, is now lying by him
as a loving wife lies down beside her lord
when he prepares for sleep. Alas, this prince
to whom brahmins could always look for food
will soon himself be food for scavengers.”
They wiped his bloody face with their bare hands.
Then they told him all that they had done
and made him happy. “Blessings on you all!
You have achieved what even my great Karna,
even Bhishma, even your own father
could not accomplish. We will meet in heaven.”
Having spoken, he gave up his life.
And at that moment, best of Bharatas,
the power which, for eighteen endless days,
enabled me to witness every detail
of the war, and bring you news of it—
my divine vision—was suddenly withdrawn.
Dhrishtadyumna’s driver was the only man
who had escaped the carnage, slipping past
Kritavarman in the dark; and he it was
who brought the dreadful news to Yudhishthira.
The Pandava fell to the ground in shock.
The five brothers huddled together, weeping,
lamenting the loss of all their stalwart sons,
Draupadi’s children. “Ah!” cried Yudhishthira,
“if our kinsmen had only been more watchful
Ashvatthaman never could have breached
their guard, to murder them so savagely.
So brave they were! And such outstanding warriors
that they survived all eighteen days of war—
only to perish now like helpless sheep.
They are like travelers who, having sailed
the treacherous oceans and come back to port
without mishap, drown in a shallow stream.
“Now we who were victorious have been vanquished,
and our defeated enemy has conquered.
What does victory mean if what it brings
is the searing loss of all we cherish most?
Is it not just defeat by other means?
And how will our beloved Draupadi
bear this bereavement? How can she survive it?
Her father already killed; now two brothers
and all her beautiful, courageous sons!”
Yudhishthira sent Nakula by chariot
to Upaplavya, to fetch Draupadi.
Then, with his other brothers and Satyaki,
he went to the camp. Seeing crows and vultures
tearing at the bodies of their children,
they all collapsed, fainting, on the ground.
When Nakula brought Draupadi, next morning,
she hurried to the place where her five sons
lay lifeless and, crouching, cradled in her arms
each bloody, mutilated boy in turn.
“O my precious one, how can I live
and never see your handsome face again;
never hear your laughter in the distance;
never feel the warmth of your strong arms
as you embrace me?” She rocked to and fro,
then she, too, collapsed, undone by grief.
Bhima lifted her. Weeping, shaking,
she addressed Yudhishthira in anger.
“I hope you are happy with your victory,
after the slaughter of our shining sons,
the flower of youth, heroic kshatriyas.
Perhaps you will sleep undisturbed by thoughts
of Abhimanyu and these other children.
But I tell you now, Yudhishthira,
if you do not make Ashvatthaman pay,
if you do not rip his life from him
together with the lives of his wicked friends,
then, starting now, I shall sit and fast to death!”
“Draupadi,” said Yudhishthira, ashen-faced,
“all your sons have lost their lives with honor—
even now, they must be enjoying heaven.
You should not grieve. You understand dharma.
You know that the life of a kshatriya
is shaped for war from earliest infancy.
As for Ashvatthaman, our spies tell us
he has fled into the forest, like a cur.
We shall pursue him with all possible speed,
but if he is caught and killed as he deserves,
how shall we prove to you that he has perished?”
“I have heard,” said Draupadi, “that Drona’s son
was born with a jewel on his forehead.
When you bring me that jewel, when I place it
on your own head, Yudhishthira, only then
will I decide to live.” She turned to Bhima,
“Bhima, you have always been our refuge—
think of Hidimba, and the time you saved me
from that lustful wretch in Virata’s city.
Now, wreak vengeance on wicked Ashvatthaman!”
Bhima seized his bow, mounted his chariot
driven by Nakula, and galloped off
along the route taken by Ashvatthaman.
When Krishna learned of this, he was dismayed
and said to Yudhishthira, “You should realize
that you have put your brother in great danger.
Ashvatthaman has a deadly weapon,
capable of destroying the whole world—
the Brahmashiras weapon. Years ago,
Drona gave that weapon to Arjuna,
knowing he could be trusted. Ashvatthaman
was jealous, and kept pestering his father
to give it to him too. Drona, reluctant
because he knew his son lacked Arjuna’s
calmness and discipline, at last gave in.
‘But,’ he warned, ‘it never must be used
against human beings.’
“Some years later,
during the time of your forest exile,
Ashvatthaman came to see me. ‘Krishna,’
he said, smiling at me, ‘I have the weapon
called Brahmashiras. I will give it to you.
Please give me your discus in exchange.’
He had no idea what he was asking.
I told him to keep his weapon, but to take
whatever of mine he wanted. Delighted,
he seized my discus—but he could not lift it,
try as he might. Then I said
to him,
‘Ashvatthaman, even Arjuna,
foremost of warriors, wielder of Gandiva,
he who is my dearest friend on earth,
he to whom there is nothing I would not give,
even my wives and children—Arjuna
has never asked of me what you just asked.
My precious son Pradyumna, my dear brother
Balarama, my cousins, my close kin
have never asked of me what you just asked.
Tell me—what use would you make of it
if I gave you my discus?’ He replied,
‘I was going to fight you with it—then
I would be the world’s greatest warrior.’
That’s how wrongheaded Ashvatthaman is!
He is very cruel, impulsive, angry—
and he has the Brahmashiras weapon.
Bhima must be protected.”
Immediately
Krishna leapt onto his chariot, yoked
to superb horses garlanded in gold.
Above him flew his celestial standard,
bright with gems, depicting the fierce eagle,
Garuda, enemy of snakes. Arjuna
and Yudhishthira sprang up beside him.
This swiftest of all chariots caught up
with Bhima, but failed to stop him charging
toward Ashvatthaman.
Drona’s son
had sought refuge in Vyasa’s hermitage.
The Pandava party tracked him down at last
sitting piously beside the Ganga
dressed from head to foot in brahmin’s garb,
surrounded by Vyasa and other seers.
Bhima roared, “Stand up and fight, you villain!”
and the ground shuddered as he advanced.
Ashvatthaman quickly called to mind
his dreadful weapon. He picked a blade of grass
and inspired it with the proper mantras.
“For the destruction of the Pandavas!”
he cried, and then the blade of grass became
a raging furnace.
“Arjuna,” urged Krishna,
“it is time to use that celestial weapon
given by Drona, to neutralize all weapons.”
Arjuna jumped down, lifted his bow,
and, speaking softly, wished well to Drona’s son
as well as to his brothers and himself.
With his mind on the welfare of all beings,
he prayed aloud: “May Ashvatthaman’s harm
be neutralized by this!” He loosed his weapon.
It seemed as though the entire universe
was consumed by flame; thunder roared
and meteors crashed to earth. The whole world trembled.
Then the great rishis Narada and Vyasa
spoke up angrily. “What kind of rashness
is this?” they exclaimed. “Bhishma and Drona,
who knew such weapons, never mobilized them
in battle, even when faced with their own death.”
Arjuna agreed to withdraw his weapon.
“But if I do, Ashvatthaman’s weapon
will destroy us and the three worlds. O rishis,
you must find some way to protect us all.”
To withdraw such a powerful weapon
was almost impossible. Only one
who had observed extreme austerity,
who had gone through the discipline and vows
of a devout ascetic, had the power.
Arjuna was such a man; he withdrew
his weapon. Ashvatthaman could not do it.
His weapon was directly dedicated
to the destruction of the Pandavas.
Vyasa reproved him, “Although Arjuna
could have used his weapon before this,
he has never done so, out of concern
for the innocent who would be harmed by it.
You must call your dreadful weapon back.
And give that jewel of yours to the Pandavas
that they may spare your weak, misguided life.”
“This jewel,” said Ashvatthaman, “is more precious
than all the combined wealth of the Bharatas.
He who wears it will never suffer fear.
Holy one, although I hate to lose it,
I will obey you. But I am powerless
to stop the Brahmashiras. All I can do
is to redirect it into the wombs
of the Pandava wives, killing their offspring
and making them barren.”
“Then you must do it,”
said Vyasa.
Krishna addressed Ashvatthaman.
“Once, a brahmin at Virata’s court
told Uttaraa, Abhimanyu’s widow,
that she would bear a son, called Parikshit,
a son to carry forward the Bharata line.”
“That will not happen,” shouted Ashvatthaman,
“however much you love the Pandavas!”
“I assure you, this will indeed come true,
despite your weapon. I shall see to it,”
said Krishna. “As for you, accursed wretch,
you will bear the fruit of your sinful acts.
Infamous as the murderer of children,
for three thousand years you will walk the world
a joyless outcast, afflicted by disease,
with no soul to talk to, passing your days
in gloomy forests and dreary desert tracts.
Parikshit, well schooled in the Vedas,
practicing pious vows, skilled with all weapons,
will rule in righteousness for sixty years.”
“Let it be so,” said Vyasa. “Ashvatthaman,
this is what comes of living out your life
as a kshatriya, despite your brahmin birth.”
Grim-faced, Ashvatthaman gave his jewel
to the Pandavas. Without a word, he turned
and slowly walked away among the trees
to begin his solitary banishment.
The Pandavas rode back to Draupadi
where she sat, fasting. Bhima said to her,
“This jewel is yours. The murderer of your sons
has been defeated. Grasp life again. Recall
kshatriya dharma. Think of those words of yours
when we were in the forest, how you said,
‘Since the king wants peace, I have no husband.’
You wanted war, you thirsted for revenge.
Now we have slaughtered every Kaurava.
I have drunk Duhshasana’s blood, avenging
that villain’s act in violating you.
We have exacted full dues from our foes.
We let Ashvatthaman keep his life,
out of respect for our teacher, his dead father,
and because he is a brahmin. But that life
will hardly be worth living.”
Draupadi said,
“I only wished for adequate revenge
for all our injuries; that we have obtained
in full measure—and at terrible cost.
Now, despite my grief, I shall cease my fast.
I wish well to the teacher, and his son.
Bind this gem on your head, Yudhishthira.”
The king did so, seeing it as a gift
from his dead teacher.
Later, he asked Krishna,
“How could our sons, mighty kshatriyas,
have been easily killed by Ashvatthaman
whose skills were much inferior to theirs?
And valiant Dhrishtadyumna? And Shikhandin?
How could that have happened?” Krishna explained
that Shiva had afforded his protection
to Ashvatthaman. “Those who died perished
through Shiva’s power; they were the great god’s share
of the sacrifice that was the bloody war
of Kurukshetra.” And he then described
Shiva’s con
tribution to creation.
Their talking went on far into the night.
XI
THE BOOK OF THE WOMEN
46.
DHRITARASHTRA’S GRIEF
“After all was lost,” said Janamejaya,
“what did Dhritarashtra do? And what
did wise Sanjaya say to the blind king?”
Vaishampayana said, “I will tell you . . .”
Having lost all who were dearest to him,
what could the father of a hundred sons
do now? What kind of life remained to him?
So rich in children only a month before,
his line secure, a treasury of sons
to keep his memory alive, he now
stood destitute, as though they had never lived.
He was reduced to a stupor of distress.
His blind eyes leaked and dripped like a cracked cistern;
his soft hands trembled uncontrollably.
Sanjaya was stern. “Why do you sit there
self-absorbed, weltering in misery?
Grief, feeding greedily on itself,
never brought any good. Do something useful—
see that all those fathers, husbands, sons,
all those kings and followers whose flesh,
thanks to you, now mixes with the mud,
at least receive the proper funeral rites.
Enough self-indulgence!”
“Unfeeling man,
you are too severe!” moaned Dhritarashtra.
“I’m like a husbandman who has long watched
his orchard grow, mature and bear ripe fruit,
who now has all his sturdy trees destroyed
by lightning and the howling desert wind.
Oh, I am like a blasted tree myself,
one that in its scanty sap preserves
a longing for the green that once played round it.
I shall be broken-hearted until death.
“And, in addition, I have lost my kingdom.
How can you expect me not to grieve?
I had the best advice—I took no notice.
Now I have paid. A curse on my bad judgment.
I must have done great wrong in previous births—
I don’t remember. I suppose it’s fate.
Was ever a man more unfortunate?”
Sanjaya was unmoved. “Never mind ‘previous’—
you’ve had enough shortcomings in this life
to explain your woe. When Duryodhana
swaggered about in his youthful pride
you offered him encouragement, not sense.
You failed to show him the path of principle.
Nothing but war would do for that foolish man.
Seduced by the splendor he had promised you,
you were greedy, too avid for gain.