full of pride and foolish hope. I knew then
it must end in defeat. All I could manage
were lukewarm words—not what you most wanted,
not the heartfelt prayer for victory
men need from women when they go to war.
“Time turns. You died a hero, Duryodhana.
Devoted women once fanned you to sleep;
now only the urgent wings of hungry birds
make a breeze around you. Here’s your poor wife,
Lakshmana’s mother, weeping for her son,
and for you. That broad-hipped, lovely girl
is huddling in the crook of your strong arm.
No more good times for her; disregarded,
she’ll spend her life alone.
“So many women,
trying to wash blood off their men’s dead faces;
others whirling, screeching like lunatics
at vultures circling on creaking wings.
What must we have done in a past life?
What sin could have deserved this utter horror?
“And look at my other fine sons! There they lie;
distinct in life, with differing looks and gifts,
each with his individual voice, his laugh,
now meat for undiscriminating crows.
“There is Abhimanyu, still beautiful,
that brilliant warrior who outshone even
his father. And there is Uttaraa, his wife,
crouched beside him, kissing his cold face.
Now she has undone his gilded armor,
stares intently at his wounds, and cries,
‘Oh, Abhimanyu, my beloved husband,
my world, soul of my soul, how your injuries
gape for all to see. My heart, too, is pierced
by death’s pitiless darts, but invisibly.
You were like Krishna in your strength and courage,
so alive. Yet now you sleep too soundly.
Your skin is soft, delicate as a girl’s;
isn’t the rough ground grazing you? Your arms
flung wide, you sprawl as though you are exhausted
by grinding labor. Rest, my love.’
“She cradles
his head in her lap and strokes his tangled hair.
“‘Where were their hearts, those Kauravas who trapped you,
a solitary boy? Where were your uncles,
your natural protectors? How can a kingdom,
however rich, however well deserved,
be worth your life, my prince, my precious one?
I wish I too could die. I long to join you!
But no one dies before the gods decide.
You are no more; I have my wretched life.
In that world you’ve gone to, will there be
a woman to caress and laugh with you
as if she were me? Oh, my Abhimanyu,
be happy in your heaven, but remember
what I was to you, how we loved together!’
“Her father’s wives are pulling her away
from Abhimanyu’s corpse. Now they themselves
collapse. They have seen Virata’s body—
and that of Uttara, the bragging boy
whom Arjuna transformed into a man.
“There is Karna. His wives are sitting round,
their hair in disarray, crying miserably
for him, and for their courageous sons.
So many heroes looked upon his face
as the last they saw on earth, until Arjuna
cut him down. He was the most loyal friend
to Duryodhana, most brave, most steadfast.
Firm as the Himalaya, brilliant as fire,
unforgiving, stern, that great warrior
lies like a tree felled by a tornado,
ruined, defaced, unrecognizable.
“Look at Jayadratha. Puffed with pride,
full of uncalled-for animosity
toward the Pandavas, now he is laid low,
dragged into a ditch by growling beasts,
though his weeping wives tried to guard his body.
The Pandavas might have killed him when he tried
to abduct Draupadi, but they refrained
out of consideration for my daughter.
If only they could have thought of her grief now.
She runs this way and that, quite distracted,
searching, searching for Jayadratha’s head.
“And there lies Shalya, complicated man.
We never knew whose side he really took;
perhaps, in the end, he didn’t know himself.
Now it is all the same—and, look, two crows
are pecking at his lolling, facile tongue.
“Bhishma, on his tormenting bed of arrows,
is still alive. He looks like the sun itself,
fallen to earth. That man is a hero
like no other. Skilled in warfare, steeped
in wisdom and dharma—what other warrior
would have told Yudhishthira how to kill him!
Who will there be as a bright lodestar
for the Bharatas, once Bhishma is no more?
“And Drona, the great teacher—all those weapons
acquired from the gods were useless in the end.
Kripi, his loving wife, sits, eyes downcast
beside his body. His bow still in his hand,
gauntlet and greaves in place, it almost seems
that he could rise and resume the fight. But look,
his feet, honored by so many pupils,
are gone, already gnawed by scavengers.
“There is Somadatta’s sorrowing widow,
lamenting for their son, Bhurishravas:
‘Oh, husband, fortunate that you cannot see
our son—his arm, his lovely arm, hacked off.
His wife is bathing it with her hot tears,
mourning the hand that lately would have loosened
her clothing, stroked her breasts, caressed her face.
Lucky that you cannot see his parasol
broken, splintered, lying across his chariot.’
“Her bereaved daughters-in-law are shrieking
and crying, a pitiful thing to witness.
Arjuna acted wickedly. Still more
horrible was Satyaki’s sinful act—
killing him as he sat in meditation.
The world will censure you for allowing it,
Krishna. I’d like to think you are ashamed.
“So many shields strewn on the bloody field
like fallen moons; and scattered spears and bows
shining like shafts of sunlight in the gloom.
Look at Shakuni, fallen where he belongs,
that mischief-maker. This war was his doing.
I warned my son—told him that his uncle
walked with death. He it was who stirred up
the quarrel, as he loved to do. He hated
the Pandavas. What a barbed tongue he had.
But he died in battle; the heroes’ heaven
awaits him, as it does all my brave sons.
He cared for no one, not even himself.
“There are the womenfolk of old Drupada
killed by Drona, his lifelong enemy,
as an elephant is savaged by a lion.
He was a heroic warrior. See, Krishna,
his beautiful white parasol is gleaming
in the light. His body is already burned.
His grieving wives and daughters-in-law circle
the pyre clockwise, heads covered, sobbing softly.
“Oh, so much sorrow! It is women’s fate
to love and lose, love and lose again.
What joy it is to give birth to healthy sons,
to play with them, sing to them, to see them
grow in strength, acquire a warrior’s skills
ready to take on a world of enemies.
What’s wrong with us? Why do
we not start weeping
as soon as we see our newborn is a boy?
But no, we glow with pride—as if this creature,
these perfect arms and legs, this lusty voice,
this future food for crows, were an achievement.
Broodmares for corpses—that’s what women are
if they are born unlucky kshatriyas!”
Gandhari sank down, broken, desolate.
“Krishna, when your peace mission failed, and you
returned to the Pandavas, then my poor sons
were as good as dead. You could have done more
to save them, but this was what you wanted,
this war, and all my precious sons are lost.
I curse you, Krishna! For presiding over
this tragic conflict, kinsman against kinsman,
a time will come when you will pay in kind.
In thirty-six years’ time, having killed
your sons, brothers, cousins, you will meet
an ignominious end. And then your own
womenfolk will weep and tear their hair,
as inconsolable as these women now.”
Krishna smiled. “Excellent Gandhari,
you give words to what I already know.
I, and I alone, shall destroy the Vrishnis,
and your curse will help me carry out that task.
When the time is right, they will kill each other;
I shall decide.
“But don’t give way to anguish.
Grief breeds grief; you are wise enough to know that.
You yourself are by no means blameless.
You thought too well of Duryodhana
and tolerated his pernicious acts.
Now you see the tragic consequence.”
Dhritarashtra asked Yudhishthira
for the facts—how big were the armies
and how many were killed? Yudhishthira
gave numbers more vast than the mind could hold.
“And what has become of them, Yudhishthira—
you who know everything?”
“The afterlife
is proportioned to the way a man has lived
and how he died—how courageously.
The highest realms welcome those who fight
like true kshatriyas, who stubbornly
battle on even when they are wounded,
when they have lost their chariot, when lesser men
have fled the field. They go to the seat of Indra.
Lower realms receive cautious warriors,
those who fight with qualified commitment.
Those who desert meet suffering after death.”
“How do you know all this?” asked Dhritarashtra.
“I sat at the feet of many holy men
when we were in exile in the forest.
There I practiced the yoga of knowledge,
and I made extended pilgrimages
to sacred sites and holy bathing places.”
Dhritarashtra urged Yudhishthira
to arrange that rituals for the dead
be performed, especially for those who lay
neglected on the field, with no relations
to mourn their passing—those whose loving kin
perhaps had heard no news, and were still praying
for their menfolk’s safe return.
Yudhishthira
ordered retainers and priests to see to it.
They summoned sandalwood and precious aloe,
sesame oil, ghee and fragrant herbs.
Warriors’ bodies were heaped up by the thousands.
High piles were made of the smashed chariots
and other wood, corpses wrapped in cloth
and burned with all appropriate ritual,
the fires fed with ghee and perfumed oil.
Then all went in procession to the river.
The Bharatas gathered at the water’s edge,
the serene Ganga, fringed with lovely trees.
The mourning women shed their ornaments
and, entering the water, poured libations.
Suddenly, Kunti, weeping, speaking quietly,
said to her sons, “You should take special care
that you perform the proper rites for Karna.”
Yudhishthira was surprised. “That hero Karna,”
said Kunti, “whom you thought the son of Radha,
whom you despised as a driver’s son—that man
who was unrivaled in integrity—
pour libations for him. He was your brother.”
Yudhishthira stared at her, uncomprehending.
“I bore him by the sun god, Surya,
secretly, when I was very young,
too young to understand what was happening.
I was beside myself with fear and shame.
Secretly, I stowed him in a casket,
carried him to the river—and gave him up,
watched my son float away.”
Yudhishthira’s
heart pounded; he shook, his face turned dark.
“Mother! How can this be? All these years!
How—oh, how can you have hidden from us
that Karna was our brother? That towering hero,
so brave, so skillful it took Arjuna—
and then only with Krishna’s help—to kill him!
If Karna had been our acknowledged brother,
surely the war never would have happened.
This news is like a death to me, far worse,
even, than the loss of all our sons!”
Yudhishthira then sent for Karna’s wives
and joined them in performing funeral rites
with Vedic hymns and solemn incantations,
relinquishing to sacred mother Ganga
the hero he had never known as brother.
As the tranquil water flowed around him,
Yudhishthira stood silent and alone.
Then, his mind boiling in confusion,
he stepped out of the river onto the bank.
XII
THE BOOK OF PEACE
48.
YUDHISHTHIRA, RELUCTANT RULER
After the funerary rites; when silence
had fallen on the plain of Kurukshetra,
the Pandavas remained outside the city
for a month, to purify themselves
from the pollution brought about by death.
Learned brahmins gathered, to provide
help and consolation; foremost of them
were Vyasa and Narada.
Yudhishthira
was sunk in deepest sorrow. Narada said,
“Son of Pandu, why are you not rejoicing?
You have won the earth by force of arms
and won it righteously. Surely, now
you can put grief behind you, and be glad.”
“I have, indeed, conquered the whole earth,”
said Yudhishthira, “through the strength of Krishna
and Arjuna. But since I have destroyed
so many of my kin, and other warriors
from far and wide; since I have caused the death
of Abhimanyu and Draupadi’s five sons,
this victory tastes as bitter as defeat.
It is because I coveted the kingdom
that Subhadra’s tears flow constantly.
And how can Draupadi ever cease grieving?
“But most of all, Narada, I am bowed down
with sorrow over Karna. He had no equal.
I think of him constantly, how generous,
how tall and straight he was, his golden color,
the way he swayed like a lion as he walked.
Honest, learned, firm in his resolve,
skilled in all weaponry, wonderfully brave—
no greater soul has ever walked the earth.
Yet Kunti waited until he was dead
to tell us that he was her son, o
ur brother!
He knew it. Kunti went to him, and begged him
to alter his allegiance and fight with us.
But he was loyal to Duryodhana,
and he did not want it said he was afraid
of fighting Arjuna, his arch-enemy.
“‘After the war,’ he told her, ‘when I have fought
Arjuna, when I have taken his life,
then I will make peace with the Pandavas.’
He promised her that, even if confronted,
he would not kill her other sons. That hero
kept his promise, as he always did.
“I remember—at the fateful dice game,
when Dhritarashtra’s sons were taunting us,
I happened to glance at Karna’s feet, and saw
they were like Kunti’s! It struck me very much
but I could never explain it to myself.
I can’t forget that I have caused his death.
I burn with regret that we were never friends.
Together, brothers reconciled, united,
the Pandavas could have fought the very gods!
Why was Karna so unfortunate?”
Narada told Yudhishthira the story
of Karna’s birth and thorny path through life.
Then Kunti spoke coaxingly to her son.
“You should not grieve for him, Yudhishthira.
Grief is not wisdom, and Karna has surely gone
to Indra’s heaven. I tried to persuade him
to reveal to you that you were brothers.
So did the sun, his father. But he was set
on his chosen course. I could not prevail.”
Yudhishthira flared up in rage. “If only
you had not kept that secret to yourself
for all these years. Ah! I curse all women—
may they be unable to keep secrets!
“If only we had given up ambition—
lived, say, on charity in Dvaraka—
we never would have done this dreadful harm.
Ambition, an abiding sense of grievance
and greed for power brought us to this point.
Much better are self-control, sincerity
and harmlessness, the traits of forest dwellers.
Now, our kinsmen and our friends are dead.
I know Duryodhana always hated us;
he wronged us many times; we responded.
We were like dogs fighting for a bone
and both dogs died. For neither of us has won.
Millions of men, too young to have enjoyed
the pleasures of the world, now never will,
because of us.
“But evil can be annulled
by the merit flowing from renunciation.
I am going to give up the kingdom,
take my leave of you, and live in the forest
without possessions. Then I shall be free.