28.
Sanjaya left Dhritarashtra chastened
and appalled, but understanding nothing
he did not know already. He asked himself,
not for the first time, how he could have fallen
into this predicament, this nightmare.
As always, when sleep was impossible,
he sent for Vidura, his wise half-brother,
to keep the watches of the night with him.
“Sanjaya has returned; until I hear
the message he has brought from Yudhishthira,
I cannot sleep. My mind is in a tumult.
Tell me something that will bring me peace.”
“Many people are sleepless,” said Vidura:
“the anxious lover, one who is destitute,
thieves who fear discovery, householders
nervous of thieves—but none of these, I think,
is your condition. Are you, perhaps, burning
because you covet another’s property?”
As if he had not heard, Dhritarashtra
asked Vidura to tell him soothing stories.
The night was black outside, and very quiet.
Only an occasional owl’s hooting
disturbed the silence. Hour after wakeful hour,
Vidura discoursed on many topics.
He spoke of wisdom and of foolishness;
the virtues of a good ruler; mastery
of the senses; the value of honesty;
the importance of family; austerity;
moderation; the nature of karma—how
people’s actions follow them after death.
All this was leavened by engaging tales
and, here and there, as if to test whether
his brother was still awake, and listening still,
Vidura inserted his own thoughts
on the king’s obligations to his nephews.
“What am I supposed to do? Tell me
the best way forward for the Kauravas,”
moaned Dhritarashtra, as if he did not know.
“Try to cultivate clear-sightedness,
think of consequences—not like a fish
which gulps at a fat morsel, oblivious
of the hidden hook. Rather, reflect
on what it is that leads you to act wrongly
and avoid that thing—as a drunkard
must avoid strong liquor. Your doting love
for Duryodhana has made you mad
and you don’t realize it—you know, they say
that when the gods wish to destroy a person
they make him see the world the wrong way up.
And those they intend to prosper, they endow
with wisdom. Well, Yudhishthira is wise.
How can you hope to flourish when you listen
to Duryodhana and his deluded friends?
The Pandavas regard you as a father;
do the right thing—treat them as your sons.
“Think of the story of the seer Atreya,
wandering the world in the guise of a swan.
Being accosted by the Sadhya gods
and asked for good advice, he said to them:
‘This is our task: be serene at all times,
do not be vengeful, nor scorn your enemy;
speak truthfully, befriend the virtuous,
be equable in the face of disaster.
Be aware that everything must pass,
just as clouds arise, drift, and disperse,
so do not seek to cling to anything.’
“The seer was right,” said Vidura, “attachment
is the curse of humankind. It leads to grief,
and grief is the enemy of good sense.
You are too attached to Duryodhana,
not realizing that all that lives will pass.
Happiness and misery arise
for all of us. Neither exult nor grieve
but let it be.
Time after time, people die and are born,
Time after time, people rise and decline,
Time after time, people give and are given,
Time after time, people mourn and are mourned.”
In this vein, thoughtful Vidura talked on,
knowing that his words evaporated
into the night air, knowing Dhritarashtra
was no more willing to accept advice
than is a glutton or a drug addict
but, rather, claimed that he was powerless:
“Man is not master of his destiny
but a mere puppet, swinging from a thread.
I cannot abandon Duryodhana.”
“Then, O king, you are set on a course
you’ll bitterly regret. Can you imagine
the searing grief of hearing that your sons,
one by one, are killed?”
“O Vidura,”
sighed Dhritarashtra, “when I listen to you
my mind inclines toward the Pandavas.
But when I hear Duryodhana, well then
it veers away again. It’s time that governs
our human affairs; effort is futile.
But I like to listen to you—are there things
that you have left unsaid? If so, then speak.”
“There is teaching more profound than I can give,
being shudra-born. But Sanatsujata,
the divine ancient and eternal youth,
can tell you more, concerning death and non-death.”
And by thought alone, Vidura summoned him.
“Sanatsujata,” said Dhritarashtra,
“I am told you teach that there is no death,
and yet the world’s wise men devote their lives
to avoiding it. How can this be explained?”
“Both are true,” answered Sanatsujata.
“There is a part of the eternal Self
in each of us, that is indestructible.
Yet men die constantly through their own folly.
Anger, greed, delusion, envy, lust—
each of these waits to entrap a person
as a hunter stalks a witless antelope,
and each of them is death. Through being attached
to ‘I’ and ‘mine’ in every misleading form
we invite death to take up residence,
to seize us in its sharp, tenacious claws;
we die repeatedly to our true nature.
Repeatedly, we undergo rebirth.
“But one who practices simplicity,
who banishes desire and lives in truth,
who does not crave the fruit of their own actions
who is humble and who controls the senses—
that person can cross over death, and live.”
As Sanatsujata talked, Dhritarashtra
listened. But he lacked the concentration
that could have made the ancient youth’s wise words
a door into a different understanding
of what was right, what he should say and do.
As it was, he noticed the palace stirring,
heard birds begin to sing outside the window,
and knew that the long night must soon be over.
The council gathered in the assembly hall,
a splendid space, plastered white and gold,
sprinkled with fragrant water of sandalwood;
the seats, inlaid with ivory and jewels,
covered with silk cushions. Courtiers, princes,
ministers and marshals were on edge,
waiting to hear what Sanjaya would say,
no one more eagerly than Dhritarashtra.
“My lords! I bring greetings from Yudhishthira.
He asked me to convey his earnest wishes
for the good health of everyone in turn,
forgetting no one.
“Now, to the real business.
These words were delivered by Arjuna,
in front of Yudhishthira and Krishna,
speaking for all the Pandavas. ‘Tell the king
our cause is just, and we are more than ready
to fight for it. My bow, mighty Gandiva,
vibrates with longing to fulfill its purpose.
We have many seasoned warriors, brave,
skilled and single-minded. We have vast armies,
kept in a state of battle-readiness.
“‘We do not want war. But that does not mean
we will opt for peace on despicable terms.
Duryodhana should ponder hard and well
before he decides to break the covenant
made thirteen years ago in the gaming hall.
We have spent those years on a bed of sorrow.
If he defaults, Duryodhana will spend
an eternity of nights in Yama’s realm,
pinned to a far more painful bed than ours.
“‘When he sees our millions of men deployed,
their tread shaking the earth, our massed elephants
of war, their tusks filed to points, spear-sharp,
Duryodhana will regret this war.
“‘When he hears Bhima, the strongest man on earth,
each sinew burning with long-pent-up rage,
roaring with the lust to avenge Draupadi,
Duryodhana will regret this war.
“‘When Bhima, deadly club swinging, advances
on the previously complacent enemy
like a lion savaging a herd of cows,
Duryodhana will regret this war.
“‘When he sees his huge forces scattered
and consumed like straw by a summer fire,
or a stand of saplings ravaged by lightning,
Duryodhana will regret this war.
“‘When he catches sight of all our valiant sons
standing, bows raised, in their chariots
like rearing serpents ready to spit poison,
Duryodhana will regret this war.
“‘And when he sees my gold, gem-studded chariot
drawn by white horses, flying the monkey banner,
driven by Krishna, inspired charioteer;
when the dim-witted man picks up the thrum
of Gandiva, as the string strikes my wristband;
when, like driving rain, my arrows thresh
the ranks of his infantry, as if they were
ripe corn, severing men’s heads from their shoulders;
when he sees his elephants stampede
in terror, blinded by their bloody wounds;
when he sees his valiant horses stumbling,
falling, heaped up, their bright-armored riders
mortally pierced by my searching arrows; then,
then Duryodhana will regret this war.
“‘My bow flexes without my holding it;
my arrows in their inexhaustible quivers
yearn to fly. My steeds strain at their yokes.
My dagger springs from its sheath, like a serpent
impatient to escape its outworn skin.
The omens are in place, our learned brahmins
have spelled out the conjunctions of the planets
and find the time auspicious for our purpose.
But we do not want war. We can live content,
with no ambition to extend our power.
Sanjaya, you should show Dhritarashtra
the utter folly of quarreling with those
who made his kingdom what it is today
through their past conquests of his neighbors’ lands.
Remind him, we have always fought his foes—
show him how insane Duryodhana is!’
“Those were Arjuna’s words,” said Sanjaya.
Bhishma stood up, addressing Duryodhana,
“Those words are true. Thanks to the advice you take
from Shakuni, from base Duhshasana
and from Karna, your lowborn companion,
you have veered away from the path of dharma.”
“Venerable Bhishma!” Karna cried,
“do not speak of me like that. All I do
is designed to serve the king and his great son,
my friend. You cannot name a single time
when I have acted in any other way.”
“This fellow is an evil influence,”
said Bhishma, turning now to Dhritarashtra.
“He boasts that he will beat the Pandavas
and Duryodhana places trust in him,
but where was he when the fine Matsya cattle
were lost? Where was he when the gandharvas
routed your son’s retinue and captured him?
Nowhere. It was great-hearted Bhima
who came to the rescue. O king, choose peace,
don’t be misled by Karna’s puffed-up plans.
You should know—Arjuna and Krishna
are not mere mortal men, but part divine
incarnations of invincible
Nara and Narayana, who take birth
in epochs when dharma needs defending.”
Drona said, “Bhishma is right. The law
will be flouted if you refuse to cede
to Yudhishthira his half of the kingdom.
We should negotiate with the Pandavas.”
But Dhritarashtra was not listening. Restless,
he was plying Sanjaya with questions
at a tangent. And if there was one moment
when the cause of peace was lost; when it was clear
that Dhritarashtra would not oppose his son;
when the Kauravas were condemned to die;
it was that moment, when King Dhritarashtra
turned away from Bhishma and from Drona,
ignoring their views.
“Sanjaya, what forces
have the Pandavas arrayed against us?
How strong are the Panchalas? And the rest?”
Sanjaya sighed deeply, then he sank,
fainting, to the floor. “He must have seen,
in his mind, my nephews and their forces,
and been overcome,” said Dhritarashtra.
Sanjaya revived, and dutifully
listed the allies of the Pandavas,
and which Kauravas had been nominated
as dueling partners of named Pandavas,
to fight with them in duels to the death.
Bhishma had been allotted to Shikhandin,
Shalya marked out for Yudhishthira,
Karna for Arjuna, as also were
Jayadratha and envious Ashvatthaman;
Duryodhana, together with his brothers,
would be the share of Bhima, great mace-warrior.
“Those you have named are great fighters,” said the king,
“yet, to my mind, all of them together
are not more strong than Bhima by himself.
I wake at night, thinking of Wolf-belly.
He is the one I dread—and it is his fault
that there’s this breach between my sons and nephews.
Bhima would torment Duryodhana
when they were children, and it used to grieve me
when my son suffered at that bully’s hands.
Then, there was the disastrous dice game.
But even so—war is a dreadful thing.
Think of the prowess of the Pandavas—
the Kauravas don’t stand a chance; they’ll be
like moths attracted to a blazing furnace.
There should be every effort to make peace.”
“I do not understand you,” said Sanjaya.
“You know the strength of the Left-handed Archer,
you know the might of Bhima the destroyer,
you can foresee your hundred sons all slaughtered,
and yet you submit to Duryodhana.
All these laments are pointless—you are the king,
what happens is your responsibility,
yet you act as though you were powerless.
As for the dicing—I remember well
how you exulted like a little boy
when you heard Shakuni had won the game.”
“Father, don’t fear for us,” said Duryodhana.
“Our allies would find you ridiculous
for entertaining such cowardly thoughts.
The Pandavas are only mortal men,
born from human mothers, as we are.
Don’t be afraid the gods will take their side.
I have heard Vyasa tell you that the gods
became immortal by being indifferent
to love or hatred, greed or sympathy.
They won’t be propping up the Pandavas.
If they were so minded, they would have rescued
my cousins from their miserable exile—
at that time, they might have defeated us.
“But now our strength is unsurpassable.
I have incantations of my own.
I can conjure gales, cause avalanches,
or stop them, as I like. I can freeze rivers
so that heavy chariots can pass over.
You harp on about my cousins’ skills
but we have our own strength—think about it:
Bhishma, Drona, Kripa, Ashvatthaman
are formidable warriors. No one on earth
is a stronger fighter with the mace
than I am. And valiant Karna—don’t forget
how he shamed Arjuna at the tournament.
We should have some pride! Negotiate?
There’s nothing to negotiate. Make peace?
I won’t cede even a pinprick of land to them.
“Karna and I have talked about this war
and how we should see it as a sacrifice.
We will consecrate ourselves; Yudhishthira,
bull of the Bharatas, is the ritual victim.
My chariot will be the altar, my sword
the spoon, my club the ladle. My horses
will be the four sacrificial priests.
Having dedicated ourselves in this way,
we shall surely win. I’ll kill the Pandavas
and rule the earth. Even the gods could not
deflect my passionate hatred from its path!”
“Sanjaya,” said the king, “tell us what happened
when you visited Arjuna and Krishna?”
“I went to see them in their private chamber.
They were sitting together, with their wives,
and were reclining on a golden couch.
Both men were drinking mead. Krishna’s feet
rested on Arjuna’s lap, and Arjuna’s
were supported by Draupadi. When I saw
those two imposing heroes, I was awestruck.
It was as if I were in the presence
of Indra and Vishnu. I could not see then,
nor can I now, how they could fail to conquer
the whole world, if they had the mind for it.
“Arjuna nudged Krishna to speak to me
and he spoke gently, but with such seriousness
that I was terrified on your behalf.
‘I owe a debt,’ he said, ‘to Draupadi.
I was far away when she needed me.
For this alone, I would support Arjuna,
though, as he showed outside Virata’s city,
he can crush an enemy single-handed.’”
Sanjaya’s account was dismal news
for Dhritarashtra. “My poor deluded son!
Complete destruction looms for the Kauravas.
Let it be known—I reject your crackpot plan.
I don’t believe that, without bad advice,
you would have had the appetite for war.
It is Karna and Duhshasana
who spur you onward. But what can I do?
Inscrutable time propels us where it will.”
Karna stood up, addressing Duryodhana:
“I propose to conquer the Pandavas
single-handed, and after them, the Matsyas,
Panchalas and Karushas. This I will do
with the divine weapon I was awarded
by my great teacher. He withdrew the weapon
when he was angry with me, but I believe
I placated him. You can stay at home
with Bhishma and Drona. I shall take a force
of the best fighting men—the task is mine!”
Bhishma laughed. “You vain and boastful fool,
how can you dream of killing even Arjuna—
the warrior who has never been defeated,
the man who destroyed the Khandava Forest—
let alone the rest, weapon or no weapon.
The spear which you obtained from the god Indra
will be reduced to ash by Krishna’s discus.
You and your weapons will be impotent.”
Karna flushed at that insult: “Very well!
This is my response to your contempt—
I will lay down my weapons. I will saunter
around the court until the Kauravas’
generals fall in combat, until you, Bhishma,
lie dead on the field of battle. Only then
will I fight, and the world will see my prowess!”
With that, he strode out of the assembly hall.
Bhishma shrugged. “That all-powerful weapon
the driver’s son so loves to boast about
is flawed. The holy sage who gave it to him
put conditions on it, because Karna
had lied to him. That is the man he is.”
As discussion continued in the hall,
Vidura told the king an instructive story:
“THIS IS SOMETHING I witnessed once, when I was traveling in the Himalaya. We were visiting Mount Gandhamadana, a beautiful place, with groves of fragrant flowers. There we saw a jar of honey, lying on a rock on the edge of a ravine swarming with poisonous snakes. The honey belonged to Kubera, god of wealth, and it had wonderful properties. If a mortal tasted it, he would live for ever. If a blind man tasted it, he would see again.
“Some mountain men in our party were desperate to get hold of the jar, but, in reaching for it, they toppled into the ravine and were killed.
“In the same way, this stupid son of yours
wishes to seize the earth. He turns his mind
away from the ravine.”
Now, the council
started to disperse. The king, in an aside,
said to Sanjaya, “Is there something
further that you can tell me? Can you foresee
a certain outcome of this dreadful war?”
“Let Vyasa come here, and Gandhari,”
said Sanjaya, “to witness what I learned
at Upaplavya.” By the power of thought
Sanjaya brought Vyasa, and Gandhari
came from her apartments. Duryodhana
turned his back.
“It has been revealed to me,”
said Sanjaya, “that Krishna is the Lord,
the blessed Vishnu, he who alone governs
time and death, he who turns the world.
Where there is law, where there is truth, there
Krishna is. He has taken human form,
with human attributes. But make no mistake,
his power is such that he could destroy the world—
reduce it to ash instantly.”
“How is it,”
asked Dhritarashtra, “that you recognize
the Lord, while I perceive only Krishna,
prince of Dvaraka?” Sanjaya answered,
“Though I am not highborn, simple devotion
and mastery of the senses have revealed
the Lord to me—Vishnu, the uncreated.”
“Duryodhana,” said Dhritarashtra, “hurry!
Go and seek the mercy of the Lord!”
“Nothing in earth or heaven would make me seek
the mercy of that crony of Arjuna.”
“You see?” said the king to Gandhari.
“Your son is a lost cause with his wicked soul,
his envy, his contempt for his elders.”
“You power-crazy fool!” said Gandhari,
“evil-minded wretch! What interminable
sorrow you inflict upon your parents.
You will remember your father’s words too late,
when Bhima crushes you.”
Vyasa turned
to Dhritarashtra, “Be guided by Sanjaya.
He can set you free from mortal danger
if you listen to him attentively.
People blunder through the wilderness
bewildered by their lusts. The wise know better.”
“Tell me, Sanjaya,” said Dhritarashtra,
“how may one reach the path to ultimate peace?”
“Steadfast mastery of all one’s senses
is the way to peace. Through relinquishment
of irritable longings and attachments
a person may come to know the blessed Lord.”
Dhritarashtra sighed. “Ah, how I envy
those who have eyes to see the divine being
in his wonderful, immortal form!”