35.
Sanjaya went on with his account:
Day followed day in carnage on a scale
that could not have been imagined. Every night,
as the sun dipped out of sight, the fighting
was suspended, and the surviving troops
plodded back to camp, spent, sorrowful.
So many corpses, heads and limbs and trunks,
so many slaughtered animals of war,
lay crushed into the mud that, with the dawn,
the armies marched out over claggy ground
buzzing with blowflies feasting on rank flesh.
Best breathe through their mouths. Best not look down,
in case the sight of sightless eyes, parched mouths,
looked too much like their own. In case they saw
the mangled breastplate of a friend or brother.
But they were kshatriyas. They had always known
that they were on the earth to fight, kill, conquer,
above all, to be brave, in certain hope
of heavenly reward. That was their dharma.
It seemed the whole world was consumed by horror.
Yet, only a short walk away, farmers
were tending fields, feeding their soft-eyed oxen,
women were cooking, babies being born.
The next two days were slog and butchery,
death and heroism. In each army
hardly a man or horse or elephant
had not been wounded. Yet they battled on.
Many duels were fought, most inconclusive.
Arjuna invoked the Aindra weapon
and the Kauravas were put to flight,
floundering in terror and confusion
until Bhishma rescued them. The sight
of Arjuna, with his glittering diadem,
confronted by the stately Bhishma, dressed
all in white, drawn by his ice-white horses,
dazzled even the heavenly spectators.
Meanwhile, Drona went after Virata
and killed his horses and his charioteer.
Virata mounted the chariot of his son,
Shankha, and Drona, drawing back his bow,
aimed at Shankha an arrow as venomous
as a poisonous snake, striking him dead.
Virata withdrew, weeping for his son.
Yudhishthira, usually so mild, now
was incandescent with rage and energy.
His chariot seemed to appear everywhere
so that the Kaurava troops feared for their lives,
and indeed he massacred many hundreds
and wounded thousands, so that injured men,
their clothing bright with their life’s blood, resembled
a beautiful forest of kimshuka trees.
Shikhandin started an attack on Bhishma,
then retreated, as Shalya defended him.
“Remember your vow!” cried Yudhishthira,
“your promise to inflict death on Bhishma.”
But Bhishma, sworn not to fight Shikhandin,
instead, did battle with Yudhishthira
and his troops with dreadful effect, killing
the Pandava’s fine horses.
Abhimanyu
fought with great flair and ferocity
against the brothers of Duryodhana,
but did not kill them, as he knew that Bhima
had sworn he would perform that deed himself.
When the sun sank below the distant hills,
the armies halted, and walked back to their tents.
In the camps, the soldiers were well cared for.
Arrows were extracted from their bodies
and wounds were dressed. Brahmins carried out
propitiatory rites for them, and poets
sang praise-songs to their bravery and skill.
On the eighth day, a youth came to Arjuna.
The young man was Iravat, Arjuna’s son
by Ulupi, daughter of the Naga king.
A warrior of immense abilities,
he had come to introduce himself
when Arjuna was living in Indra’s realm.
Arjuna had embraced him joyfully
and asked him to support the Pandavas
in their struggle to regain their kingdom.
Now Iravat was here.
He set to at once,
mounted on his beautiful chariot,
and, since he was a master of illusion,
he and his troops managed to confound
the bewildered Kauravas, killing hundreds.
Duryodhana, seeing what was happening,
asked the rakshasa Alambusha,
accomplished illusionist, to intervene.
He was related to the monstrous Baka,
whom Bhima had dispatched at Ekachakra.
An extraordinary battle followed,
each fighter seeking to confuse the other
with trickery, while they went for the kill.
They were young, old, singular and many,
human and monstrous, all at different times.
At last, Iravat turned into a snake;
Alambusha, becoming a fierce eagle,
snapped him up, and quickly beheaded him.
Witnessing the death of Iravat,
Ghatotkacha cried out in grief and outrage—
roared so loudly that the ground vibrated,
deep-rooted trees keeled over, and the sky
echoed with the thunder of his cries.
The Kauravas shook at that unearthly sound.
Ghatotkacha, summoning his forces,
rushed against Duryodhana’s divisions.
“Now you will pay,” he cried, “for all your vileness
toward my fathers and lovely Draupadi.
Quit the field, or else endure my vengeance!”
Onslaughts of arrows followed, a deluge
pelting down onto the Kaurava army
and on Duryodhana in particular.
Bhishma, knowing the supernatural power
of Ghatotkacha, ordered reinforcements
to protect Duryodhana, and there began
a ferocious fight between Bhima’s son
and the best divisions of the Kauravas.
The battle was chaotic—so many standards
were shot down, it was impossible
to tell which side was which, and in the heat
and delirium of the moment, some were felled
by the weapons of their friends and kinsmen.
Elephants, urged on to pierce the enemy,
instead ripped open the flanks of their fellows,
or became entangled. Panicking horses,
dragged down by partners slaughtered in their traces,
pawed the ground wildly, struggling to break free.
As time went on, Ghatotkacha began
to tire. Yudhishthira, observing this,
sent Bhima to his aid. The mere approach
of the mace-swinging Pandava spread terror,
and many among the Kauravas took flight
to attack the enemy elsewhere in the field.
Duryodhana blazed up with renewed courage,
and made for Bhima, fracturing his bow.
Drona, seeing the danger, rushed forward,
and instantly was pierced by Bhima’s arrows
so deeply that he sank down, unconscious.
Drona’s son, Ashvatthaman, threw himself
quickly into the fray, but Ghatotkacha
created the illusion of defeat,
an apparition of a million corpses,
with all the greatest warriors—Duryodhana,
Drona, Ashvatthaman, Shalya—seeming
to retreat. Seeing this, the Kauravas,
dismayed, fled away in all directions.
Hearing of the death of Iravat,
Arjuna’s heart was wrenched with bitter grief.
“Oh, Krishna, how could anything be worth
this dreadful carnage of the flower of youth
by the million, for the sake of wealth?
Yudhishthira was right to try to bargain
for a mere five villages. Yet, because
Duryodhana would not even grant us that,
we are obliged to fight.” He urged Krishna
to drive the chariot into the thick of battle,
and great was the damage he inflicted there.
Bhima, too, with superhuman strength,
fought, killing many of your valiant sons,
like a wolf let loose among a herd of goats.
Bhishma, rallying the Kauravas,
battled like one inspired, and instilled courage
into every man who fought beside him.
When night came on, and the troops withdrew,
Duryodhana went, disheartened, to his tent.
Karna, Shakuni and Duhshasana
joined him, and they sat around discussing
the way the day had gone. Duryodhana
was in despair at the lack of progress.
The Pandavas seemed fresh and strong as ever,
and he had lost so many of his brothers
at the hands of Bhima, bent upon revenge.
“Is our army being strongly led?
Bhishma seems ineffectual. Meanwhile
our forces shrink, our weapons are dwindling.
I am wondering whether victory
can ever come our way as things are going.”
“Bhishma is old,” said Karna, “and every day
he shows how much he loves the Pandavas.
Besides, he enjoys the fight. Why, then, would he
do what it would take to end the war?
Ask him to withdraw. When he has laid aside
his weapons, I myself will take up arms,
and, single-handed, I will kill Arjuna,
with his friends and brothers, in front of Bhishma.”
Duryodhana was fired up. “Let it be so!
Bring me fine clothes, and dress my retinue.
I shall visit Bhishma. When he consents
to my proposal, I shall come to you.”
Duryodhana proceeded formally
to Bhishma’s tent. Tears in his eyes, he spoke.
“When I undertook this war, I trusted
your great prowess in the martial arts.
I trusted that you could crush the Pandavas.
You promised that you would do this for me.
You have not done it. I beg you, Grandfather,
make your promise true. Or, if you love them—
or hate me—too much for that, then Karna
should fight instead. He will demolish them.”
Bhishma was deeply hurt and insulted,
but did not show it. He answered quietly.
“Why do you say these things, Duryodhana,
when you know I am ready to die for you?
The Pandavas really are invincible—
I, Narada and the other sages
have told you so innumerable times.
Think about it! Think of Arjuna
and the tremendous feats he has performed,
witnessed by you. Think of the Matsya kingdom,
and how the diadem-crowned Pandava
overcame us single-handed, when we
attempted a raid on Virata’s cattle.
Think of dark Krishna.
“You are not seeing straight.
But tomorrow, I will destroy their allies,
including Drupada’s Panchalas—except
Shikhandin. I will defeat them, or, if not,
I will yield to death.”
Duryodhana
bowed his head, and went back to his tent
where he slept through the night. The next morning,
he announced that Bhishma would accomplish
the defeat of the Pandavas’ strongest allies.
“But he vows that he will not fight Shikhandin.
Therefore, we must take every precaution—
protect him zealously at every turn
against attack from that effeminate prince.”
Bhishma disposed his troops in a square array,
himself in the front rank. Yudhishthira
rode at the head of the Pandava army
flanked by his brothers and by Abhimanyu.
As the armies surged toward each other
accompanied by all the din of war
dreadful portents were noticed all around:
the sun was dimmed, winds blew, huge birds of prey
hung over the field with raucous screams.
The elephants and horses, sensing menace,
rolled their eyes, and pissed and shat in terror.
Each side longed for today to be decisive;
they were sick of deadlock. Abhimanyu,
with all the energy of youth, sprang forward
and, like a swimmer entering the ocean,
plunged deep among the Kauravas, advancing,
dealing death on every side of him.
All who saw him marveled at his skill.
Duryodhana sent in the rakshasa
Alambusha to attack the sons of Kunti.
The Pandavas severely wounded him
so he became unconscious for a while.
But, recovering, the ogre roared with pain
and rage, swelling to twice his normal size,
and destroyed the bows, standards and chariots
of many of the Pandava ranks, forcing
their withdrawal. Swiftly, Abhimanyu,
slim and agile, challenged the bulky monster
and the fight that followed was like the one
between the gods and demons in ancient days,
illusion pitched against celestial weapons
and sheer martial skill.
At last, Alambusha,
pierced with many arrows, created darkness,
reducing the whole field of men to blind,
stumbling impotence. Calm and undeceived,
Abhimanyu invoked the solar weapon,
bringing brilliant sunlight. Then the ogre,
his tricks exhausted, gave up the fight and ran.
Exhilarated, Abhimanyu turned
back to attack the Kaurava battalions,
killing men by the thousand.
Now, Drona
and Arjuna were fighting one to one.
How could they do this with a firm intent,
summon the resolve to inflict harm,
when they had been so dear to one another?
The warrior code was paramount, outweighing
every tie of loyalty and love.
So it was that they perfectly displayed
the highest pinnacle of martial craft,
and each admired the skill shown by the other.
Meanwhile, Bhishma was heavily engaged
with waves of Pandavas, whom he dispatched
with ease, though Virata and Drupada
pierced him with many arrows. Dhrishtadyumna
also wounded him, and then Shikhandin
shot more than twenty arrows into him.
Bhishma’s blood flowed, but though he destroyed
Drupada’s bow and wounded Dhrishtadyumna
he ignored Shikhandin. Duryodhana
ordered reinforcements to shield Bhishma—
thousands of horsemen led by Shakuni—
which, wounded though he was, enabled him
to inflict more harm. In the general battle
which followed, bewildered men and animals
ran around, aimless, looking for direction,
as bodies were dashed, bleeding, to the ground,
heaped up, to be crushed by chariot wheels
and trampled by milling troops. It was soon clear
the Pandava force was disintegrating
under Bhishma’s strong, relentless onslaught.
Krishna cried to Arjuna: “Your vow!
The time has come for Bhishma to be killed,
before he utterly destroys your army.
Make your words true!” Arjuna looked anguished.
“The alternatives seem terrible to me—
to end up in hell, or win the kingdom
by killing those whom I should honor most.
Nevertheless, guided by you, I’ll do it.”
Krishna drove the chariot forward. Bhishma
let loose at Arjuna a stream of arrows
and Arjuna aimed, deflecting all of them
and splitting Bhishma’s bow. The patriarch
quickly strung another, but Arjuna
smashed that one too. “Very well done!” cried Bhishma,
and taking another finely crafted bow,
he rained Arjuna’s chariot with arrows.
Krishna, with great skill, avoided them
as he steered the horses round in circles.
The exchange continued, more like a display
than a fight to the death. Keen-eyed Krishna,
perceiving that Arjuna was holding back
while Bhishma was so ruthlessly attacking
the Pandava troops, could no longer bear it.
For the second time, leaping from the chariot,
whip in hand, only bare arms for weapons,
Krishna rushed furiously toward Bhishma
and all who saw him gasped, as if Bhishma
were dead already. Krishna looked beautiful,
his yellow silk robes streaming out behind him
as he ran, his smooth skin dark and glowing
like lapis lazuli. When Bhishma saw him
he raised his bow and, with a fearless heart,
said, “I am ready. Strike me down in battle
and I shall die in tranquillity and joy.”
But Arjuna grabbed Krishna and held him back,
seething as he was with rage. “Stop, Krishna!
I will not let you make your vow untrue—
this burden is mine, and mine alone.
I swear I will do whatever it may take
to destroy the enemy.” Without a word,
angry still, Krishna remounted the chariot.
Bhishma resumed his battle with the Pandavas,
inflicting death on an enormous scale,
creating panic and the wildest chaos
until, as evening came, they fled the field
like confused cattle, floundering in mud.
The troops found no protector on that day.
In the Kaurava camp, there was rejoicing.
Bhishma was worshiped for his feats. Calmly
he retired to his tent in solitude.
The Pandavas had been put to rout. Grieving
at the loss of so many brave warriors,
Yudhishthira called his generals together.
All were despondent at the day’s events.
Yudhishthira was in despair. “Oh, Krishna,
I am the cause of all these tragic deaths.
Bhishma is unbeatable—he crushes men
as an elephant tramples a bamboo grove.
He is like a fire licking up dry grass.
I value life; I am wasting it.
Tell me what I can do, within the bounds
of the duty laid upon me by my rank.”
Krishna said, “I understand your sorrow.
But Bhishma is not invincible. Arjuna
has greater skills in war than other men;
he can kill Bhishma if he will decide to,
or, if he is reluctant, I will do it.
I am your friend and kinsman—natural, then,
that I should fight for you. But Arjuna
swore to us in Upaplavya, that he
would kill Bhishma—the time to act is now,
if he wishes not to be called a liar.
It is a question of resolve, not skill.”
Yudhishthira agreed. “But listen, Krishna,
I do not want to be responsible
for causing you to break your vow. Your presence
is priceless to me. You will not need to fight.
Before the beginning of this dreadful war,
Bhishma told me he could not fight for me,
but he could advise me. The time has come
to speak to him again. He was our father
when we came fatherless to Hastinapura.
Even now, I believe he wishes us well.”
After divesting themselves of their armor,
Yudhishthira and his brothers, with Krishna,
walked to Bhishma’s tent. Bhishma received them
lovingly, and with the greatest joy,
asking them in what way he could serve them.
Yudhishthira said, “Grandfather, you know
everything. You stand high on your chariot
radiant as the sun. Today, your skill
brought devastation to our troops. Tell me,
how may we defeat you?”
“While I am alive,”
said Bhishma, “you cannot obtain victory,
so you should strike me down without delay
and save yourselves days of useless carnage.
This is what you must do. I will not fight
in inauspicious circumstances, therefore
I will not fight Shikhandin, for the reason
that you know. Let Arjuna advance
toward me, with Shikhandin in front of him.
He may then attack me—I shall be defenseless.
Then, only then, your victory will be certain.”
Grateful, sorrowful, the Pandavas
returned to their own camp. The Terrifier
felt even more tormented than before.
To be responsible for Bhishma’s death
on the advice of the old man himself
seemed to him unbearable. “I remember
how I used to climb onto his lap
and dirty his clothes in my thoughtlessness,
yet he never said a reproachful word.
I used to call him Father, and he would say,
Not your father, child, but your father’s father.
How can I kill this man who nurtured me,
who is so dear to me? I cannot do it!”
“You have to do it, Arjuna,” said Krishna.
“You made a vow—you must do your duty
as a kshatriya, acting without malice
and without grief. Besides, all these events
are preordained. Bhishma himself knows this.”