36.
Sanjaya described the tenth day of the war:
Soon after dawn, O king, the Pandavas
advanced toward the enemy, to the din
of drums and trumpets, shouts, the bray of conches:
the sounds of warriors thirsting for the fight.
Shikhandin rode out in front, ably guarded
on either side by Arjuna and Bhima.
Close behind came rank upon rank of warriors,
men in their thousands, armor flashing fire,
formed into well-disciplined battalions.
The Kauravas were led by mighty Bhishma,
protected by the sons of Dhritarashtra.
Battle was joined, a vigorous attack
from each side, leaving many hundreds dead
within the first half hour. The Pandavas
seemed at first to have the upper hand
but Bhishma, full of energy, then launched
a savage onslaught, scorching the division
led by Shikhandin, who in turn let fly
dozens of arrows, many piercing Bhishma.
Bhishma laughed, “You can do what you like,
I will never fight you. You may call yourself
a warrior, but be sure I know you still
as the woman the Creator made you!”
Shikhandin, mad with rage, replied, “Bhishma,
fight me or not, I swear to you this day
will be your last!” Saying this, he pierced
Bhishma in the chest with five straight arrows.
But the noble son of Ganga merely shrugged.
“Shikhandin, you must strain every sinew,”
cried Arjuna, “or you’ll be a laughingstock!
You must kill Bhishma. I will keep at bay
the great Kaurava chariot warriors
coming to his defense. Do it now!”
Arjuna led the Pandavas in aiming
a storm of arrows at where the Kauravas
were least well protected. Many thousands
were cut down, and others put to flight,
scattering randomly across the field.
Duryodhana, in great distress, cried out,
“Bhishma! My troops are flying like headless birds,
despite your skill. You are their only hope.”
“Listen,” said Bhishma, “I made you a promise
that I would kill ten thousand Pandava men
every day. This I have done. Today
either I myself will die in battle,
or I will slaughter the brave sons of Pandu.
Either way, I will discharge my debt
for the food I have consumed at your expense!”
Bhishma renewed his attack like one inspired,
like one who had cast off his life already.
The arc of his bow was a perfect circle.
He shone, resplendent as a smokeless flame,
seeming to be everywhere at once,
dazzling all who saw him. Hundreds and thousands
of the Panchalas led by Drupada
fought their last fight. Elephants and horses
by the thousand were reduced to carcasses.
Arjuna advanced toward Bhishma,
Shikhandin in front of him—but then was stopped
by Duhshasana. They fought. Your son
was a worthy match for Arjuna. Both men
are great chariot warriors and, at first,
Duhshasana held back the Pandava
as a cliff might stand against the raging sea.
He wounded the son of Kunti in the head.
Furious, Arjuna split your son’s bow,
then hit him with a torrent of sharp arrows.
Duhshasana fought like a true hero
despite his many wounds, but Arjuna
beat him back, and at last he retreated
to help protect the patriarch’s chariot.
The day wore on. There were many duels
between opposing heroes. Abhimanyu,
dark like his uncle, tall as a shala tree,
launched a fierce assault on Duryodhana.
Nakula did battle with Vikarna,
the two warriors fighting as furiously
as two bulls horn-locked over a herd of cows.
Bhima fought with Shalya, and with many
valiant heroes of Duryodhana’s force.
His roars terrified the troops.
Drona,
skilled in the art of reading omens, knew
this day was inauspicious. He had heard
the jackals howling, seen the sun obscured
by a dull crimson mist. The Kauravas
would not have fortune on their side that day.
Sensing that Bhishma was in serious danger
from Arjuna and Shikhandin, Drona sent
his son and other heroes to protect him.
Bhishma was fighting like a man possessed;
his chariot was like a blazing fireball,
unleashing devastation near and far.
He was not giving up his power; it must be
taken from him. His nemesis, Shikhandin,
managed to wound him, but not mortally;
he was too well defended. Bhishma laughed.
He invoked a fiery celestial weapon
and aimed it at Arjuna, but Shikhandin
rushed between them, and Bhishma called it back.
Several times Arjuna, with Shikhandin,
tried to move closer to the patriarch.
Each time, he was deflected by a challenge
from a formidable Kaurava warrior.
Bhishma battled on but, more and more,
he felt how futile was the woeful slaughter
he was engaged in. He was prepared for death.
Seeing Yudhishthira nearby, he said,
“This body has become a burden to me.
If you love me, see that Arjuna
attempts to kill me soon.” Yudhishthira
mobilized his forces to converge
entirely on Bhishma. The Kauravas
did the same, and the ensuing battle
was the most terrible of the war so far.
How did it end? Bhishma knew the Pandavas
could not be killed with Krishna to protect them.
Otherwise, he could have used such skill
as would have defeated them single-handed.
He thought of the boon given him by his father
many years before: that he would not die
except by his own decision—he would choose
the moment of his death. Now, Bhishma thought,
the proper time for him to die had come.
He heard the voices of celestial beings
—Vasus, his brothers—calling from above.
“Do as you have decided, best of Bharatas;
withdraw your mind from violence.” A shower
of fragrant flowers rained down on Bhishma’s head
as if to show the approval of the gods.
The sun was sinking in the western sky.
Bhishma told his charioteer to drive
straight into the heart of the Pandava force.
There he stood, tall, calm and beautiful,
hands together, bow unflexed by his side.
He was smiling. Duhshasana was with him.
Ambidextrous Arjuna, half sheltered
by Shikhandin, shot with either arm,
inflicting massive damage. Shikhandin, too,
shot many arrows into the patriarch
and destroyed the large and lovely standard
that, all along, had inspired the Kauravas.
Bhishma murmured to Duhshasana,
“I feel the arrows traveling toward me
in one straight stream; these are not Shikhandin’s.
My vital organs are being pierced, as if
by a bolt from heaven—not by Shikhandin.
These shafts that cut me like the cold of winter
must come from Arjuna, not from Shikhandin.
Only he can inflict such pain on me.”
Now Bhishma, as if in a final gesture,
as if he could not bring himself to die
passively, despite his resolution,
hurled a spear at Arjuna, who blocked it
and cut it in three pieces. The old warrior
took up a sword and gold-edged shield, and started
to climb down from his chariot. Arjuna
smashed the shield to fragments. Then it seemed
that the entire army of the Pandavas
was shouting joyfully and vengefully,
“Throw him down! Capture him! Cut him to pieces!”
shooting at Bhishma an arrow shower so dense
that soon his body was entirely hidden
by arrows sticking out at every angle.
His chariot was awash with blood. He staggered.
He toppled over, headlong, to the ground,
his head toward the east and, as he fell,
the earth shook, and everyone who saw him
screamed, “Bhishma the invincible has fallen!”
Trumpets and conches blared from your nephews’ side.
Seeing him fall, the hearts of everyone
lurched with him. His body did not touch earth
but was suspended, as if on a bed,
by his exoskeleton of arrows.
A shower of rain refreshed him, and he heard
voices lamenting. Rishis disguised as geese
flew overhead, crying to one another,
“Why should this mighty, great-souled warrior
die here, now, at this inauspicious time?”
“I am alive,” whispered Bhishma through his pain.
“I know the sun is on its journey southward.
I will postpone my death.”
A strange sound
filled the battlefield—the sound of stillness,
of nothing happening. All stood motionless,
having no appetite for battle now.
Some wept, some fainted, some extolled Bhishma,
some cursed the order of kshatriyas.
The Pandavas were glad, relieved, and yet
the disappearance of the patriarch
seemed unthinkable. He has been present
all their lives—affectionate, wise counselor,
principal link with the ancestral past.
When news of Bhishma’s fall reached Duryodhana
he was stunned beyond all telling, deathly pale.
Drona could hardly catch his breath, and fainted,
falling, unconscious, from his chariot.
Warriors on both sides laid down their weapons
and clustered around Bhishma. He greeted them,
then asked that a headrest be found for him—
his head was hanging down uncomfortably.
Many fine, luxurious pillows were brought
but he refused them all. “These are too soft.
I need a pillow for a hero’s head.
Arjuna, find me something suitable.”
Arjuna took up his bow Gandiva,
consecrated it, and shot three arrows
into the ground, at just the right height
to hold up Bhishma’s head. The patriarch
was pleased, “This is a pillow for a warrior!
This is how a fallen kshatriya
should be supported on the field of battle.
I will rest until the sun is journeying
toward the north, after the winter solstice.
Then I will relinquish my last life-breath.”
Surgeons came, skilled at removing arrows.
Bhishma honored them, but then dismissed them.
“I am content. I have reached the highest state
available to a kshatriya. In time,
I wish to be placed on a funeral pyre
and burned with these arrows still in my body.”
Later, Krishna spoke with Yudhishthira.
“I rejoice that fortune has favored you,”
said Krishna. “It is through you and your grace,”
answered Yudhishthira, “that we succeed.
With you as our refuge and our guide, nothing
is impossible!” Krishna smiled at him.
The following morning, there was no battle.
Both Pandavas and Kauravas attended
the son of Ganga. Around his bed of arrows
throngs of people jostled—the kind of crowd
that might be gathered at a holy site—
pushing for a glimpse of the great man.
The pain from Bhishma’s wounds was agonizing,
and he burned with fever. “Water! Bring water!”
Pots of cooling, citrus-flavored water
were brought at once, but Bhishma rejected them
and called for Arjuna. The Pandava
took his bow and, consecrating it,
shot into the earth a well-aimed arrow.
Up gushed a fountain of pure, sparkling water
of heavenly scent and taste. All who saw it
trembled in awe.
Bhishma quenched his thirst.
He praised Arjuna, so that Duryodhana
heard every word. “Most excellent of warriors,
performer of feats of which the very gods
are incapable. Just as the eagle
is to other birds, as Mount Himavat
is to mountains, so are you to archers.”
Then he said to your son, “Listen to me—
you’ll never defeat this man; even the gods
together with the asuras could not do it.
I beg you—make peace with the Pandavas.
Divide this prosperous kingdom as before.
Too many brave men have already died;
think now of the thousands upon thousands
who could still return to their far-flung homes,
seeing their wives and children lit by joy,
who otherwise will sleep their final sleep
here in the choking mud of Kurukshetra.”
Having said this, Bhishma became silent.
To rise above the torture of his wounds,
he closed his eyes and moved into a state
of profound meditation. Duryodhana,
having heard him, frowned, turning away
like a dying man refusing medicine.
Later, when the crowds had dispersed, Karna
went to where Bhishma lay, and sat quietly
at the patriarch’s feet. Apprehensive,
choked with tears, he spoke. “Best of Bharatas,
I am Karna, son of Radha—Karna
whom you have always looked upon with hate.”
Slowly, Bhishma opened his clouded eyes
and reached out to Karna like a father.
“Come, my young rival, I know who you are—
Vyasa told me. You are not Radha’s son,
but Kunti’s. I feel no hatred for you.
If I have been harsh, dismissive even,
it was because you were so full of pride,
so scornful of true worth. I know your virtues,
your military prowess, your devotion
to truth, your generosity with alms,
your loyalty—though it is unfortunate
that you attached yourself to such company,
becoming hard and envious yourself.
You set your face against me—that is why
I have been harsh. And also to avert
family discord. But all that is over;
now I feel only goodwill toward you.
I only wish that you could find it in you
to join with your true brothers, the Pandavas.”
“Bhishma,” said Karna, “that is impossible.
Having for so long enjoyed the wealth
and friendship of Duryodhana, I cannot
betray him now. For him, I will abandon
my wife, my children, everything I own,
my life itself. Besides, I have done so much
to antagonize the Pandavas,
and I am incapable of giving up
my fierce hostility to Arjuna.
I know he is invincible, and yet
I am resolved to conquer him in battle.
With a cheerful heart, I shall go to fight him.
I ask your approval for my enterprise,
and beg that you forgive me for anything
I may have said to you—whether from anger,
brashness or a lack of due respect—
that gave offense. I beg you, pardon me.
“Death is not the worst. A kshatriya
should not die feebly, stewing in his bed.
I must do what is right.”
“Go then,” said Bhishma.
“You shall have my blessing on your choice.
For years, I have done all within my power
to prevent this futile war, and I have failed.
Fight your necessary fight with Arjuna.
Fight him calmly, with no pride, no anger.
Through him, you will certainly attain
the afterlife a kshatriya deserves
who dies in battle, firm of heart and mind.”
Karna knelt to receive Bhishma’s blessing.
Then he went back to Duryodhana.