40.
Sanjaya went on:
“Arjuna,” said Krishna, “you have triumphed!
No other warrior in all the three worlds
could have done what you have done today,
alone and unsupported.”
“Beloved Krishna,”
Arjuna replied, “this vow of mine
has only been fulfilled by virtue of
your skill, your power, above all, your wisdom.
This victory is yours.” Krishna smiled.
He cast his eyes over the battlefield.
He saw brave kshatriyas by the thousand
lying dead or dying, some at peace,
some clutching at the earth like a loved woman.
He saw their muddied banners; their bright jewels,
collars of gold and ornaments, adorning them
even now. In this sea of carnage
it was still possible to notice beauty.
It was for this these men had lived—for glory,
a hero’s heaven. For their place in legend.
Yet how many would have their story told
in poetry or song? How many of them
would have a hero’s stone raised in their honor;
how many be expunged, obliterated
from Earth’s memory, as though they had not lived?
Arjuna and Krishna brought the good news
of Jayadratha’s death to Yudhishthira,
who wept tears of joy. “By good fortune
our enemies flounder in a sea of grief!”
And, recognizing Krishna’s divine aspect,
he gave thanks to him as the eternal Lord,
as well as the Pandavas’ most cherished friend.
Bhima and Satyaki arrived; Yudhishthira
joyfully embraced them and praised their courage.
It was a splendid moment—catastrophe
decisively, heroically averted.
The sun had set. But the savage battle
continued, so fired up were the two sides
with hostility toward each other.
Arjuna, glorious in his diadem,
energized by success, fiercely fought
the attacking Kauravas, and put to flight
his old teacher Kripa, and Ashvatthaman.
Those of your sons who were still alive
skirmished with Satyaki, but the Vrishni hero
did not kill them, though he smashed their chariots.
He left them to be finished off by Bhima.
Wolf-belly had complained to Arjuna
of how Karna had insulted him,
treating him like a child, not a worthy foe.
Going up to Karna, Arjuna
spoke scornfully. “Driver’s son, you should know
that Bhima could have killed you easily
but held back so I can fulfill my vow
and slaughter you myself. Your empty boasts
and sinful insults will be avenged by me;
Duryodhana will weep over your body.
Further, there’s your part in the shameful murder
of Abhimanyu. For that, I swear to you,
I will kill your own son, Vrishasena,
before your eyes!” Karna walked away.
In Duryodhana’s camp the mood was somber.
The thwarted Kaurava wept bitter tears
for the devastation of his army
and the death of Jayadratha. As he wept,
he remembered how he had believed Karna
when he proclaimed he could kill the Pandavas.
Because he longed for that, because he wanted
to believe in his friend’s martial greatness,
he had refused to yield. Yet now he saw:
with Krishna, Arjuna was invincible;
Karna was not.
Heaving deep sighs, the prince
went to Drona and poured out his sorrow.
“Master, no one can protect my army.
Jayadratha is dead despite our efforts;
so many allies who trusted me are dead
and it is my fault. My greed and anger
have brought this about. Even a hundred
horse sacrifices could not wipe out my sin.
I cannot annul my debt to my dead friends—
it is for me alone that men have died
who otherwise would be enjoying their lives
in tranquillity. I should find a hole
and bury myself in it! Failing that,
the only way I can have peace of mind
is to destroy the Pandavas and their allies
or myself be killed, and join my friends.
Yes, I shall lose . . . and that is not surprising
when the great Drona, chief of the whole army,
deals gently with the Pandavas—Arjuna
is your disciple and you favor him.
That’s it—you have decided that we will lose
and are bringing it about by skillful means!
And we took you for a friend! It seems
that only Karna wants victory for me.”
Drona was desolate. “Oh, Duryodhana,
you know better! Was it not you who failed
to protect the luckless Jayadratha
despite celestial armor? I always told you
that Arjuna will never be defeated.
Even so, I have done my best for you.
This tragedy began in the gaming hall—
Shakuni threw the dice to favor you,
but now it seems as if those dice were arrows
sent speeding down the years for your destruction.
Vidura warned you of it at the time.
“Both the armies are geared up to fight
throughout the night. Prepare yourself for that.
Look—the Pandavas and the Panchalas
are rushing toward me, thirsting for my death.
I vow that I shall not remove my armor
until I have wiped out the Panchalas
or died trying. Tell my son, Ashvatthaman,
to live in righteousness, as I have taught him.”
With that, Drona drove off into battle.
Duryodhana went to Karna for comfort.
“Drona is siding with the Pandavas.
If he had fought for us wholeheartedly,
Jayadratha would be living now.”
“Drona is doing his very best,” said Karna,
“but he is old, and Arjuna is outstanding.
We ourselves failed to protect the Sindhu king.
In my view, it is fate that governs things.
All our plans to harm the Pandavas
have failed, one by one, baffled by time.
Destiny never sleeps; we can’t evade it.
All we can do is summon all our courage
and fight with resolution, following dharma.”
As night fell, the Pandavas advanced;
the Kauravas stormed out to meet them, fired
by a burning thirst for retribution—
elephant divisions against elephants,
foot soldiers clashing with their counterparts.
Soon it was too dark to see—only
men calling out their names made it possible
for the two sides to know friend from enemy;
quite soon, the general uproar prevented
even that. Chaos and carnage followed.
Men lashed out wildly, horses stampeded,
nocturnal scavengers were on the prowl.
Then blazing flambeaux, fixed to chariots,
illumined scenes resembling hell itself.
“Tell me what happened next,” said Dhritarashtra.
“Which well-armed warriors fought against each other?”
“Many were the duels that took place
in that infernal night,” said Sanjaya.
“Suffice it to tell you that, before the sun
cast cruel light on the fifteenth day of war,
valiant Ghatotkacha, Bhima’s son,
huge as a hill, loved by all who knew him,
of supernatural strength and bravery,
clever conjuror of occult illusions,
was killed by Karna. This is how it happened:”
In the general battle, Ghatotkacha’s son
was killed by Ashvatthaman. Enraged by this,
Ghatotkacha, with other rakshasas,
set on Ashvatthaman, who invoked
celestial weapons, of which he is a master,
and wounded Ghatotkacha, rendering him
unconscious. Dhrishtadyumna gathered him up
and had him placed on another chariot.
Meanwhile Yudhishthira, like one inspired,
fought off yet another attempt by Drona
to capture him. The Pandava troops, heartened,
pressed hard on the Kauravas, pushing them back.
Duryodhana appealed to Karna. “Friend,
you must save our troops—they are surrounded
by hostile forces.” Karna reassured him:
“Arjuna is the linchpin of the Pandavas.
I plan to kill him with the fatal spear
I obtained from Indra—I am saving it
for him. All the other Pandavas
and their allies will collapse without him.
When I turn them into porcupines
with my onslaught of arrows—I shall give you
the entire earth and everything that’s on it.”
Kripa, overhearing, ridiculed him.
“If words were weapons, Karna, Duryodhana
would have in you a wonderful protector!
But words are what give brahmins their distinction;
kshatriyas become heroes by force of arms,
not by building chariots in the air!
The fact is, driver’s son, you have never fought
the Pandavas and beaten them. Your boasting
is like the roaring of dry thunderclouds.
Your roars will soon stop when you meet Arjuna.”
Karna met this provocation calmly.
“True heroes always roar like clouds in autumn
and, like a seed dropped on the earth, in season
they deliver fruit. You should understand
that boastful speeches on the eve of battle
are the way a hero prepares himself,
having agreed to a great undertaking.
They are part of mental resolution,
inviting destiny to lend him strength.
These boasts of mine are never mere hot air,
but quite intentional. As for you,
you are old, unskilled—and a brahmin.
Furthermore, you love the Pandavas.
You extol their achievements, but our troops
have slaughtered their divisions by the thousand.”
At this, Ashvatthaman, a brahmin too,
and furious at the insult to his uncle,
drew his sword and started to threaten Karna,
until Duryodhana intervened: “Come, friends,
forgive each other. We need you to focus
on the task ahead.”
At the braying challenge
of the Pandava conches, and the shouting,
“Where is Karna? Come on! Fight with us!”
Karna went out calmly, and alone.
There followed spectacular feats of skill
on Karna’s part. Against the Pandava host
he held his own, and dispatched many hundreds,
splitting apart divisions, so men wandered
hither and thither, aimless as stray cattle.
Seeing his troops afflicted, Arjuna
entered the fray, skirmishing with Karna,
killing his four horses and his driver.
Karna jumped up onto Kripa’s chariot,
but the Kaurava troops started to withdraw,
smelling defeat, and fearing Arjuna.
Duryodhana cried to them, “Defend Karna!
Don’t run away, you cowards! I’ll fight myself
to show you how to challenge Arjuna!”
And he prepared to rush into the fray.
Kripa called to Ashvatthaman, “Stop him!
He’s like an insect flying into flame.
Don’t let him get anywhere near Arjuna
or he’ll be burned to ashes!”
“It isn’t right
that you should expose yourself to the enemy,”
said Ashvatthaman. “Let me fight instead.”
Duryodhana turned on him, in a frenzy:
“You and your father love the Pandavas—
is that why you never do me good?
Maybe you have a fondness for Draupadi!
But what can I do but rely on you?”
“It’s true, the Pandavas are like my brothers,”
said Ashvatthaman. “But I know my duty—
this is war, and I am a warrior
in your service. Battle is my calling.
Today, seeing my feats, Yudhishthira
will think the whole world filled with Ashvatthamans!”
“Go then,” said your son, “and do your best.”
Bhima came face to face with Duryodhana,
both full of wrath. It was a short encounter.
Bhima aimed a blazing spear; the Kaurava
cut it in three as it sped toward him.
Then Bhima hurled his mace with ferocious force,
smashing Duryodhana’s horses and chariot,
pulverizing them, so the troops who saw it
dimly, in the murkiness of night,
thought Duryodhana himself had met his end.
Karna fought a duel with Sahadeva.
The Pandava, desperate for glory,
gave the battle everything he had,
using every weapon and, when they ran out,
hurling anything that came to hand
in a furious onslaught. All of this
Karna deflected easily. Then he said,
“You should fight your equals, Pandava.
Go and join your brother over there.
Or perhaps you would be better off at home.”
He touched Sahadeva lightly with his bow.
Sahadeva wept with humiliation.
In the darkness, it was difficult to tell
what was happening. But courageous Karna
acquitted himself with honor. He defeated
Dhrishtadyumna after a long fight
and made deep inroads into the Pandava troops.
His bow glowed in a shining blur of arrows,
as he almost danced on his chariot platform
like the chief of the celestials.
Arjuna, thwarted by the lack of progress,
said to Krishna, “I should confront Karna
and fight him to the death—his or mine.”
“No,” said Krishna, “that time has not yet come.
Karna carries the celestial spear
Indra gave him. He’s reserving it for you.
Let ferocious Ghatotkacha fight him.
You apart, he is the only one of us
who can stop Karna. He is superbly skilled;
he has celestial and magic powers—
and ogres’ strength is quadrupled at night.”
Ghatotkacha, his blood-red eyes alight,
slavered at the prospect of the kill.
“I shall easily dispatch Karna
and my fame will be sung till the end of time!”
He was an awesome sight, gargantuan
with pointed teeth, skin bristly and colored
blue and red. He wore a diadem
of jewel-encrusted gold, and on his chariot,
drawn by fierce, impatient demon horses,
a hundred bells tinkled merrily.
With zest, he rushed at Karna, and there followed
such a combat, such a thrum of bowstrings,
such a wielding of celestial weapons,
such an invocation of illusions
that men in the two armies, witnessing,
thought they had never seen such a display.
The two were matched so evenly that neither
could gain the upper hand. Ghatotkacha
assumed many forms—sometimes a mountain,
then a thumb-sized creature, or many-headed
monster. Every time he changed his shape
Karna saw through the trick, and launched at him
torrents of spears and arrows, both man-made
and celestial. The courageous rakshasa
shattered Karna’s bow, but he seized another.
Ghatotkacha turned into a thundercloud
and rained down stones, which Karna pulverized
as they fell. He conjured the illusion
of demon hordes, fierce as hungry tigers,
but Karna destroyed them all. And so the duel
went on and on, wonderful to behold.
Meanwhile, the rakshasa Alayudha
approached Duryodhana with a large force,
to offer his support. He had waited years
to avenge his monstrous kinsmen, Baka
and Hidimba, dead at Bhima’s hands.
Now he saw his opportunity.
Duryodhana was, of course, delighted,
and the ogre troops heartened the Kauravas
with their loud roars and wildly clattering chariots.
Then, it seemed, every man on the battlefield
flung himself into the fray with curdling cries
as if this battle could decide for good
the outcome of the whole disastrous war.
Sparks from clashing weapons lit the darkness,
revealing for a moment the expressions
of rage and anguish. Some men carried torches
which threw garish light, making more profound
the pitchy blackness that surrounded them.
Alayudha made his way to Bhima
to settle scores with him. The two fought
ferociously, with great resourcefulness,
but blow by blow, illusion by illusion
the rakshasa was gaining the advantage.
Krishna spoke urgently to Arjuna:
“We’re in great danger. Ghatotkacha now
should leave Karna, and lend support to Bhima.
Meanwhile, let Dhrishtadyumna and Shikhandin
take Ghatotkacha’s place and harass Karna.
Nakula and Sahadeva should focus
on killing as many ogres as they can.
You and I should concentrate on Drona
and his divisions.”
Ghatotkacha flew
to his father’s aid, and the two monsters,
covered with wounds, clashed against each other
like two great storm clouds, raining sweat and blood.
Then Ghatotkacha, whirling a razor-sharp
scimitar, sliced off Alayudha’s head
and flung it down at Duryodhana’s feet.
The Pandavas beat gongs and blew their conches,
and Duryodhana started to believe
that Bhima’s vow to kill him and his brothers
was already as good as accomplished.
Now came radiant Karna’s finest hour.
Once he had been unbeatable, but now,
deprived of the protection he was born with—
the earrings and cuirass he had relinquished
to Indra—he had only the deadly spear
the wily god had given him in exchange:
a lopsided bargain.
But he also had
his courage, and his extraordinary skill.
He fought the Pandavas and the Panchalas
in a manner that took the breath away.
He stormed the enemy with whetted spears.
Handsome as a god, he loosed a torrent
of superb arrows, each finding its mark.
He cut off in mid-flight the stream of weapons
aimed at him. He seemed unreachable.
So quick were his movements, no one could see
when he touched his quivers, drew out the arrows,
when he nocked those arrows to the bowstring,
when he raised his fine bow and released them.
They only saw that the dust-filled night sky
was darkened even further by the cloud
of Karna’s well-aimed and death-dealing shafts
that slaughtered Pandava forces by the hundred
and made them flee in utter disarray.
Ghatotkacha, maddened by the sight,
advanced again at Karna—the rakshasa
roaring like an angry lion; Karna
silent, focused, graceful, dignified.
Neither of them could gain the advantage.
Each supremely skilled, they were like dancers
engaged in a miraculous performance.
Ghatotkacha beheaded Karna’s driver
and killed his horses. Then he disappeared
and, drawing on his powers of sorcery,
set the sky alight with flaming clouds
and pelted down onto the Kaurava troops
a cascade of missiles of all kinds
so that hundreds of men and animals
were massacred where they stood, powerless
to fight back. “Oh, Karna,” cried the soldiers,
“save us, for pity’s sake! Kill the rakshasa!”
Karna knew he had few means to defend
his forces, who were crying out to him.
Calmly, he thought; and knew what he must do,
although he clearly saw the consequences.
With resolution, he took out the spear
Indra had given him, the divine missile
he had reserved for Arjuna, the weapon
he had long counted on. He raised it high.
The spear destroyed the power of trickery
and Ghatotkacha, now visible,
terrified, began to run away.
Karna hurled the spear. That dreadful dart
blazed as it flew, hissing like a snake,
and plunged into the heart of Bhima’s son,
felling him instantly. As he died, he shone
like Himavat illumined by the sun.
Then proud Karna walked away in silence.
The Pandavas had loved Ghatotkacha
and saw their forces, grim and demoralized,
shed tears of grief. But Krishna was exultant,
laughing with delight, embracing Arjuna.
“How can you be happy,” asked Arjuna,
“at such a time?”
“I’ll tell you why,” said Krishna.
“With this death, our victory is certain!
If Karna still possessed the sacred spear
even you could never cause his death.
Karna is a very great hero,
greater than you know. Generous, kind
even to enemies, devoted to truth—
and a warrior of consummate skill.
There was a time when even the gods themselves
could not have defeated him. That was before
he gave away the breastplate he was born with
and the earrings that made him invincible.
The spear of Indra was his last advantage
and now it has been spent! Ghatotkacha
was created to be the instrument
of Karna’s downfall. But make no mistake,
it will not be easy to overcome him
even now. You must do as I tell you:
there will come a moment, as you fight him,
when his chariot wheel will stick in the ground.
Disregarding all the rules of warfare,
you must kill him when I give the sign.
“By means of stratagems like this, I have worked
for your good, and for the good of Earth,
killing Shishupala, Jarasandha,
and Ekalavya—supremely skilled warriors
who would have taken Duryodhana’s side.
The rakshasas must also be removed,
inimical to dharma as they are.
So Hidimba died, Baka, Alambusha . . .
If Karna had not killed Ghatotkacha
I would have had to contrive his death myself.”
Yudhishthira, furious and grief-stricken
at the death of Ghatotkacha, started
to rush at Karna, but island-born Vyasa,
suddenly appearing, stayed his hand:
“If Karna had not used his celestial spear
on Ghatotkacha, it would certainly
have found its mark in Arjuna. In fact,
Ghatotkacha was killed by Death himself,
making Indra’s spear his instrument.
Divest yourself of grief and anger, Pandava;
practice forgiveness with a cheerful heart.
Five days from now, the kingdom will be yours.”
“Tell me, Sanjaya,” said Dhritrashtra,
“why did Karna waste the spear of Indra
on Ghatotkacha? Why did he not hurl it
at Arjuna or Krishna—surely, then,
my son would have gained the victory?
As it is, benighted Duryodhana
is on a direct course for Yama’s realm.”
“That is true,” said Sanjaya. “Each night,
returning from the battle, everyone
urged Karna, ‘Tomorrow, use your spear,
your never-failing weapon, on Arjuna.’
And that had always been Karna’s intention.
Yet, in the event, divine illusion
confused his understanding. It was Krishna
who muddied Karna’s mind, to help Arjuna.”