IX
44.
“Tell me what happened after the death of Karna,”
said King Janamejaya. “I never tire
of hearing of my ancestors’ great deeds.”
Vaishampayana continued to recite
island-born Vyasa’s epic poem.
After hearing of the death of Karna,
Dhritarashtra spent his time in dread,
braced for the most crushing news of all.
It was not long coming. Sanjaya arrived
stumbling, trembling, weeping as he approached,
to tell him, first, of the deaths of Shalya
and Shakuni. Then, that his last son,
his cherished Duryodhana, his first-born,
had fallen, felled by Bhima!
So appalling,
so harrowing was the news that the whole court
collapsed unconscious from the shock of it—
as if they themselves, in sympathy,
embraced Earth in the final swoon of death.
Slowly, they revived, speechless with distress.
“Ah!” wept Dhritarashtra, “this heart of mine
must be made of adamantine rock
that it does not shatter in my breast!
But I always knew this day would come,
cursed with the eyesight of insight as I am.
“When sly Shakuni tricked Yudhishthira,
trapped in the ill-fated gambling match—
then, Sanjaya, I lost hope of victory.
When Draupadi was dragged into the hall
and treated like a common prostitute—
then, Sanjaya, I lost hope of victory.
When I heard that Arjuna had obtained
the Pashupata weapon from Lord Shiva—
then, Sanjaya, I lost hope of victory.
When I was told that Duryodhana
had been saved from gandharvas by Arjuna—
then, Sanjaya, I lost hope of victory.
When I heard that Krishna was supporting
the Pandavas in this horrific war—
then, Sanjaya, I lost hope of victory.
And when I heard that Bhishma had fallen—then,
then, Sanjaya, I lost hope of victory.
“And yet, Duryodhana, my most loved boy,
how confident you were of victory.
You described to me our powerful allies,
how they would dedicate their lives and wealth
to your cause. How Krishna would not fight.
How the Pandava force was dwarfed by ours.
So I imagined the Pandavas would die.
Now, thinking of the death of all our heroes,
and all my sons—what can this be but fate?
“Oh, come back to me, my Duryodhana,
prince of princes, so loving, so proud-hearted!
How could you abandon me in my blindness?
Who will be my refuge in my old age?
Who will greet me when I wake, calling me
‘lord of all the world’? Who will embrace me,
who will love me now? How could you die
with so many strong kings to protect you?
So many brave men slaughtered for your sake,
and all five Pandavas alive, unharmed!
What else can this be but the work of fate?
There is nothing left for me in this life
but to pass my last days in the forest.
“Tell me how it came about, Sanjaya.
What happened after Karna had been killed?”
Sanjaya continued his narration.
In the evening of the seventeenth day,
a deputation went to Duryodhana
led by Kripa, urging the stubborn prince
to sue for peace. Duryodhana refused.
“I understand you speak to me as friends,
but your suggestion is impossible.
What we have done to harm the Pandavas
has lit a fire that cannot be extinguished
while I live. How can they forgive us?
Even if they could (I know Yudhishthira
is compassionate), how could I exist
beholden to the Pandavas? I have lived
as a prince on my own terms; I have ruled
righteously—my household is well cared-for,
I have been generous and just. I have conquered
many kingdoms. Now nothing remains
but to die fighting gloriously in battle—
an end befitting a kshatriya.
Only through death can I discharge my debt
to those brave warriors who have died for me.
I cannot preserve my life fully aware
that they have given theirs to serve my cause.
And what kind of life could I enjoy,
bereft of brothers, kinsmen, friends, my kingdom—
knowing that every breath I draw, I owe
to Yudhishthira? No! I who have been
lord of the earth will make my way to heaven
by fair fight. It will not be otherwise.”
At dawn next day, Shalya was consecrated
as commander. He mounted his chariot,
its battle standard bearing a golden furrow,
and made a speech to his diminished forces.
The Kaurava troops cheered and beat their drums.
Compared with the uproar on the war’s first day,
the warriors’ shouts rang thin and pitiful.
But still, those who were left were in good heart.
The two armies marched out. Battle began.
Unnecessary for every dreadful detail
to be rehearsed in full. I need only say
that, by the time the sun had reached its zenith,
the war that pitted cousin against cousin
was at an end. Almost every Kaurava
was stretched out dead or dying on the field.
At first, Shalya had seemed unbeatable,
a powerhouse of destruction. But Yudhishthira,
having the end securely in sight, perhaps,
fought the Madra king ferociously
and after a lengthy duel, fairly fought,
he cut down Shalya. This was the opponent
Krishna had marked out for him to kill,
his personal share of the victory.
The ruler of the Madras, arms outstretched,
fell facedown, embracing his own shadow,
clinging to the earth like a dear beloved.
The Pandavas cheered, “Now that Shalya’s dead
Duryodhana’s fortune has deserted him!”
The Kaurava troops fled; the Pandavas
flew after them. Then turning, rallying,
the Kauravas fought back. Duryodhana
was backed by Shalva, chief of the mlecchas,
who inflicted damage on the Pandavas,
mounted on a great war elephant
of quite exceptional strength and bravery.
The elephant attacked the chariots
of many warriors, snatching them up like toys,
dashing them onto the ground in splinters.
But Satyaki, with Bhima and Shikhandin,
managed to head it off, and Dhrishtadyumna
gave it the coup de grâce with his heavy mace
and then cut off the head of the beast’s master.
Dhritarashtra and Gandhari listened,
their faces drawn, their eyes brimming with tears
as Sanjaya described what happened next.
Duryodhana fought with despairing courage,
the way a man fights standing on the brink
of oblivion. Almost all his brothers
had been killed by now. His remaining wish
was for this catastrophe to finish,
but finish in a blaze of bravery.
Arjuna, too, was eager for the end.
He still marveled that Duryodhana
had chosen war, despite the good advice
he had received from all his counselors,
listening instead to Karna—as if born
to bring about the destruction of the world.
Now, hurling himself into the midst
of the enemy, Arjuna fought on.
He encountered the rump of the Trigartas
and killed them all, with their king, Susharman.
Sahadeva slaughtered Uluka, then
Uluka’s father, Shakuni the gambler,
after a bitter fight with every weapon,
parting his head cleanly from his shoulders.
His troops fled in confusion, but Duryodhana
shouted, “Turn back! Face the Pandavas!”
Bhima attacked your few remaining sons
until Sudarsha, the ninety-ninth brother,
was felled. Duryodhana’s great fighting force
was finished, almost down to the last man.
Just three great chariot warriors remained—
Kripa, Ashvatthaman and Kritavarman.
“How many were left of the Pandava force?”
asked the blind king.
“Two thousand chariots,
seven hundred elephants, five thousand horses
and ten thousand troops, led by Dhrishtadyumna.”
“And what did my Duryodhana do then?”
Sanjaya went on:
Duryodhana, his chariot smashed beneath him,
took his mace and fled on foot toward
a lake some distance off. The lake was called
Dvaipayana. The words of Vidura
came back to him—his wise uncle had known,
long ago, how events would turn out,
even before the fateful, fatal dice game.
He was blind with tears. I followed him
but, on the way, encountered Satyaki
and Dhrishtadyumna. “No point in sparing this one,”
said the Panchala, jeering. Satyaki
raised his sword and was about to kill me
but Vyasa appeared and stayed his hand.
After I had given up my weapons,
Satyaki, laughing, sent me on my way.
I hurried after Duryodhana
and found him weeping. “Sanjaya,” he said,
“tell my father that I have nothing left,
nothing in the world worth living for.
I shall immerse myself in this deep lake.”
Then, by enchantment, making himself a space
deep within the lake, and sealing the surface,
Duryodhana sank and disappeared from view.
Presently, I encountered Kritavarman
approaching with Kripa and Ashvatthaman,
bringing their horses to the lake to drink.
I told them what Duryodhana had said
and pointed out the place where he had vanished
beneath the water. “Alas!” sighed Ashvatthaman,
“Perhaps he did not know we were still alive.
The four of us could have fought on, even now.”
The three companions and I went back to camp.
The whole place was in panic. In muddled haste,
everything was being dismantled—tents
taken down, equipment roughly bundled
and loaded onto carts. Duryodhana’s wives,
sobbing and terrified, were setting off
back to the city with their aged servants.
Scared by rumors of Pandava reprisals,
even local farmers left their fields
and hurried toward the city for protection.
Yuyutsu, who had fought for the Pandavas,
now set off to return to Hastinapura,
anxious for your welfare. He met Vidura,
who was overjoyed to see him. “Thank the gods,
Dhritarashtra has one son still alive
to give him comfort in his terrible grief!”
Duryodhana’s three remaining friends
hid beside the empty Kaurava camp,
and watched as Yudhishthira and his brothers
came looking for Duryodhana, searched the site
but, failing to find him, went to their own camp.
Once the Pandavas had gone, the three men
hurried to the lake, and called the prince.
“Come out, Duryodhana, and fight the Pandavas.
The four of us can take them by surprise
and quickly overcome them.” Duryodhana
answered from the depths of the lake. “My friends,
I thank you, but this is not the time to fight.
You are tired, and I am badly battered.
Tomorrow, for sure, we’ll fight the enemy.”
Ashvatthaman tried to change his mind.
“If I do not kill our enemies
this very night,” he cried, “then may I never
enjoy the fruits of my pious sacrifices.”
It happened that some hunters were nearby,
men who had been bringing Bhima baskets
of fresh meat every day. They overheard
the conversation and, anticipating
a fat reward, they approached the Pandavas.
Bhima and his brothers were delighted
and relieved to have news of Duryodhana.
Word spread quickly, and Yudhishthira,
with a group of followers, rode out
toward the seemingly deserted lake.
Their chariot wheels caused the earth to tremble
and Duryodhana’s three friends, in alarm,
knowing the prince was safe, crept quietly
behind a tree a little distance off,
where they settled down to rest for a while.
The Pandavas arrived at the lakeshore.
“That wretch is skulking underneath the water
by some trickery,” said Yudhishthira.
“No one can reach him. But he won’t escape me!”
“Ways and means,” said Krishna. “Against tricksters
you have to use trickery of your own—
that is how the gods themselves have conquered
slippery enemies. Nothing wrong with that.”
“Duryodhana!” Yudhishthira called out,
“Why are you hiding like a low criminal?
Because of you, an entire generation
of noble warriors has been wiped out,
yet you seek to preserve your worthless life.
Come out and fight! You are a kshatriya!
Furthermore, you are a Bharata.
People speak of you as a great hero—
you’ve always boasted of your bravery.
But here you are, lurking in fear, avoiding
the battle you yourself have brought about.
All these days, you have seen your friends and kinsmen
slaughtered in your cause, yet you thought yourself
immortal. How little you understand!
Where is your pride? Where is your courage now?
Do your duty, man, come out and fight.”
Duryodhana replied from the lake’s depths.
“You are wrong. I am not afraid of you.
I did not leave the battle to save my life.
I was alone, wounded, without a chariot,
deprived of driver, weapons, followers.
For this reason only, I wanted rest—
not from fear, or grief, only fatigue.
Why don’t you yourselves rest for a while.
Then I shall certainly rise up from this lake
and fight—and destroy every one of you!”
“We have rested enough,” said Yudhishthira.
“Come out and fight! Either win the kingdom
or else die honorably at our hands
and pass on to the realm reserved for heroes.”
Duryodhana’s voice rose from beneath the water.
“Without my friend and brothers to share it with,
the kingdom of the Bharatas means nothing.
Without heroic kshatriyas to enjoy her,
Earth is like a widow—you can take her.
I still, however, wish to crush your pride,
bring low the Pandavas and the Panchalas.
Take the kingdom! Enjoy it if you can,
stripped as it is of warriors, all its wealth
devoured by devastating war. As for me,
I no longer wish to live. I shall retreat
to a life of contemplation in the woods.”
“I do not pity you,” said Yudhishthira.
“You may well, now that everything is lost,
be willing to give up the kingdom to me.
But the kingdom is no longer yours to give.
And how can you think I would accept
a gift from you, when you refused to cede
even as much terrain as would be covered
by a needle’s point?! Do you not see
that if both of us remain alive,
no one will understand who won this war?
You cannot choose to live. I could choose
to let you live; but I will not do so.
Come out of there and fight!”
Duryodhana,
unused to being talked to in this way,
was mortified, and sighed like a hissing snake.
“This is unfair—there are so many of you,
all well equipped and in good health, while I
am stripped of everything, badly wounded;
and I am all alone. Nevertheless,
if you agree to fight one at a time,
I shall kill each one of you with my mace.
I am not in the least afraid of you.
Today I shall discharge my debt to my friend,
my brothers and those kings who died for me.”
“I see you now remember what is due
from a kshatriya,” said Yudhishthira.
“A pity your sense of what is a fair fight
deserted you when you and your companions
killed Abhimanyu, tearing at his flesh
like a pack of wolves. Every one of you
was a trained warrior; you were all steeped
in the protocols of war! Nevertheless,
I agree that we will fight you singly.
So come out. Prepare to meet your death!”
Hearing this, Duryodhana stirred the water
and struggled, dripping, from the lake, his body
streaked with blood. His mace was in his hand.
“Shoulder this armor,” said Yudhishthira,
“and bind your hair; here is a well-made helmet.
Furthermore, you may choose your opponent.
And if you win, then you shall have the kingdom.”
“I am prepared to fight each one of you,”
roared Duryodhana, “and I shall kill you
one after another. No one can match me!”
While Duryodhana boasted in this way,
Krishna took Yudhishthira aside.
He was alight with anger. “You are mad!
By letting him decide his adversary
and promising the kingdom if he wins,
you’re gambling with your future—it’s as if
you’re back in the gaming hall, taking a chance!
Who but a fool would risk losing the kingdom
when it’s within his grasp? Duryodhana
is a master with the mace. All those years
when you were exiled in the forest, he
practiced every day against a statue
shaped like Bhima.
“Bhima’s your only hope.
He has enormous strength and stamina
but Duryodhana has the greater prowess,
and prowess always wins. None among you
is capable of beating Duryodhana
in a fair fight. We are in great danger,
thanks to your stupid gesture. It seems to me
the Pandavas were born to live in exile!”
Duryodhana chose to fight with Bhima,
the man he hated most in all the world.
Having heard Krishna reprove his brother,
Bhima said, “Krishna, you should not despair.
I have waited thirteen years for this,
living in torment, knowing that vile villain
was enjoying every luxury, while we
wandered in deerskins in the wilderness.
Duryodhana may have practiced with his mace,
but I have practiced with my mind, reliving
every iniquity that wretch committed.
Be happy, brother, today I shall regain
your kingdom—and restore my peace of mind.”
Krishna applauded him, “That is heartening talk!
But in fighting Duryodhana, take care
not to rely on strength and rage alone;
you will need all the skill at your command.”
The two cousins squared up to one another.
But at that very moment, Balarama,
Krishna’s older brother, was seen approaching.
A great mace warrior, he had been the teacher
of both Bhima and Duryodhana.
Before the war, rather than take sides,
he had gone on an extended pilgrimage
to the sacred fords. Now he had returned.
He suggested that the fight take place
at Samantapanchaka, part of the field
which was revered, in the domain of gods,
as the sacred northern altar of Lord Brahma.
Whoever died in battle there was certain
to go straight to heaven, to dwell with Indra.
The group set off, Duryodhana ill at ease
walking with his hated enemies.
The auspicious place chosen by Balarama
was beside the river. The ground was firm,
trees grew on the slope, providing shade
for the spectators. Then a formal challenge
was issued by Duryodhana, and all noticed
disturbing portents—fierce winds skittering
pebbles along the ground, clouds of dust,
thunder rumbling in a clear blue sky.
Bhima exulted, “This is a sure sign:
today Duryodhana will be defeated!
Today he will rest his head on the bare earth;
never again will he see his loving parents,
never enjoy the company of women.
Today the sufferings of the Pandavas
will be requited!”
Then the fight began.
Never were combatants more furious.
Half a lifetime’s hatred and resentment
went into every blow. They were well matched,
and each took special pleasure in the knowledge
that he was pitched against a worthy foe.
Both were beautiful in their massive strength,
their graceful footwork as they made their moves
dodging, defending, attacking, circling
in intricate maneuvers. When they clashed
sparks flew, the ground shook with the force of it.
Body blows drew torrents of blood, and made
the fighters reel and stagger; but that served
only to reinforce their strength of purpose.
“Who is doing better, in your view?”
Arjuna asked. “Bhima has strength,” said Krishna,
“but he will never win in a fair fight;
indeed, I see that he is struggling now.
He must bend the rules—especially
since Yudhishthira has been so foolish.”
Standing to Duryodhana’s left, Arjuna
slapped his own thigh. Bhima saw the sign.
Soon Duryodhana, to avoid a blow,
jumped—and Bhima, seizing his chance, smashed
his mace full strength against the Kaurava’s thighs,
breaking both instantly. Duryodhana
crashed to the ground groaning. The Pandavas
were filled with joy. Bhima had won. The war
was over!
Bhima strode round Duryodhana
and scuffed his head with his foot. “Not boasting now?
Where is your scorn, your dirty tricks, you wretch?”
Many onlookers were scandalized
by Bhima’s behavior to a dying man
and Yudhishthira reproved him, “Bhima,
stop now! You have fulfilled your vow at last.
For all his evil actions, Duryodhana
is a Bharata, our kinsman. You must not
touch a kinsman with your foot.” He approached
Duryodhana, with streaming eyes. “Oh, cousin,
it is your own folly and wickedness
that have brought you to destruction. Destiny
cannot be averted. But I envy you.
Heaven will welcome you as a brave hero;
we must face the widows’ bitter grief.”
Balarama was extremely angry.
“Shame on you, Bhima! All the treatises
are clear that in a fight, no blow must strike
below the belt. Surely you know that!”
The furious Balarama rushed at Bhima,
but Krishna wrapped his powerful arms around him
and stopped his brother in full flight. “Come now,”
he said, “the Pandavas are our friends and kin.
Bhima was fulfilling a vow he made
when Duryodhana insulted Draupadi.
The rishi Maitreya cursed Duryodhana
himself, saying Bhima would break his thigh.
And we have now entered the age of Kali;
breaches of dharma are to be expected.”
Upright Balarama was unconvinced
by his brother’s fraudulent reasoning.
“Bhima will be known as a crooked fighter.
Duryodhana, on the other hand, acted
with propriety, and will go to heaven.
His blood is a libation on the ground
of this auspicious place.”
Krishna spoke
to Yudhishthira, reproving him.
“Why did you do nothing when Bhima kicked
Duryodhana in the head?” Yudhishthira
was unhappy. “I don’t approve that action
but, remembering all Bhima has endured,
I felt he should be forgiven for that act,
righteous or otherwise.” Half-heartedly,
Krishna said, “So be it,” and turned away.
Bhima bent before Yudhishthira
with joined hands, lit up with happiness.
“Today, O king, the earth, restored to peace,
is yours. May you rule justly and well.”
With a grateful heart, Yudhishthira thanked him.
Bhima was reveling in the victory,
rejoicing in the rout of his enemies.
All his friends and allies gathered round
to wish him well, shouting, blowing conches,
twanging their bowstrings, dancing in delight.
“Bhima, your fame will spread throughout the world,
bards will sing of you, eulogists praise you
for defeating the wicked Kaurava.
Jaya! Jaya!”
Krishna upbraided them.
“It is not right for one who has been slain
to be slain a second time with cruel words
and triumphant glee.”
Meanwhile, your son
was lying on the ground in agony.
Raising himself painfully on his elbows
he spoke to Krishna. “Don’t think I don’t know
that Bhima recalled his vow to break my thigh
only because of you. That is just one
of many devious and sinful actions
perpetrated by you in this war.
But for you, Bhishma would be uninjured,
Bhurishravas and Drona would be alive.
And the virtuous and mighty Karna
would still be by my side to comfort me.
Only because you acted wickedly
the Pandavas, who should have lost this war,
have won.”
“Son of Gandhari,” Krishna said,
“virtue has won. Your defeat, and the killing
on this bloody field of Kurukshetra
are due to you alone, and your sinful envy.
Bhishma and Drona are dead because of you.
Karna is dead because he followed you,
so are your brothers. I tried to counsel you.
Your father, Bhishma, Vidura and Drona
all tried. Enslaved by all-consuming greed,
you would not hear the wisdom of your elders.
Now, bear the consequences.”
Duryodhana,
sweating with pain, replied, “Listen, Krishna,
I have followed the duties of my order;
I have ruled well, have given generously;
I have governed the wide world, and her riches—
who is more fortunate than I? I have fought
as a kshatriya should, and fallen gloriously.
I have enjoyed the pleasures of the gods—
who is more fortunate than I? Today
those I love most will welcome me in heaven—
who, then, is more fortunate than I?
As for you and the cheating Pandavas,
you must live on in this unhappy world,
bereaved, burdened by sorrow and regret.”
After he spoke, a shower of fragrant flowers
fell from the sky, and voices were heard singing—
celestial beings, praising Duryodhana,
lamenting the unrighteous deaths of Bhishma,
Drona, Bhurishravas and Karna.
At this, the Pandavas became ashamed
and wept, their previous joy contaminated.
Krishna spoke to them in a voice like thunder.
“Listen to me! Each of those mighty warriors
was unbeatable by lawful means.
Knowing that righteousness was on your side,
I arranged that you would overcome
those great opponents. If I had not done this,
victory would never have been yours;
war would have dragged on indefinitely.
The same applies to Duryodhana’s death.
“In war, faced with defeat, foul means are fair.
When the enemy has superior numbers
any stratagem is permissible.
The gods, in their battle against the demons,
trod the same path, and what the gods think fair
men can surely emulate. Now, friends,
go back to your tents for well-earned rest.”
Much cheered, the Pandava party returned
to their camp. But the five sons of Kunti
went with Krishna to the Kaurava camp,
riding on Arjuna’s great chariot.
As soon as they arrived, and had stepped down,
the splendid vehicle, with its monkey standard,
turned into a ball of flame. In no time,
it was just a pile of ash. Earlier, Drona
and Karna had destroyed it, but Krishna’s power
had stopped it from imploding until now.
They contemplated Duryodhana’s tent,
now stripped of its luxurious appointments,
dismal, like a festive amphitheater
when the audience and players have departed.
They found large boxes full of gold, silver
and precious jewels: Yudhishthira’s by right.
Krishna advised them not to go back to camp.
To mark the new reign, it would be auspicious
to spend the night, together with Satyaki,
beside the sparkling river Oghavati
that formed one boundary of the battlefield.
Once settled there, Yudhishthira asked Krishna
to travel on his behalf to Hastinapura
and speak with you, his cousin’s grieving parents.
He is on his way here as I speak.
“Explain to me,” said Janamejaya,
“why the Dharma King requested Krishna
to go to Hastinapura. Why did he
not come here himself?”
“Yudhishthira knew,”
said Vaishampayana, “that Queen Gandhari
had spiritual powers, which she had earned
by her great austerities. He was afraid
that if he went himself to visit her
she would curse him to burn up on the spot,
blaming him for the death of all her sons.
Krishna would be able to console her
with wise words.”
Arriving in the city,
Krishna hurried to where Dhritarashtra
and Gandhari sat, despairing, desolate.
He bent before them and addressed the king.
“Sir, you understand the workings of time.
You know the complete history of the conflict
between the sons of Pandu and your own.
Yet, it seems, fate can stupefy even those
who understand it—so when I came to you
to broker peace, despite the best advice
of Vidura and all the other elders,
you failed to curb your son. Whether from love
or avarice, you acted foolishly.
Defeat is the result. I beg you, therefore,
not to blame the Pandavas, who behaved
righteously, courageously. The future
of the Bharata line now rests with them.
Yudhishthira has nothing but goodwill
toward you and his aunt. He grieves for you.”
Turning to Gandhari, Krishna said,
“Best of women, remember your own words
in the assembly: ‘Foolish Duryodhana,
the course that you propose is not virtuous,
and victory will be where virtue is.’
Thinking of this, let your heart be steady.
Do not wish destruction on the Pandavas.”
“You are right,” said Gandhari. “This dreadful news
made me blaze with fury. But now I am calm.
My husband is like a child—may the Pandavas
and you, Krishna, be a refuge to him,”
and Gandhari was overcome with sobs.
Dhristarashtra said, “I cannot believe
that my son, strong as ten thousand elephants,
could have been cut down. Oh, what misery!
How will we two, an aged couple, live
destitute of children? And how will I,
who have been king myself, now bend the knee
as a mere lowly slave to Yudhishthira?”
Krishna became aware, through intuition,
that Ashvatthaman, still alight with anger
at the manner of Drona’s death, was plotting
an attack on the Pandavas and their friends.
He took hasty leave of the royal couple
and quickly traveled back to the battlefield,
to join his cousins on the riverbank.
After Krishna’s departure, Dhritarashtra
turned to Sanjaya. “What did my son say
after he had fallen to the ground,
felled by Bhima?”
“Sir,” said Sanjaya,
“he asked me to tell you, his sorrowing parents,
that he regrets nothing. He has lived his life
as a kshatriya should; and he has died
in unfair fight, and in full confidence
of heavenly reward. He feels for you
and for his sister, and fears for your fate.”
“Tell me what happened then,” said Dhritarashtra.
“Your son’s surviving friends,” said Sanjaya,
“learned that Duryodhana was lying helpless.
Quickly, they came to him, and were enraged
and grief-stricken to hear how he had been
cut down unrighteously. Writhing in pain,
drenched in blood, that tiger among men
looked like a wounded beast, dusty, disheveled.
Ashvatthaman broke down in tears to see him.
‘Death comes to us all,’ whispered Duryodhana.
‘Do not grieve for me. I am fortunate.
I have never swerved from the true path
of a kshatriya. I shall be rewarded.
You all strove to your utmost, but destiny
cannot be thwarted.’
“Ashvatthaman cried,
‘It is not over! The dastardly Panchalas
murdered my father. But, even more than that,
I burn with rage at what has been done to you.
I swear that before dawn, in Krishna’s presence,
I will send your enemies to Yama’s realm.
Bless my intention, Duryodhana.’
“Your son, highly pleased, asked for water
and had Kripa consecrate Ashvatthaman
as commander. Drona’s son embraced
Duryodhana, and the three survivors—
Kripa, Kritavarman and Ashvatthaman—
left him lying there to pursue their mission.”