X
45.
Sanjaya continued:
The three companions set out toward the south.
The sun was low, the air slowly cooling,
and as they neared the enemy camp, they heard
sounds of rejoicing and loud merriment,
raucous singing, and the bray of trumpets
that froze their hearts with dread. Probably
Dhrishtadyumna, Drona’s murderer,
was drinking with his friends.
Night came on.
The firmament was luminous with stars,
like an expanse of beautiful brocade.
Skirting the camp, they found a gloomy wood,
dense with tangled vines, and hid in it
to rest in the shelter of a banyan tree.
Wounded and exhausted as they were,
they lay down to sleep. But Ashvatthaman
could not settle—not for the hard ground,
but for thinking about Dhrishtadyumna,
and of the manner of Drona’s cruel death.
He, Ashvatthaman, had unfinished business:
to avenge the father who had given him life.
The Panchala’s death should be his by right.
Anger was a tight knot in his chest.
Looking around, he saw a nearby tree
where a gang of crows was roosting, huddled up,
their heads under their wings. Then, silently,
a huge, yellow-eyed owl glided down
and set about killing the sleeping birds
(for owls are the mortal enemies of crows),
tearing off wings, snapping necks and legs,
so bloody fragments splattered on the ground
encircling the tree. The monstrous owl
appeared well satisfied with the night’s work.
Ashvatthaman, struck by what he saw,
began to think what he might learn from it.
Surprise was everything. Those crows felt safe,
sleeping on their perches. Ashvatthaman
knew there was no possibility
that he could overcome his enemies
in a fair fight—if he attacked openly
he would be foolish as a mindless insect
cremating itself in a candle flame.
Yet—if he could catch them unawares . . .
He woke his uncle Kripa, and Kritavarman
and explained his plan—to kill the enemy
as they lay sleeping. “That would only be
the natural consequence of what they’ve done,
grossly flouting dharma, and now—hear that—
carousing in their camp without a care!”
Kripa replied, “I’ve listened to what you say;
now hear what I think. All outcomes are produced
both by divine will and human effort.
Success does not come through the gods’ will alone,
nor by effort only, but both together.
We work to till the soil and plant the seed
and heaven sends rain—or else it does not.
Some foolish people, seeing a well-tilled field
parch for lack of rain, conclude that effort
is a waste of time. The wise know better—
effort usually bears fruit, but sloth
never does. The man who prepares the ground
and then worships the gods, seeking their blessing,
cannot go wrong.
“The wise also know this:
that a man who consults his elders, listens,
and follows their advice may well succeed.
One who, moved by his desires and passions,
ignores the elders often comes to grief.
That is what happened to Duryodhana;
he would not drop his stubborn sinfulness
and now we all suffer. This calamity
has stupefied my mind. I think we should ask
Dhritarashtra, Gandhari and Vidura
their view of your proposal. We should follow
their advice—and if we should not succeed
in whatever course they set us on,
then it must be the gods who will decide.”
Ashvatthaman answered impatiently:
“When we are young, matters look different
from how they seem in old age. Surely, then,
all we can do is follow our own judgment,
shaped by the circumstances of our lives.
I was born a brahmin, but through ill fortune,
and the decisions taken by my father,
I find myself living as a kshatriya.
I cannot go back. I have to take the path
my father—and you, uncle—trod before me.
“I am proud to be a warrior, and tonight
I shall carry out my plan. Before long
the Panchalas, with wicked Dhrishtadyumna,
will have shed their armor, unyoked their horses,
and settled to what they think is well-earned sleep.
I shall kill them all!”
“Wait until morning,”
urged Kripa. “I am very glad to hear you
so set upon revenge. But at daybreak,
when we are rested, all three of us can rise,
don our armor and attack the Panchalas.
I have celestial weapons; so do you.
We’ll have the great advantage of surprise
and, united as we are, we shall surely win
and you will dance like the blessed Indra
after his slaughter of the asuras!
But for now, we should bide our time and sleep.”
Ashvatthaman’s eyes were red with anger.
“How? There are four impediments to sleep—
rage, grief, desire and an overactive mind.
Any one of these will baffle sleep;
I suffer from all four! No, I’ve decided.
I cannot bear another hour lying here,
my guts twisting, thinking of my father,
and of Duryodhana, so vilely killed.
My plan is good, and I shall act on it.”
“It is my view,” said Kripa, “that a person
in the grip of passion is in no state
to understand what’s right and wrong behavior.
Listen to me, son, do not act rashly.
Slaughter of sleeping persons is unrighteous.
The same applies to those who are unprepared
for battle, who have laid aside their weapons.
So far, your life has been exemplary;
if you commit this shocking act, it will be
like a splash of blood on pure white cloth.”
“You may be right, uncle,” said Ashvatthaman.
“I want to act well, but the Pandavas
have made a mockery of righteousness
time after time. Why don’t you censure them?
My mind’s made up. And if I am reborn
as a worm, or some other lowly creature,
so be it. Dhrishtadyumna slew my father
as if he were a sacrificial beast.
Today I’ll do the same to him—in that way
he’ll not attain the heaven reserved for heroes
who die in battle.”
Having little choice,
his two companions fastened on their breastplates
and followed Ashvatthaman toward the camp.
As they walked along, their doubts dissolved
and they began to glow with rage and fervor
like ritual fires well nourished with ghee.
Arriving at the camp gate, Ashvatthaman
saw a towering figure in the way,
a terrifying vision. He blazed with light,
and round his hips was draped a tiger’s hide
dripping with blood. For his upper garment
he wore the skin of a black antelope.
A snake was wound around his upper arm.
Thousands of lovely eyes adorned his face
and flames seemed to be leaping from his mouth
from which sprang innumerable Krishnas
each holding a conch, a discus and a mace.
The whole sky seemed imprinted with his image.
Fearless Ashvatthaman shot showers of arrows
at the being and, finding those useless,
continued his attack with spear and sword,
with mace and dagger—struggling, battling
with every ounce of strength, until at last
all his weapons were exhausted. Still
the huge presence barred his way, unmoved.
Panting with impotent rage, mystified,
Ashvatthaman thought of Kripa’s words.
Perhaps this was a sign that if he blundered
off the path of dharma, he would become
lost in a trackless wilderness of sin.
Perhaps the gods would frustrate all his efforts.
“Yet I have also heard, the worst misery
afflicts a man who, out of fear, abandons
a great goal he has set out to achieve.
On the other hand, would this apparition
be blocking me unless I were meant to fail?
What can I do? I can’t fight divine will.”
He walked about, despondent, indecisive,
until at last his mind turned to Lord Shiva
and he resolved to seek the god’s protection.
He stood, hands joined in reverence, head bowed,
and prayed to Shiva, speaking his many names.
A golden altar sprang up in front of him
on which a blazing fire crackled and spat,
a fire that seemed to spread across the sky
and fill the universe. And then a vision
of every kind of creature, every species
of unearthly being seemed to appear,
some terrible, some lovely beyond words—
headless monsters, rough-skinned pachyderms,
malevolent sprites, and female deities
so beautiful it made him gasp to see them.
These beings roared, muttered, groaned, and sang
hymns of surpassing sweetness, praising Shiva.
They had come to honor Ashvatthaman,
to test the quality of his resolve—
and to be present for the coming carnage.
Ashvatthaman faced the flaming altar.
“O Lord Shiva, accept me as sacrifice,”
he prayed, “accept my most sincere devotion!”
And the son of Drona walked into the fire.
A tremor in the air, a rushing wind,
and the great god Shiva stood before him,
smiling. “None is dearer to me than Krishna.
For him, I have protected the Panchalas.
But their time has now run out.” And with that,
Shiva gave a sword to Ashvatthaman
and entered his body. At once, the brahmin
was filled with energy. There was nothing
he could not accomplish!
Kritavarman
and Kripa were waiting for him. They agreed
that Ashvatthaman would enter the camp alone
while the other two would guard the gates,
killing anyone who sought to flee.
Unafraid, but walking cautiously,
Ashvatthaman stole into the camp.
All was silent. It was the darkest hour.
Knowing where to go, inspired by Shiva,
he found his way to Dhrishtadyumna’s tent.
Before him lay the prince of the Panchalas,
sprawled on linen sheets scattered with fragrant flowers.
He woke him with a kick, and Dhrishtadyumna
knew him at once. Ashvatthaman seized him
by the hair, wrenched his head back and ground his throat
beneath his foot. The Panchala fought, struggled,
tearing at Ashvatthaman with his nails,
but the brahmin’s arms were the arms of Shiva.
“Kill me with a weapon!” cried Dhrishtadyumna,
“so I can reach the heaven reserved for heroes.”
“Villain! There is no heaven for such as you,
one who kills his teacher!” And Ashvatthaman,
with naked strength alone, butchered his victim
as a sacrificial animal is killed.
The violent noise woke Dhrishtadyumna’s guards
but they froze, appalled at what they saw.
At the sound of screams and women’s shrieks,
the whole camp was thrown into a panic,
men shouting, running wildly in the dark
not knowing where the danger was, or who—
man or ogre—was attacking them.
Elephants ran wild, horses stampeded
raising dust, deepening the darkness.
Some men grabbed swords and, seized by mortal terror,
lunged at anything that moved. In this way
Panchala caused the death of Panchala.
Ashvatthaman stalked along the paths
and alleys of the camp, entering tents,
swiftly slaughtering every warrior
he found, with the sword Shiva had given him.
Many hundreds died. Drona’s vengeful son,
emissary of death, showed no mercy.
The flaming energy and fiery zeal
of fire-born Dhrishtadyumna had entered him.
More than a man, more, even, than a god,
it was violence personified that whirled,
howling in triumph, through the camp that night.
Learning of the death of Dhrishtadyumna,
the five courageous sons of Draupadi
were amazed. “This never could have happened,”
they exclaimed, “if our fathers had been here!”
They tracked down Ashvatthaman, and began
to shower him with arrows. Drona’s son
rushed at them with his celestial sword
and killed all five, one after another,
with hideous disfigurements. Shikhandin
pierced Ashvatthaman in the forehead
and was rewarded by being split in two.
Next, all the young Panchala princes
were massacred with Shiva’s blazing sword,
among them, Drupada’s remaining grandsons.
Some men, by chance, managed to reach the gateway
and ran out, sobbing with relief—to find
Kripa and Kritavarman ready for them.
Most were unarmed, having sprung bewildered
from their beds. They quickly met their deaths.
The assassins lit fires in three places,
which quickly spread, encircling the camp
with flame, making it even easier
for Ashvatthaman to do the thorough work
of the sacrifice, mad with blood-lust.
Violence and time. This holocaust
was like the entire Kurukshetra conflict
compressed. On many nights during the war
men had dreamed they saw a dark-skinned crone,
embodiment of all-destroying time,
smeared with red, her mouth agape, her eyes
seeping blood. In her hand she held a noose,
or halter perhaps, for leading men away.
This dreadful goddess now appeared to them
in solid form. They knew her for what she was:
their hideous escort to the afterlife.
The sky began to lighten. In the east,
streaks of orange and red grew ever brighter.
At last the camp was hushed, inhabited
only by corpses and by carrion-eaters
slinking among the shadows, getting bolder.
Ashvatthaman walked out of the gate,
his clothes caked with blood, and the bloody hilt
of Shiva’s great sword stuck fast to his hand.
He was at peace. At last he had assuaged
the wracking grief he had felt for Drona’s death.
He joined his two companions. They exulted
at their good night’s work.
In that moment
they felt that the achievement was all theirs.
Yet, in truth, only because Lord Shiva
had made them his instrument; only because
Krishna had allowed it, had they succeeded.
Effort had joined hands with the gods’ design.
“But,” asked Dhritarashtra, “if Ashvatthaman
was capable of such an outstanding feat,
why did he wait until the war was lost,
and my son lying helpless on the ground?”
“It was because he feared the Pandavas,”
said Sanjaya. “Had your nephews been present
this great slaughter never could have happened.”
Sanjaya continued:
The three hurried back to Duryodhana
and found him lying as before, attempting
to repel rapacious carnivores that sidled
ever closer. His groans of agony
were fainter now, blood frothing from his mouth.
The three men wept with pity and outrage
to see him, wept for you, his bereaved parents,
who soon would have no sons left in the world.
“Oh, woe,” said Kripa, “even this great warrior
is brought down by time. Look, his golden mace
that has never failed him, that was his friend
in every battle, is now lying by him
as a loving wife lies down beside her lord
when he prepares for sleep. Alas, this prince
to whom brahmins could always look for food
will soon himself be food for scavengers.”
They wiped his bloody face with their bare hands.
Then they told him all that they had done
and made him happy. “Blessings on you all!
You have achieved what even my great Karna,
even Bhishma, even your own father
could not accomplish. We will meet in heaven.”
Having spoken, he gave up his life.
And at that moment, best of Bharatas,
the power which, for eighteen endless days,
enabled me to witness every detail
of the war, and bring you news of it—
my divine vision—was suddenly withdrawn.
Dhrishtadyumna’s driver was the only man
who had escaped the carnage, slipping past
Kritavarman in the dark; and he it was
who brought the dreadful news to Yudhishthira.
The Pandava fell to the ground in shock.
The five brothers huddled together, weeping,
lamenting the loss of all their stalwart sons,
Draupadi’s children. “Ah!” cried Yudhishthira,
“if our kinsmen had only been more watchful
Ashvatthaman never could have breached
their guard, to murder them so savagely.
So brave they were! And such outstanding warriors
that they survived all eighteen days of war—
only to perish now like helpless sheep.
They are like travelers who, having sailed
the treacherous oceans and come back to port
without mishap, drown in a shallow stream.
“Now we who were victorious have been vanquished,
and our defeated enemy has conquered.
What does victory mean if what it brings
is the searing loss of all we cherish most?
Is it not just defeat by other means?
And how will our beloved Draupadi
bear this bereavement? How can she survive it?
Her father already killed; now two brothers
and all her beautiful, courageous sons!”
Yudhishthira sent Nakula by chariot
to Upaplavya, to fetch Draupadi.
Then, with his other brothers and Satyaki,
he went to the camp. Seeing crows and vultures
tearing at the bodies of their children,
they all collapsed, fainting, on the ground.
When Nakula brought Draupadi, next morning,
she hurried to the place where her five sons
lay lifeless and, crouching, cradled in her arms
each bloody, mutilated boy in turn.
“O my precious one, how can I live
and never see your handsome face again;
never hear your laughter in the distance;
never feel the warmth of your strong arms
as you embrace me?” She rocked to and fro,
then she, too, collapsed, undone by grief.
Bhima lifted her. Weeping, shaking,
she addressed Yudhishthira in anger.
“I hope you are happy with your victory,
your capture of the earth. I hope you enjoy her
after the slaughter of our shining sons,
the flower of youth, heroic kshatriyas.
Perhaps you will sleep undisturbed by thoughts
of Abhimanyu and these other children.
But I tell you now, Yudhishthira,
if you do not make Ashvatthaman pay,
if you do not rip his life from him
together with the lives of his wicked friends,
then, starting now, I shall sit and fast to death!”
“Draupadi,” said Yudhishthira, ashen-faced,
“all your sons have lost their lives with honor—
even now, they must be enjoying heaven.
You should not grieve. You understand dharma.
You know that the life of a kshatriya
is shaped for war from earliest infancy.
As for Ashvatthaman, our spies tell us
he has fled into the forest, like a cur.
We shall pursue him with all possible speed,
but if he is caught and killed as he deserves,
how shall we prove to you that he has perished?”
“I have heard,” said Draupadi, “that Drona’s son
was born with a jewel on his forehead.
When you bring me that jewel, when I place it
on your own head, Yudhishthira, only then
will I decide to live.” She turned to Bhima,
“Bhima, you have always been our refuge—
think of Hidimba, and the time you saved me
from that lustful wretch in Virata’s city.
Now, wreak vengeance on wicked Ashvatthaman!”
Bhima seized his bow, mounted his chariot
driven by Nakula, and galloped off
along the route taken by Ashvatthaman.
When Krishna learned of this, he was dismayed
and said to Yudhishthira, “You should realize
that you have put your brother in great danger.
Ashvatthaman has a deadly weapon,
capable of destroying the whole world—
the Brahmashiras weapon. Years ago,
Drona gave that weapon to Arjuna,
knowing he could be trusted. Ashvatthaman
was jealous, and kept pestering his father
to give it to him too. Drona, reluctant
because he knew his son lacked Arjuna’s
calmness and discipline, at last gave in.
‘But,’ he warned, ‘it never must be used
against human beings.’
“Some years later,
during the time of your forest exile,
Ashvatthaman came to see me. ‘Krishna,’
he said, smiling at me, ‘I have the weapon
called Brahmashiras. I will give it to you.
Please give me your discus in exchange.’
He had no idea what he was asking.
I told him to keep his weapon, but to take
whatever of mine he wanted. Delighted,
he seized my discus—but he could not lift it,
try as he might. Then I said to him,
‘Ashvatthaman, even Arjuna,
foremost of warriors, wielder of Gandiva,
he who is my dearest friend on earth,
he to whom there is nothing I would not give,
even my wives and children—Arjuna
has never asked of me what you just asked.
My precious son Pradyumna, my dear brother
Balarama, my cousins, my close kin
have never asked of me what you just asked.
Tell me—what use would you make of it
if I gave you my discus?’ He replied,
‘I was going to fight you with it—then
I would be the world’s greatest warrior.’
That’s how wrongheaded Ashvatthaman is!
He is very cruel, impulsive, angry—
and he has the Brahmashiras weapon.
Bhima must be protected.”
Immediately
Krishna leapt onto his chariot, yoked
to superb horses garlanded in gold.
Above him flew his celestial standard,
bright with gems, depicting the fierce eagle,
Garuda, enemy of snakes. Arjuna
and Yudhishthira sprang up beside him.
This swiftest of all chariots caught up
with Bhima, but failed to stop him charging
toward Ashvatthaman.
Drona’s son
had sought refuge in Vyasa’s hermitage.
The Pandava party tracked him down at last
sitting piously beside the Ganga
dressed from head to foot in brahmin’s garb,
surrounded by Vyasa and other seers.
Bhima roared, “Stand up and fight, you villain!”
and the ground shuddered as he advanced.
Ashvatthaman quickly called to mind
his dreadful weapon. He picked a blade of grass
and inspired it with the proper mantras.
“For the destruction of the Pandavas!”
he cried, and then the blade of grass became
a raging furnace.
“Arjuna,” urged Krishna,
“it is time to use that celestial weapon
given by Drona, to neutralize all weapons.”
Arjuna jumped down, lifted his bow,
and, speaking softly, wished well to Drona’s son
as well as to his brothers and himself.
With his mind on the welfare of all beings,
he prayed aloud: “May Ashvatthaman’s harm
be neutralized by this!” He loosed his weapon.
It seemed as though the entire universe
was consumed by flame; thunder roared
and meteors crashed to earth. The whole world trembled.
Then the great rishis Narada and Vyasa
spoke up angrily. “What kind of rashness
is this?” they exclaimed. “Bhishma and Drona,
who knew such weapons, never mobilized them
in battle, even when faced with their own death.”
Arjuna agreed to withdraw his weapon.
“But if I do, Ashvatthaman’s weapon
will destroy us and the three worlds. O rishis,
you must find some way to protect us all.”
To withdraw such a powerful weapon
was almost impossible. Only one
who had observed extreme austerity,
who had gone through the discipline and vows
of a devout ascetic, had the power.
Arjuna was such a man; he withdrew
his weapon. Ashvatthaman could not do it.
His weapon was directly dedicated
to the destruction of the Pandavas.
Vyasa reproved him, “Although Arjuna
could have used his weapon before this,
he has never done so, out of concern
for the innocent who would be harmed by it.
You must call your dreadful weapon back.
And give that jewel of yours to the Pandavas
that they may spare your weak, misguided life.”
“This jewel,” said Ashvatthaman, “is more precious
than all the combined wealth of the Bharatas.
He who wears it will never suffer fear.
Holy one, although I hate to lose it,
I will obey you. But I am powerless
to stop the Brahmashiras. All I can do
is to redirect it into the wombs
of the Pandava wives, killing their offspring
and making them barren.”
“Then you must do it,”
said Vyasa.
Krishna addressed Ashvatthaman.
“Once, a brahmin at Virata’s court
told Uttaraa, Abhimanyu’s widow,
that she would bear a son, called Parikshit,
a son to carry forward the Bharata line.”
“That will not happen,” shouted Ashvatthaman,
“however much you love the Pandavas!”
“I assure you, this will indeed come true,
despite your weapon. I shall see to it,”
said Krishna. “As for you, accursed wretch,
you will bear the fruit of your sinful acts.
Infamous as the murderer of children,
for three thousand years you will walk the world
a joyless outcast, afflicted by disease,
with no soul to talk to, passing your days
in gloomy forests and dreary desert tracts.
Parikshit, well schooled in the Vedas,
practicing pious vows, skilled with all weapons,
will rule in righteousness for sixty years.”
“Let it be so,” said Vyasa. “Ashvatthaman,
this is what comes of living out your life
as a kshatriya, despite your brahmin birth.”
Grim-faced, Ashvatthaman gave his jewel
to the Pandavas. Without a word, he turned
and slowly walked away among the trees
to begin his solitary banishment.
The Pandavas rode back to Draupadi
where she sat, fasting. Bhima said to her,
“This jewel is yours. The murderer of your sons
has been defeated. Grasp life again. Recall
kshatriya dharma. Think of those words of yours
when we were in the forest, how you said,
‘Since the king wants peace, I have no husband.’
You wanted war, you thirsted for revenge.
Now we have slaughtered every Kaurava.
I have drunk Duhshasana’s blood, avenging
that villain’s act in violating you.
We have exacted full dues from our foes.
We let Ashvatthaman keep his life,
out of respect for our teacher, his dead father,
and because he is a brahmin. But that life
will hardly be worth living.”
Draupadi said,
“I only wished for adequate revenge
for all our injuries; that we have obtained
in full measure—and at terrible cost.
Now, despite my grief, I shall cease my fast.
I wish well to the teacher, and his son.
Bind this gem on your head, Yudhishthira.”
The king did so, seeing it as a gift
from his dead teacher.
Later, he asked Krishna,
“How could our sons, mighty kshatriyas,
have been easily killed by Ashvatthaman
whose skills were much inferior to theirs?
And valiant Dhrishtadyumna? And Shikhandin?
How could that have happened?” Krishna explained
that Shiva had afforded his protection
to Ashvatthaman. “Those who died perished
through Shiva’s power; they were the great god’s share
of the sacrifice that was the bloody war
of Kurukshetra.” And he then described
Shiva’s contribution to creation.
Their talking went on far into the night.