FOURTEEN
Though his eyes were restless, Duryodhana had listened patiently to everything Krishna said. Now he rose and addressed Krishna quietly, reasonably. “You spoke eloquently, Krishna and all that you said was for me: all the blame. My father and my grandfather, also, point their fingers at me, as do my Acharyas and my uncle Vidura. I have tried to see your point of view; but I am afraid I cannot, because this is not nearly as simple as you make it out to be.
Let me tell you my version of whatever has happened so far. We asked Yudhishtira to play dice and he agreed readily enough. He enjoys the game, more than I do anyway. We did not force him to play and it was not as if he did not know, from the start, that he was to play against Shakuni.
Yudhishtira lost his kingdom at dice. How do you blame me for that? I did not decide what the stakes would be. I did not sit in my cousin’s place and play rashly for him. It is easy to accuse me; but if you think about it, how am I responsible? Yudhishtira was foolhardy and he was unlucky. How is Duryodhana to blame for that?
This court knows I returned everything he lost to me. But you say it was my fault he came back to play a second time and lost it all once more. How am I responsible for his stupidity that he thought he could play an acknowledged master of dice like Shakuni? And does my cousin wager some thousand gold coins as other kings do? No. He wagers his entire treasury, then his army, then his kingdom and finally, his brothers, himself and his queen! Wasn’t this an emperor’s arrogance? How am I to blame for it? Didn’t I return his brothers and his wife to him? Didn’t I set him free, though he had lost himself to me? Yet, I am to blame.”
Krishna sat smiling faintly, none of the others spoke. The Kaurava continued, “And not only all of you, but my cousins, also, have decided that I am to blame for their misfortunes. Do I control the motions of the planets that I decide what happens to every man on this earth?
They have joined forces with the Panchala king, whom these same Pandavas once attacked for Acharya Drona’s revenge. Now they mean to fight us together. For what? For something they imagine I did to them. I did nothing. Their troubles were of their own making and I am not afraid of Pandu’s sons.” His voice rose, “As long as my conscience is clear, I will never fear them, or anyone else. Why, I would not fear Indra himself. We will not bow to their threats. We have Bheeshma and Drona with us; Kripa, Karna and Aswatthama are with me. No power on earth can stand against these men. And, as for me, when I accept the Pandavas’ challenge I only honor the way of the ksha-triya. My dharma is to fight.
If I must, I will die fighting. Otherwise, I will make a bed of arrows for my enemies to sleep on forever. Isn’t that kshatriya dharma? To fight and either die or be killed. The warrior that dies without bowing his head to his enemy goes straight to heaven. Then why do you ask me to humiliate myself so I can save my life? What will my miserable life be worth if I save it like that? I prefer to die without having submitted in spirit, than to live as less than a king. This is the law every kshatriya is born into and it is the only dharma I acknowledge. I mean to live or die by it, as fate decides.”
He paused and looked around him. Silence still greeted his bold words and the smile still played on Krishna’s lips. Duryodhana drew a breath and resumed, “As for Indraprastha, I know my father gave it to the sons of Pandu, when the Kuru kingdom was divided. I was against what he did then, but I could not say anything. Today, I rule an undivided kingdom; Indraprastha and Hastinapura are mine. And as long as there is life in this body, I will not part with any of my lands.”
Now Duryodhana loomed over the sabha, dominating it darkly. He looked straight at Krishna and said, “Mark my words, Krishna, lodge them in your heart: I will not give the Pandavas a mote of my kingdom, not even what would cover the point of a needle!”
Duryodhana remained staring defiantly at Krishna after he had spoken and it was as if a shadow fell over them all. Then Krishna laughed. It was a terrible laugh, as none of them had heard from him before: at once, a mocking laugh, a sad and wrathful laugh and the Kurus trembled to hear it. Krishna rose, still smiling, but now his eyes were crimson. Somehow, Duryodhana faced the Avatara as he was then. It seemed primeval forces of darkness and light tested each other, as the Yadava and the Kaurava stood with gazes locked across that sabha.
Calmly, Krishna said, “If you really want a bed on a battlefield to lie on forever, you shall have one. You have always got whatever you wanted, haven’t you Duryodhana? So be it then; as you say, let fate take her course. Be strong, O prince, be firm. For in just some days, there will be such a slaughter that you cannot dream of it. And in its bloody midst, you will meet the death you long for. You and all those that are with you.”
Krishna had not raised his voice. He spoke almost sadly, or at least, only with anger born of grief. “You dare tell me you have caused the Pandavas no suffering, that you are not to blame at all for what they endured these thirteen years. You dare. And in this sabha of wise men, who know you since your infancy, who know every sin you have ever committed. Well, let them decide whether any guilt attaches to you or not. I knew how fiercely you would argue today, Duryodhana, how glibly. That is why I came here and not because I had any real hope of convincing you to return to dharma. I am sure all these wise men have heard your clever arguments often enough. Now let them hear another point of view and decide which one is true.
You were consumed by envy when Yudhishtira performed the Rajasuya yagna. Already, you had tried to kill your cousins more than once, because you hated them from the moment they came home out of the wilds. When you saw the wealth of Indraprastha and the splendor of the Mayaa sabha, you could not bear your envy any longer. I am not sure whether it was you or your uncle Shakuni who decided to conquer the Pandavas at a game of dice. Probably Shakuni thought of it; it sounds like what he would prefer, a battle he could not lose. You would have gone to war if the choice were yours, that is more your nature.
Even if the plan was Shakuni’s at first, you embraced it readily enough. You did not protest that it was a perfidious way to quench your envy of the sons of Pandu: to humiliate them, to destroy them if you could. The plan worked well. Yudhishtira accepted your challenge, poor, high-minded king. Exactly as you had calculated, he lost his reason at this game that did not suit him at all. Don’t tell me, Duryodhana, that you believed Yudhishtira stood a chance of winning at dice against Shakuni. Don’t tell me the game was played in friendly spirit with no harm intended. You could have stopped the game, any time you chose; but it was not to stop that you had begun. You did not stop until Yudhishtira had lost everything and his very honor, that day. And you say you are guilty of no crime? Do you take everyone in this sabha for a fool?
As if the game of dice was not enough, you had your brother haul Panchali into this court. He dragged her in by her hair and all these great men heard what you said to her then, your cousins’ wife, how you called her to sit in your lap. And then, your brother, this grinning Dusasana, tried to strip that queen naked in this hallowed sabha.” Krishna’s voice was almost a whisper now, what he said was reverberant. “And you tell me no blame attaches to you and you are an innocent man? Well, I have come here to learn how such a paragon of dharma like you, Duryodhana, chooses to fight a war in which millions shall die, brutally, when Yudhishtira still offers you peace.”
Krishna’s eyes blazed again, “You are no innocent, Duryodhana. You are the most evil man that draws breath in this world. Why do you try to deceive us, or is it yourself you need to deceive? Or do your sins weigh on you so heavily that you no longer know what dharma is? That you no longer see right from wrong, good from evil, darkness from light?”
They all shifted uneasily in their places to hear him; no conscience in that sabha, save Vidura’s, was clear. Krishna said, “Duryodhana, you are beneath contempt,” and fell silent.
Dusasana sprang up and cried angrily, “Duryodhana, you will be forced to make cowardly peace with Yudhishtira. It is clear that Bheeshma, Drona and our own father mean to bind us hand and foot, you, Karna and me and deliver us into this wily Krishna’s hands. Why should you tolerate their speaking to you like this in your own court? Who is Krishna that we must listen to his lofty judgements here? The world knows he is partial to the sons of Kunti. After all, they are his blood and not we!
Duryodhana was on his feet. He glared at Krishna for a moment, then, contemptuously, at the others. Without another word, but a hiss like an angry cobra’s, he stalked out of the court. In a moment, all his brothers, advisors and the kings who were his allies also left. The sabha was almost empty.
Bheeshma watched his grandson’s arrogant exit, sadly, knowing its full significance. However, he also felt a sense of relief, as if a long and heavy burden had been taken from him. The worst he had feared, the unthinkable, had happened; now there was no looking back. Bheeshma, who had served the House of Kuru for so long, felt his own end drawn near. At last, he felt perfectly helpless and almost glad of it.
He turned to Krishna with a sigh, “I have done everything I could to prevent this, but I see that I have outlived my usefulness. The hour of reckoning is here. Duryodhana is past saving. Doom has finally come to the House of Kuru; ah, Krishna, a sea of blood will flow. In all my life, I have never had such prescience of tragedy as I do now. Not just the Kurus but kshatriya kind will perish in the war that is upon us.”
He stared quizzically at dark Krishna, sensing the Avatara knew immeasurably more of what he, Bheeshma, prophesied than he did himself. Yes, Krishna knew all about why the apocalyptic war must be fought; he had come to the earth to wash it with just this enormous bloodletting. Krishna stared gravely back at the tired old kshatriya.
Bheeshma sighed again and murmured, “Yes, the time is ripe, I can feel it in every cell of my body. The war will be the end of the world, as we have known it and the beginning of an inconceivably different age. Am I right, O Krishna who know all things?”
Krishna said, “I blame all of you for what will happen. You could have nipped this evil bloom in its bud. Instead, you nurtured it carefully and helped it grow until it chokes us all. If you could not kill him, why didn’t you lock Duryodhana away in the darkest dungeon? Are you so blinded by filial love that you still do not see who this prince is? He is a monster, a demon born into the world for its destruction. But there is one final hope I offer you, O elders of Hastinapura. Listen to me, I do not speak idly.
When my uncle Kamsa was a tyrant in Mathura, I killed him though he was my own blood. Since the world was young, the wise have said that one man may be sacrificed if he threatens the welfare of the family; one family, if it threatens the village; one village, if it threatens the kingdom; and the very kingdom if one’s immortal soul is imperiled.
I ask you to undo the evil you have nourished in this sabha. The method is simple, if drastic; but consider how much less drastic than the war you plan. Four men stand between the very earth and peace; you must sacrifice them. Bind Duryodhana, Dusasana, Karna and Shakuni and make them over to the Pandavas. Listen to me, O elders and save kshatriya kind.”
It was as if the Avatara tried fate. He still doubted the savage mission for which he had been born and sought any means to avoid the war he knew must, ineluctably, be fought. Dhritarashtra grew very still at what Krishna said. He turned to Vidura, “Go and fetch Gandhari. She is the only one who might still turn our son back to dharma.”
Poised and regal, her eyes bound as always, Gandhari came into the sabha. She allowed Vidura to lead her by the hand before the king. The Kuru queen said, “My lord, you have summoned me to the sabha today. What is the matter?”
“Duryodhana walked out of this sabha, insulting Krishna and all the elders. He will not listen to anyone, but is determined to have war with the Pandavas. He wants to ruin us all.”
For a moment, Gandhari stood silent before her husband. Then she said, “My lord Vidura, fetch Duryodhana back; say his mother calls him here.”
When Vidura had gone, she turned to Dhritarashtra again. “I prayed the day would never come when I had to say this to you: this kingdom does not deserve to be ruled by an evil prince like my son. It breaks my heart to say it, but he has plunged us all into the depths of hell. And you, my lord, are most to blame. I begged you not to give such absolute power into Duryodhana’s hands; but you are a doting father and you would not listen to me. You have made him king in your place, while you still live. More, you have walked down the path of sin with him, willingly. Even now, only your fear turns you back.
Dhritarashtra, you are the king of such a great kingdom. If he cares for them at all, does a good king make a prince like Duryodhana a virtual ruler of his people? Just think, wouldn’t they rather have Yudhishtira as their sovereign? Wouldn’t they have profited richly from it, wouldn’t we all? Instead…” she broke off, as they heard Duryodhana’s angry tread in the sabha. Gandhari turned, “Duryodhana, is that you?”
“Yes, mother, it is I. What do you want with me?” His voice was stiff with annoyance.
“I am your mother and all I can ever want is for you to be safe and happy. My son, it is neither easy nor pleasant to be the king of a great country. A man must first be a master of himself, before he can rule a kingdom. Otherwise, he will drag both his people and himself into ruin. How can anyone who has not conquered himself dream of conquering his enemies? Duryodhana, a man’s worst enemies are within himself: his weaknesses. They derange his mind and he sees enemies all around him; while, in truth, he himself is his only enemy.”
The mother held her hands out to her son. She said, “Don’t you trust me, Duryodhana? This is I who speak, that love you most. But I will not lie to you or encourage you, when you rush toward your death.”
Duryodhana made no move to take her outstretched hands. She sighed, let her arms fall to her sides again and said with deep sorrow, “My son, it is time you heard what I am about to tell you. On the night you were born, omens of evil besieged this city in warning. The feral creatures of darkness flocked into our streets. Jackals and wolves howled at us and vultures and swarms of bats wheeled across the face of the moon. Peals of thunder shook heaven and earth and gashes of lightning flared not from the sky to the earth, but from the earth up into the heavens. In many places, it rained blood.
That night Vidura said the child born to us would cause the end of the world, as we knew it. But I could not imagine my son would be evil. How could he, when I had always kept dharma? Alas, I was wrong and the omens were true.”
Her son stood before her, made of ice. As she described that longago night, a smile flickered on his lips. He said nothing.
Gandhari begged him, “My child, abandon the thought of war. You have no right to put the lives of millions in jeopardy for the sake of your greed and your hatred. I know you think that Pitama Bheeshma, Acharya Drona and your Karna will vanquish the Pandavas. But your cousins have an ally who is greater than all these men, greater than the Gods, even. Dharma is with them.
Then, Krishna is with the Pandavas and Arjuna is one of them. These two, alone, can subdue Indra’s Devas and all the Asuras in patala. Don’t you know who they are? They are Nara Narayana. But how would you know that? You are so full of yourself and your own darkness. Duryodhana, if you won’t listen to anyone else, at least you will not ignore what I am saying to you. You cannot fight dharma, my son. Dharma is eternal. You, your brothers and everyone who fights for you will die.” A sob shook her. Her voice dropping to a whisper, she said, “And the earth shall be made pure again.”
Gandhari broke down and wept. Her son still stood with the same mocking smile on his lips. When his mother had finished, he did not say a word to answer her. He turned on his heel and, without a glance at anyone in the sabha, Duryodhana walked out again.