NINE
Within the chakra vyuha, Abhimanyu is a hungry tiger loose among a wilderness of deer. He kills thousands of men, his face so young and innocent, his archery so mature, so awesome. Like Kart-tikeya among the Asuras, Abhimanyu is at the Kaurava legions: bodies are scattered everywhere, one heaped on the other and blood runs in little streams. Those whom he kills hardly cry out any more. It is as if they expect to die at his hands; indeed, as if they would rather die quickly, than suffer the torment of fear with which he stalks them. Soon, no one can count how many men that handsome prince has killed. He strews the field with corpses and severed limbs, as priests strew blades of kusa grass upon a vedi. He scatters Kurukshetra with noble heads of kings, adorned with crowns, turbans, ear-studs, pearls and diamonds, like lotuses cut from their stalks and flowing blood.
He looses a gandharvastra at the enemy. It is a missile of dreams and suddenly they see a thousand Abhimanyus everywhere, each one shooting at them. The Kaurava soldiers run in every direction. Many of them fall on their own comrades in panic and hack one another down. Abhimanyu’s clear laughter crests that wave of death.
Moved by foolhardiness, envy and a hope for quick fame, Shalya’s son Rukmartha challenges Abhimanyu. The duel between the two is intense, but brief; and Arjuna’s prince severs Rukmartha’s young head. Rukmartha’s incensed brothers rush at him from four sides. But he strikes them all down, quicker than seeing and they are carried unconscious from the field.
Duryodhana’s beautiful son Lakshmana1 Kumara rides at Abhimanyu from a flank. A wild duel breaks out between the cousins. Fire in his eye, Duryodhana roars encouragement at his boy; and for a while, it seems Abhimanyu is contained. He cannot lacerate the Kaurava legions any more; Lakshmana absorbs him. Duryodhana’s son fights like the prince of old, Rama’s brother, after whom he is named. But then, Abhimanyu pierces his throat with a perfect arrow. With his father watching in horror, Lakshmana Kumara dies.
Duryodhana’s roar echoes on Kurukshetra, as if he himself had been shot. His face a mask, he cries, “Kill the wretched boy, he has killed my son!”
Six maharathikas stream forward against Abhimanyu. Drona, Kripa, Aswatthama, Karna, Brihad-bala and Kritavarman surround the meridian prince. Meanwhile, Abhimanyu has seen who sealed the chakra vyuha against his uncles. He attacks Jayadratha with a gale of silver shafts. It seems he does not mean just to break the wheel open again, but to destroy it. But Jayadratha bars his way with a legion of elephants and some exceptional archery of his own.
Like thunderclouds around the rising sun, the six maharathikas surround Abhimanyu. But he fights like the sun himself and not the six together can quench him. Like a dancer in his chariot, he infuses a lifetime’s heroism into an hour; as if he knows he hasn’t a lifetime but just this hour to make his name immortal. Abhimanyu knows the other Pandavas have been kept out of the chakra vyuha, but he fights as if they are all with him, in his very body. The six maharathikas have their horses killed by lightning from the hands of Arjuna’s son. They have their bows shredded and their chariots shattered beneath them by impossible volleys.
Wounded and bloody, Karna runs from the fight and Shalya rides up to take his place. Abhimanyu’s fiercest assailant is Brihadbala, who fights as if he knows his own final moments on earth are here. The prince shoots the armor off his chest, with inspired precision, then pierces him through his heart and Brihadbala dies. Dusasana’s son flies at Arjuna’s boy. Abhimanyu cries, “At least you stand and fight! It must be your mother’s blood in you, because your father is a coward.”
Aswatthama looses a flaming astra at Abhimanyu. It glances harmlessly off his clever mail and, in reply, the prince covers Drona’s son in blood. Breathlessly, Shakuni says to Duryodhana, “We must attack him all together.”
Karna cries to Drona, “We must kill him, or he will kill us all! Acharya, tell us how this terrible boy can be slain.”
Drona says wistfully, “Ah, he is a golden storm, isn’t he? Arjuna’s son is greater than Arjuna! It is the armor he wears that keeps him safe; and the way his father has taught him to wear it.”
Karna cries, “Tell us how to kill him, or the war is lost!”
Slowly, Drona says, “You must kill the two men who guard his rear. Then break his bow and his chariot.”
“Easy to say, Acharya, but haven’t we tried?”
“Only when you face him. You cannot vanquish this child when you face him, not you, Karna, or anyone. But there is a way, a desperate way. You must ride behind him and sever his bowstring when he isn’t watching you.”
Karna winces and Drona has turned away before he can answer him. The spirit of war possesses the warrior completely. Karna steals behind Abhimanyu and cuts his bowstring with an exact shaft. That prince spins around in shock, with a roar on his lips, “Coward! Who are you?”
Kripa kills the two guards protecting Abhimanyu’s back. Drona kills his horses; Kritavarman shatters his chariot under him. Then, six mighty archers attack him together, as he stands unarmed before them. They are like a pack of wild dogs running down a golden stag. They cover him with arrows. His eyes bloodshot, his body shaking with the ignominy of what they have done, he roars at Drona, “You are my father’s guru. They say Drona is a great warrior. This is the deed of a coward!”
He turns on Karna, while they still shoot at him. Abhimanyu sneers, “You are Bhargava’s sishya! You dare call yourself my father’s equal and my uncle says you are a man of dharma. Is this your dharma? All of you are known as noble men, but I see today how such maharathikas fight. Cowards! How does the earth not open for shame and swallow you?”
He seizes his sword and shield and leaps down from his ruined chariot. Staving off the tide of fire in which they seek to consume him, Abhimanyu runs forward: to kill them all. Drona breaks his sword at the hilt and Karna smashes his shield. Abhimanyu stands bared before his sanguinary enemies and they strike him with a hundred shafts, that crash into him one after the other, drawing maroon geysers.
Blood streaming down his body, Abhimanyu runs back to his chariot and has a thought of his father. ‘Arjuna, I will not see the pride in your eyes when you hear what I have done today.’
Then, his own eyes fill with tears; he thinks of Subhadra and knows she will be heartbroken when she hears he is dead. Abhimanyu thinks of Krishna, while they shoot at him at will and his armor still shields him from most of their arrows; of Yudhishtira and Bheema, he thinks. How stricken they would be at what had happened today, how tormented with guilt that they could not come to him when he needed them. But Jayadratha would pay for what he did; he would pay with his life.
Abhimanyu pulls a wheel free from the broken axle of his chariot. By now, he is a setting sun on Kurukshetra, crimsoned by enemies’ arrows he wears like a kshatriya’s proud ornaments, in profusion. He whirls the chariot-wheel over his head and stands radiant before them, his spirit undimmed by the least tinge of fear. Abhimanyu cries, “Save your honor, Kshatriyas! Don’t let shame stain your souls. Come and fight me one by one, if you dare!”
Even as Krishna did at Bheeshma, he strides at Drona, wheel in hand. His hair flies in a breeze blowing just around him, his face shines supernaturally. He raises the wheel to cast it at Drona. The Acharya splinters it in his hands with ten wish-like arrows. Abhimanyu seizes up his mace from the ruins of his chariot. He cries through bloody lips, “Come, Kshatriyas, fight me one by one!”
He charges Aswatthama, taking Drona’s son unawares. Though Abhimanyu is gravely wounded, he kills Aswatthama’s horses with blows like falling thunder. Aswatthama’s rear guards leap at him; he crushes their heads like eggshells. Aswatthama flees. Knowing death is near seems only to embolden Arjuna’s son. He smashes chariots and their warriors run from him. An entire legion of elephants he kills, blowing like death’s wind among the grey beasts.
Then, Dusasana’s son leaps down from his own ratha and rushes at Abhimanyu. Abhimanyu’s face lights up when he sees him. He roars gladly, “At last a kshatriya! Come cousin, let us fight: for our elders are all cowards.”
They fight with ringing mace-blows. No Kaurava warrior dares shoot at Abhimanyu, for fear of killing their own prince. But he has lost a lot of blood from the shafts of the six maharathikas. Dusasana’s son and he strike each other a tremendous blow, at once. Both fall together, but Abhimanyu faints. In a moment, he wakes and reaches for his weapon. But Dusasana’s boy has already got up and hefted his mace. Just as Abhimanyu begins to rise, the other youth swings his weapon down squarely on his head, flattening it, so blood and brains spurt out. Blemishless Abhimanyu falls back without a cry, dead at twilight.
Around the golden prince, Arjuna’s sixteen-year-old son, the Kaurava warriors erupt in coarse joy. Their yells echo in heaven: treacherous Drona’s hot shouts of jubilation and terrible Karna’s and Aswatthama’s, Duryodhana’s, Kripa’s and the roars of all the rest, as if they had killed a hundred great warriors.
As the sun sinks sadly over that crime, it seems not just the day but all the age has grown dark at how they killed beautiful Abhimanyu. If any of them feels remorse, none shows it, not even Karna. Instead, their cries of celebration swell in an obscene squall, deafening the elements. The chakra vyuha has served its purpose; Drona has kept his word to his malignant sovereign, even if he has lost his soul by doing so.
Across the field, Yudhishtira and Bheema hear that awful roar and they know Abhimanyu is dead. Yudhishtira swoons in his chariot. The Pandava soldiers dash from the field in irrational terror. Arjuna has not yet returned from his battle with the Trigartas.