EIGHT
The next morning, the Kauravas filed into the court of Hastinapura. Bheeshma and Dhritarashtra entered first and sat on their thrones. The blind king was haggard after the long night, already defeated before the first arrow was loosed or the first blade drew blood. When all the others were in their places, Sanjaya came in. The sabha settled quickly and Dhritarashtra asked, “Sanjaya, what message do you bring from my nephews in Upaplavya?”
Sanjaya rose, “Yudhishtira sends his greetings to you all. Listen to what transpired in the sabha into which I took your message. Hear what Krishna said and what Yudhishtira and Arjuna said after him.”
Sanjaya had been sent as a messenger also for a special gift he had: his prodigious memory. He launched into a vivid description of the council in Upaplavya and he remembered details that no other man would have. He described the clothes the different kings wore and, even, who was grim or who smiled and when. Not a word had he forgotten, not an inflection of tone or a flicker of expression in a speaker’s eye. The sabha in Hastinapura sat riveted while he spoke.
Sanjaya was fierce, when he came to what Arjuna said. “‘Tell Dhritarashtra’s son if he does not give up half the kingdom, he will see Bheema hunt his soldiers like Yama. Tell the foul-tongued suta-putra that he will die, when I meet him again on the battlefield. Tell him I cannot wait to cut his arrogant life short. Tell Duryodhana he will repent when he sees Satyaki take the field against him. Tell him Krishna will be my sarathy and no Kaurava will escape death.’“
Sanjaya concluded, “And Yudhishtira said finally that if Duryodhana will not give him back his kingdom, let him give just five towns. Let him return Indraprastha, Vrikaprastha, Jayanta, Varanavrata and any other village of his choice and Yudhishtira will disband his legions.”
Having finished, Sanjaya sat down amidst silence in that sabha. No one spoke for a time, then Bheeshma said in his deep, slow way, “Ah Duryodhana, are you intent on courting death? Don’t you see whom you have chosen to be your enemies? Arjuna and Krishna. The rishis all say they are Nara Narayana of old come to wash the earth in blood. They are invincible, my son. Listen to an old man; give up your obstinacy. Give back their kingdom to the Pandavas and be grateful that they won’t seek revenge.”
Duryodhana sat stiffly in his place, not a muscle moving. Bheeshma looked at his favorite grandson, with untold tenderness and anxiety in his old eyes. And he spoke not because he thought there was any hope of Duryodhana doing as he asked, but he felt it was his sacred duty to say, again, what was obvious.
The Pitama resumed, “They have dharma with them and if that is not enough, they have Krishna as well. Duryodhana, you will decide if there will be war. All the rest, Dhritarashtra, Dusasana, Karna, even Shakuni, will do as you say. I beg you, my child, even now it is not too late: return their kingdom to your cousins and let us have peace.”
Duryodhana was impassive. In despair, his grandsire cried, “Do you hope the vile, scheming Shakuni will win the war for you? Or your brother Dusasana, steeped in every vice known to man? No, you rely on Karna. How blind can you be? You hope a sutaputra can win a war against the noblest kshatriyas in the world. Have you forgotten he was cursed by his own guru for lying to him? How will he turn away Bhargava’s curse? And the brahmana on the seashore, whose cow he killed, cursed him. Your friend has already set himself on a course to death. Must you follow him, Duryo-dhana?
Or haven’t you heard that he has given away his kavacha and kundala to Indra? Without them, how will he stand before Indra’s son in battle? Duryodhana, as I love you, listen to me. You cannot win this war.”
Karna sprang to feet and cried, “Bheeshma, you cannot speak to me like this whenever you care to! Have I been disloyal to Duryodhana that you rebuke me? I may not be born one, but I am more of a kshatriya than most of you. My birth is not as important as my loyalty. And for you, Duryodhana, I will kill all the Pandavas by myself!”
Bheeshma would not deign to address Karna directly. He turned to Dhritarashtra and said, “For so many years, I have been listening to this fool bragging about how he will kill the Pandavas single-handedly. Yet, so far, it has only been great words, never deeds. Dhritarashtra, the sutaputra is not a sixteenth part the archer Arjuna is and I lay the blame squarely on him for the plight we are in today. He incited Duryodhana to humiliate the Pandavas in this sabha.
Duryodhana, depending on this braggart, you made enemies of your mighty cousins. What could Karna do against the gandharva in Dwaitavana? What did he do against Arjuna in Virata, even when we were all with him? Both times he was routed and he fled. But I see reproach in your eyes because I censure your friend. I feel so sorry for you, my child, but I fear you are past my help.”
Before his Pitama had finished, Duryodhana insultingly turned his face away from the patriarch; and that was always his way with anyone who said a word against Karna. The love between Duryodhana and Karna was not something that Bheeshma or anyone in Hastinapura understood. It was a thing of the soul, much like the love between Krishna and Arjuna: a sacred covenant, a relationship that transcended every other.
Lately, there was a lot of ill will against Karna in the Kuru sabha. The elders felt the suta’s son wielded too much influence in the kingdom. Bheeshma was the only one who spoke out openly against him. Duryodhana drifted farther and farther from his grandfather, assuming a remote, barely civil formality toward the old man who loved him so dearly.
Except for Duryodhana and his brothers, hardly anyone in Hastinapura cared for Karna. Dhritarashtra was careful to keep on his right side, but only because the king did not want to estrange his son. As for the rest, they disliked the brash sutaputra and resented the power he had. But they dare not cross him, for fear; and if anyone slighted Karna, it seemed that Duryodhana’s love for him only grew. He was as protective as a mother. Duryodhana felt the anguish Karna endured set him not only apart from, but also above the rest of mankind. He saw Karna as a suffering God. If there was anyone Duryodhana loved as dearly as he did himself, it was his brilliant, tormented friend.
An abrasive silence or an eyebrow sardonically arched were weapons the Kaurava used to effect. Now, with a sneer, he turned his face away from Bheeshma, as if everything the patriarch said was nonsense.
Drona rose to speak. “What Bheeshma says is true. The messages Krishna and Arjuna sent are not empty threats. If they say they will kill the Kauravas, they do not speak for the pleasure of hearing themselves brag. Arjuna is my sishya, I know what an archer he is. Then he was only a boy; now he is a man and a master of the devastras. He has Siva’s Paasupata. When I am told there is no kshatriya on earth like him, I believe what I hear.
The first lesson any warrior must learn is never to underestimate his enemy; there is nothing more foolish. Yet, this sabha is doing just that. Duryodhana, Karna, you are like children that have no notion of who they are going to war against. Make peace with the Pandavas. If there is a war, I, Drona, tell you that you will not win.”
Dhritarashtra grew more restive than ever. When nobody else spoke after Drona sat down, the king turned his face toward Sanjaya and said, “Sanjaya, tell us about the army the Pandavas have gathered in Upaplavya.”
Sanjaya rose again and he let his mind wander back to the force he had seen outside that city. Suddenly, with eerie intensity, he saw multitudinous legions around him. He felt he was back in Upa-plavya. He heard the awesome noise of a million voices speaking at once. He saw the glitter of weapons, the gleam of mail. He smelt the living bodies of a million fierce men. He saw the grim faces of the kshatriyas who led them. All this swept over Sanjaya in a moment and as if fate laid its hand on him, his eyes rolled up and he fainted.
A commotion broke out. Some courtiers sprang forward to revive the sarathy and the king asked in alarm, “What happened? Why doesn’t Sanjaya speak?”
Bheeshma said dryly, “He swooned at the memory of the Pandava army.”
Dhritarashtra’s hands were cold again. Sanjaya was revived with sharp salts and as he began to describe the army at Upaplavya in a low, clear voice, Dhritarashtra’s terror grew.
“My lord, besides the Pandavas and Satyaki, Virata will fight against us; and with them, Drupada, Shikhandi and Dhrishtadyumna, Yuyudhana, Jarasandha’s son Jayatsena, Dhrishtaketu, the Chedi king and many others as unconquerable. Their armies teem with kshatriyas whose names I do not know. But I saw them and they are hardly less formidable than their kings.”
Dhritarashtra whispered, “Listening to you, Sanjaya, I fear for my sons’ lives. And more than any of the kshatriyas you have named, I fear Bheema! I see him at nights, red-eyed and terrible. I hear the oath he swore that he would kill Duryodhana and Dusasana. I feel certain that, truly like Yama himself, he will raze our army and kill all my sons. Ah, Duryodhana, I see you with your thigh broken, dying slowly, in agony. Dusasana, my child, I see you with your chest torn open by Vayu’s son and his lips stained with your blood.
I see Bheema sweep over our legions like a scarlet Ganga in spate. I am blind, I know, but I see all this with ghastly clarity, even as sighted men see the world. Listen to me, my sons, I have never spoken to you like this before. I don’t sleep at night, but lie awake watching these visions of death. I see Yudhishtira’s angry eyes turned to glare at my children. They are terrible eyes, Duryodhana and I cry out when he looks at me.
Oh, my friends, I am helpless; my son will not listen to me. He has sinned, but it is not too late to turn back from his sin. If only he would relent.”
Unexpectedly Sanjaya cried, “My lord, it is you who are to blame not Duryodhana! The sin is yours. For years, Vidura tried to bring you back to dharma. Tirelessly, he sought to show you the way to light. But you were greedy and envious, my lord, you would never listen to him.
I was in this sabha when the game of dice was played. How much Vidura begged you to stop it. Did you listen? Your ears were keened to the roll of the ivory dice and you would turn to me to whisper, ‘Who won? Who won?’ My lord, a father is the best friend a man can have in this life. You have denied your son the fortune of having a wise father’s advice and firmness, when he most needed it. You were not a wise father, but a selfish one. You thought only of your own material benefit, not of the harm you were doing to your son’s character. Dhritarashtra, you led your boy to his ruin.
You were the king. A word from you would have been enough: you could have stopped the game of dice. Your brother Pandu served you loyally when he was alive. His conquests make up most of this kingdom. But when his sons came home to Hastinapura, you did not treat them justly. This kingdom and this city rightfully belong to Yudhishtira, but you gave him a desert. And he made it bloom. Then your son took that away from his cousin, as well, with deceit.
When the Pandavas were banished, you felt no grief for them, Dhritarashtra, but only fear because they left swearing revenge. Do you remember you called me that day, my lord?”
The king had nothing to say. Sanjaya went on, relentlessly, “And I say to you today, O king, the sons of Pandu shall fulfil their oaths. They will kill your sons. And your princes will die not so much for their sins, as for yours, Dhritarashtra; that you did not stop them when you should have, but, instead, abetted their folly from your own avarice.
At least Duryodhana has those that love him in this world; for his sake, eleven aksauhinis have come to Hastinapura. All these kshatriyas are ready to die for him. They have not come for you, Dhritarashtra, or for the Kurus, but for your son. This prince would have been an emperor in his own right, except that you led him down an evil path. Once I thought you were more clear-sighted than men that saw the world with their eyes; you have proved you are truly blind.
My lord, your sons will die on the battlefield, but they will not die cowards. They will die such deaths that the world will remember them. All their sins shall be forgiven and they will find the heaven meant for kshatriyas killed in battle.
Duryodhana’s selfishness will be forgiven, because he will die a resplendent death at Bheema’s hands. And this Karna, this most generous man on earth, will die for his Duryodhana. What greater gift is there than to give one’s life for one’s friend? He will be remembered as the noblest of men. But you, my poor lord, will find no such release. You will outlive all your sons in dreadful grief. You will live to see ruin, to gaze into the face of doom. And then you will curse yourself that you did not relent earlier and prevent this war. You will not escape retribution, Dhritarashtra, there is no Salvation for you.
Dhritarashtra had turned pale on his throne. His lips worked feverishly and he could not hide the terror he felt. Now and then, a moan would escape him, as he sat huddled within his blindness; but he was so transparent and pathetic today.