TWO
Sanjaya cannot help himself: he has to go back to Samantapanchaka where Duryodhana lies dying. It is twilight when he arrives and, peering carefully through the trees, he sees the Kaurava is alone. He lies writhing on the ground and sharp hisses of breath escape him, when the pain is unendurable. Duryodhana rolls from side to side, he is covered in mud. Tears course trails down his ashen face and he sobs pitiably with torment.
Sanjaya thinks his heart will break, seeing him like that: Duryodhana who had been lord of all he surveyed, master of the earth. No one had been as powerful or as wealthy as the man who now lies in the dirt, his very manhood crushed and no one beside him, as he dies slowly in the wilderness. Here lies a king whose feet had never felt the paving of a street; one whose palace had been like a God’s temple. Sanjaya thinks of how, once, Duryodhana would pass through his city: the glittering retinue that went with him and he riding his caparisoned elephant like Indra himself on Airavata. Where is all that majesty now? How pitiless fate is, that she lays the sovereigns of the earth so low. Everything lost, the Kaurava lies wriggling in the dust.
Duryodhana presses his palms hard against the earth, as agony rips through him. He grits his teeth, his chest heaves and now and again a helpless cry is torn from his lips when the pain crests. At times, his body twitches in spasms, at others he shivers uncontrollably. During brief remissions, he shakes his head and growls at his helplessness. Sanjaya runs forward and kneels beside his dying prince.
Duryodhana sees Sanjaya and at once, he grows calm. He lies back with a sigh and Sanjaya takes his hand. Slowly, with an intense effort, Duryodhana speaks to him, “Sanjaya, what a loving soul you are that you have come back to me. My friend, I am in hell, but my life refuses to leave this broken body.”
Sanjaya’s tears fall onto his hands. Duryodhana smiles wanly and says, “Don’t cry for me, Sanjaya. I am very near swarga now. But it seems I have to pay for my sins and be purified before I reach the blessed place.”
A livid spasm tears through him again and he gasps. In a while, it seems to pass and he says weakly, “I can hardly bear it. Look at me, Sanjaya. This is I, Duryodhana, who just a few days ago had Bheeshma, Drona, Karna, Kripa, Shalya, Kritavarman, Dusasana and a thousand kshatriyas to fight for me. I was the lord of eleven aksauhinis and I was so certain I would win the war. Look at me now.”
Duryodhana weeps. Speaking exhausts him and he falls silent for a while. Then he says, “Sanjaya, will you do something for me?”
“Anything, my lord!” sobs Sanjaya.
“Find Acharya Kripa, Kritavarman and Aswatthama. Tell them that Bheema struck me down with a low blow. Tell them I am still alive and I want to see them before I die. Then go to Hastinapura and tell Dhritarashtra and Gandhari what happened. Tell my mother that her son died like a kshatriya. Say I did not run from battle, but fought to the last, my head held high. Tell her I was happy as I died and I would find Devaloka for myself. Tell her, good Sanjaya, I died without any regret.”
Again he subsides, gasping. His hand goes limp in Sanjaya’s and he whispers, “Go now, my friend, send my three warriors to me quickly.”
Then, in sweet relief from his ordeal, he has fainted. Sanjaya runs through the forest, calling to the three warriors as loudly as he dares. They are not far and seeking Duryodhana themselves, since they do not know where he went from the Dwaipayana lake. Sanjaya tells them everything that happened and shows them the way to Samantapanchaka. He says, choking, “I have a message from Duryodhana to take to Hastinapura. And I cannot bear to see him as he is.”
Sanjaya turns back to the city. Word of Duryodhana’s fall has spread like fire in Hastinapura and some of the people come out into the wilds to see him. But they find him unconscious and growing afraid of the jungle as night draws near, they turn back home. One tale tells how they bring Duryodhana’s youngest son to see his dying father. The Kaurava cannot even take the child on to his lap, where he once called Panchali to sit and waves him away in misery. Though his pain is intolerable, Duryodhana refuses to be carried back to Hastinapura.
Kripa, Kritavarman and Aswatthama find their king alone, lying there like the sun fallen onto the earth, the disc of the full moon shrouded in a fog, or a great tiger struck down by hunters, still raging.
He is conscious, his brow furrowed, squirming on the ground, crying out at times. Aswatthama kneels beside him and takes his hands. When he sees the bloody ruin below Duryodhana waist, dizziness overcomes Drona’s son.
When the others revive him, Aswatthama clutches Duryodhana’s hands and cries, “What has this world come to that a king like you, O lord of the earth, lies alone in your final hour? It is a vile world and nothing in it is permanent.”
Duryodhana manages a wry smile and, his voice lower than a whisper, says, “All things in this world only die, Aswatthama and this is the end written for me in fate’s book. But don’t grieve for me, my friends, I am not sorry my life ends here. Remember that as soon as breath leaves this body, I will be in Devaloka. And in heaven, my brothers and my Karna are waiting for me. I see everything clearly now. All this is fate and there is no use blaming anyone for it.”
His chest heaves again, in mortal exhaustion. Duryodhana wipes his tears and brushes aside the dust-matted hair that has fallen over his face.
Aswatthama blazes up in anger. “The sons of Pandu are the worst sinners! They cover themselves in a cloak of dharma, but look what they have done to you. They killed my father dishonorably and they have done the same to you. Duryodhana, just say the word and this very night I will kill the Pandavas. I will kill them under Krishna’s eyes! They are a plague upon the earth, they must not be left alive.”
Duryodhana’s eyes fill. He had always thought that Aswatthama was partial to the Pandavas and now here he is swearing to kill them for his sake. The Kaurava summons the last of his strength and says to Kripa, “Acharya, bring me water from the river.”
When Kripa complies, Duryodhana says, “Sprinkle Aswatthama with the water, make him the new Senapati of my army.”
Sadly, solemnly, Kripa performs the ritual; he intones the mantras to make Aswatthama supreme commander of the Kuru army. Aswatthama rises: his face dripping, his eyes shining as if he has been given command of a million men. He kneels again beside Duryodhana. The dying Kaurava lays his hand on his warrior’s head. Aswatthama clasps him and whispers fiercely, “I will not fail you, my lord. Revenge shall be ours tonight!”
The other two embrace their king and then leave him there, alone once more. As night falls, they make their way south, tiredly toward the Pandava camp. This camp is built on the hem of some woods. Aswatthama and his army of two arrive in those woods. They find a clear, lotus-laden pool and quench their thirst from it. They move on toward the edge of the trees and hear sounds of celebration coming from the Pandava camp. Too tired even to think of attacking the enemy tonight, they retreat deeper into the woods and find a fine old tree, an immense nyagrodha with a thousand branches, under which to rest. They say their evening prayers and no sooner have their heads touched the ground than Kripa and Kritavarman are asleep.
Aswatthama cannot sleep. He lies under the tree, his eyes wide in the deepening twilight. His mind works feverishly, plotting revenge. But no plausible scheme rises into it and he lies frustrated. The sun sinks below the asta mountains and night, mother of the universe, falls. Aswatthama’s gaze ranges over the dense branches overhead and he sees them adorned by so many crows’ nests: like large fruit among the leaves. The dark birds have all come to roost for the night and they are asleep. Aswatthama’s eyelids are growing heavy, when he sees a flash of white wings in the darkness. It seems a shimmering spirit from another world has flown down into this one. Peering up intently, Aswat-thama sees it is no spirit that has alighted in the branches above him. It is an immense owl and when he can see its head clearly, he sees it is a terrible bird. Its green eyes flash like cold lamps in the dark.
Aswatthama lies rapt. He has the strangest feeling that the scene unfolding above him is an omen. Once it has flown down into the tree, the white owl gives the most chilling screech and attacks the sleeping crows. The owl is a blizzard of beak and talons; it seems to be everywhere in that tree at once. The poor crows hardly have time to awake, before the marauding owl savages them. Raked and bloody, their black bodies fall dead out of the branches. The hunting owl brings such terror and the crows are taken so unawares, they perish in the onslaught hardly knowing what killed them.
When it has killed all the crows, the owl pauses to clean its beak and claws against the bark of the tree. Its huge eyes glow like moon-lenses in the night and the warrior below clearly sees the glint of satisfaction in them. Aswatthama wonders what the crows had done to the owl for it to wreak such revenge. The next moment, the great bird spreads it wings and truly like an unearthly spirit, it flies off and is lost in the night.
Suddenly, Aswatthama knows what he must do. In a frenzy, he wakes the others. Thinking they are being attacked they spring up, drawing their swords. It is only Aswatthama, trembling with excitement, burning in the night.
Kripa says sleepily, “What has possessed you now, Aswatthama? Go back to sleep, child.”
His nephew cries, “I cannot sleep! I know how to have revenge on the Pandavas.”
“What do you mean?”
Aswatthama’s eyes gleam insanely. “We must kill them when they are asleep! We must attack them now, when they don’t expect us.”
Kritavarman and Kripa gasp. Kripa cries, “How can you even think such a thing?”
“A sovereign of the earth, a master of eleven aksauhinis, lies dying by himself: his manhood shattered by cowardly Bheema. How else, uncle, do you suggest that we avenge him? The Pandavas have won this war with guile. Now we must also fight them with deceit. There is no other way.”
Kripa says, “A warrior must be brave, but he must also be virtuous. You must remember Duryodhana was no king of dharma himself. He was greedy and ruthless. He humiliated the Pandavas. He cheated them out of everything they owned and banished them for thirteen years. Still, they sued for peace until the last moment. But Duryodhana was unrelenting. We must not take his death out of its context, or forget everything he did to the sons of Pandu. And as for the manner in which Bheema struck him down, it was only as he swore he would. Perhaps you are right that the gada-yuddha was not the occasion to do it. That isn’t cause enough for us to commit the crime you want to.”
But Aswatthama is adamant. “Was the way they killed my father, their guru, dharma? The time for dharma has passed. This is the time for revenge.”
“And we will seek revenge, openly. We will challenge the Pandavas tomorrow and fight them to the death. That will be honorable and fate will smile on us. Yours is a dastardly plan, my son. I beg you, don’t even think of such a sin.”
Aswatthama is past listening to reason. “I have sworn to Duryodhana that I will kill the Pandavas. I am his Senapati now. This is the only way I can keep my word to him.”
Kripa says, “I am tired and I cannot think clearly. Let us seek Dhritarashtra’s counsel, queen Gandhari’s and the wise Vidura’s, before we do anything we might regret.”
Aswatthama says, “I have made up my mind and I mean to do this thing tonight.” A fearful smile touches his lips. “It is their first night of rest after the war. The Pandavas will be asleep. They would have taken off their armor and be lost in dreams. They will never wake up again.”
Again, Kripa says, “You are so tired and sad that you don’t realize what you are saying. Sleep now, Aswatthama; tomorrow we will fight the Pandavas together.”
“Sleep! How can a man who is in the grip of anger or desire, anxiety or sorrow, sleep? I am churned by all four! I will sleep only after I have killed the sons of Pandu. If you won’t come with me, I will go alone. Farewell.”
He strides away toward his chariot. He has not gone ten paces when Kripa and Kritavarman cry after him, “Wait! We will come with you.”
They realize that it is later than they imagined. The kali yuga is upon them and the time for dharma is past. They are all that remain of Duryodhana’s army; from now, they will have to act together, whatever they did, or they would die. The last three warriors of Duryodhana’s numberless legions ride in the pitched night to avenge their fallen king.