The Mahabharata: A Modern Rendering (2 Vols.), page 145
Krishna says, “You and your brothers fought heroically. You deserve to have victory.”
They ride a short way, and decide to stay beside the river flowing nearby. They have just settled under some trees, when Krishna sees a shadow on Yudhishtira’s face. He asks, “Why are you distraught?”
Yudhishtira has turned pale. He says slowly, “By your grace we have won the war, and the earth is ours now. But, Krishna, I fear the wrath of Gandhari. She is a bhakta and a righteous queen, and she is a mother who has lost all her sons. She could burn the world with her grief, and she may curse us, when she hears how Duryodhana died. I beg you, go to Hastinaputa and pacify Gandhari.”
Krishna is thoughtful. He says softly, “You are right. Gandhari must not curse you: there are others to bear her wrath. I will go at once.”
Krishna has his own chariot fetched, and sets out for the Kuru capital.
Meanwhile, hiding among the trees in Samantapanchaka, Sanjaya saw Duryodhana fall. Shocked and weeping, he flew back to Hastinapura. His arms raised above his head, he came wailing into the palace and Dhritarashtra’s presence. Dhritarashtra sat with Gandhari and his daughters-in-law around him. Vidura was there, as well.
Sanjaya ran in and cried, “My lord! Fate has robbed us of everything we had.” Then he could not go on, but sobbed like a child. Water was fetched for him, and when he drank, he grew calmer. He managed to say, “The war is over, and we have lost. Shalya and Shakuni were killed, Uluka is dead, and...” he broke down again.
Vidura asked, “What of Duryodhana?”
Sanjaya cried as if he had lost his own son, “Bheema felled Duryodhana in a gada-yuddha! He lies dying at Samantapanchaka.”
Gandhari slumped to the floor from her throne. Dhritarashtra swayed where he sat, and he swooned. The world spun before Vidura’s eyes, and he clutched the arms of his chair. Duryodhana’s queens and his brothers’ wives set up a lament, many of them fell unconscious. The blind king revived in a short while, and then fainted again; and thus, twice or thrice. The palace maids came to Gandhari. They sprinkled water on her face, and held sharp salts under her nose. She lay as if she was dead.
After a while, Gandhari and Dhritarashtra revived, and poor Vidura did his best to comfort them. Vyasa arrived, opportunely; even he could hardly quieten the surging tide of grief. Gandhari wailed hysterically, beating her breast, and Dhritarashtra sobbed and sobbed.
It is now that Krishna appears in the Kuru palace and is shown into the sabha.
Tears well in his eyes when he sees Dhritarashtra and Gandhari in their sorrow. He comes forward to take their hands. The presence of the Avatara infuses their hearts with mysterious strength. Full of mercy, Krishna sits near that king and queen, speaking tenderly to them, stroking their hands, their faces, as if he was comforting two children. Gradually, their sobbing subsides; sorrow’s storm blows more quietly in their aged bodies. In their moment of crisis, they clearly feel the love of the Dark One, transcending their grief, transcending everything: a timeless, unshakeable love. Like children with a father, they let him console them with his gentle words, his healing touch.
When they are calmer, Krishna says to Gandhari, “Do you remember the day I last came to Hastinapura? I came on a mission of peace, and Duryodhana plotted to take me his hostage. I have not forgotten how you stopped him then, Gandhari. Do you remember what you said to your son? You said, ‘Where there is dharma, there is victory.’ So it has turned out, O Queen.
“Today, also, I have come on a mission of peace. I have come to beg you not to blame the Pandavas for what has happened. Yudhishtira grieves that he has caused you such sorrow. You know how much the sons of Pandu wanted to prevent this war. They implored you to give them just five towns, and they would be content. But Duryodhana was adamant. I want you to recall clearly that it was not the Pandavas, but your son who was responsible for the war, and all the tragedy it brought. You must not be tempted to blame Pandu’s sons for Duryodhana’s sins. They have suffered enough for a lifetime; you must welcome them home with love. Most of all, Gandhari, you must not turn your wrath on them. It will not be dharma if you curse them for a war they never wanted.”
He pauses to let what he says sink in, then, continues, “You don’t need me to tell you in what esteem Yudhishtira holds you both. Now, there is no Kuru prince left, save a son of Pandu, to sit upon the ancient throne of Hastinapura. I beg you again, Gandhari, do not hate Kunti’s sons. You are so pure that you can consume the very earth with your anger. All will truly be lost if you turn your fury on the Pandavas.”
Gandhari’s shoulders shake, and she says in confession, “I am glad you came, Krishna. No one but you could have calmed me: for my reason had left me, and I would have done some harm to Kunti’s sons. Truly, you know how to speak to the heart. Grief’s rage has left me, and I see clearly again. I will be just to the Pandavas. I will not harm them.”
Krishna takes her hands. Gandhari breaks down again and sobs pitcously. The grief she has held behind the floodgates of anger flows from her, and the Avatara’s compassion washes over the queen.
Gandhari composes herself, and says, “With my sons all dead, I have only you to comfort me. Don’t abandon me, Krishna.”
The Dark One sits with them for a while longer, consoling them with his presence of grace. Suddenly, a premonition of evil seizes him. He divines a sinister plot that has taken root in the mind of a brahmana warrior. Krishna rises, and says quickly, “The Pandavas are in danger. Give me your leave, I must go at once!”
Dhritarashtra whispers, “Hurry! You must protect my nephews at any cost, they are all this kingdom has left.”
Krishna flies back to Yudhishtira and his brothers in the Jaitra, his chariot of the air. He is relieved to find them safe beside the river, under the trees where he left them. They have Satyaki with them, but all the others have returned to the Pandava camp. Krishna tells them how Dhritarashtra and Gandhari were pacified; they were waiting for their nephews to return to Hastinapura. He also tells them of the danger he had sensed from Aswatthama.
“You are in mortal peril. We must be on our guard tonight.”
TWO
The white owl’s lesson
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, lie 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 dishonourably, 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 towards 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 towards 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. No sooner have their heads touched the ground, after saying their evening prayers, 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, arrives. 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, Aswatthama 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 honourable, 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 armour, 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.”
