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A dread on the evening chariot, a silent camp, and the question no one answers: where is Abhimanyu?
The thirteenth day ended the way every day of that war ended, with the sun going down on a field it would rather not have seen, and the evening twilight, which Sanjaya calls beautiful because it was, spreading itself over the two armies as they drew back to their tents. Far off at the southern edge of the field, Arjuna had spent the whole day killing samsaptakas, the sworn warriors who had pledged to die fighting him and were keeping the pledge in thousands. Now he was coming home on the chariot that had won, the ape on his banner catching the last light, Krishna at the reins. And something was wrong with him. He heard it in his own voice before he understood it. Keshava, he said, and the words came out thick, as if he had been weeping, why is my heart afraid? Why does my speech stumble? Evil signs meet me on every side; my limbs are weak; my mind fills with thoughts of disaster for no reason I can name. The earth itself seems to be showing me omens, many kinds of them, everywhere I look, and all of them foretell something terrible. Is everything well with my elder, the king, and with all his friends? Krishna answered him the way a man answers who already knows and has decided that the road is the wrong place for the knowing. Clearly everything is well with your brother and his friends, he said. Do not grieve. Some small evil has happened somewhere else.
They stopped to worship the twilight, as they did every evening, and mounted again and drove on, talking about the day’s fighting and the heroes it had eaten, two men who had done things that afternoon no one else alive could have done. Then the camp came into view, and Arjuna knew before he was inside it. He had come back to that camp thirteen times and it had always sounded the same: the auspicious trumpet with the drums under it and the conches over it, the sweet vina played to the clapping of hands, the bards moving among the troops singing the day’s praises. Tonight there was none of it. Janardana, he said, no trumpet is sounding. The vina is silent. Our bards are not reciting or singing anywhere among the troops. The warriors are drawing back with their heads down, and when they see me they do not come to tell me what they did today, as they always have. Madhava, is it well with my brothers? Seeing our own people sunk in grief like this, I have no peace. Is it well with the king of the Panchalas, with Virata, with all our warriors, you of unfading glory? And then he said the thing that was really in his mouth. Subhadra’s son is always cheerful, he said. He always comes out with his brothers, smiling, to receive me when I return from battle. He has not come today.
They went in. The Pandavas were sitting together in the dark of their own faces, all of them, and Arjuna looked from his brothers to his sons and back, and the one face he was looking for was not there. He did not ask where Abhimanyu was. He told them what he could see. Your faces are pale, all of you, he said, and I do not see Abhimanyu, and he does not come to congratulate me. I heard that Drona formed the circular array today. None of you could break that array except the boy. And I did not teach him how to come out of it once he had gone in. Did you send the boy into that array? Then the question turned, as such questions do, into the answer. Did that slayer of heroes, Subhadra’s son, that mighty bowman, pierce the array and cut his way through numberless enemies and fall at last in the fight? Tell me how he fell, that boy with the mighty arms and the red eyes, born into our line like a lion on a mountainside, the equal of Indra’s younger brother himself. What warrior, robbed of his senses by Death, dared to kill Subhadra’s dear son, Draupadi’s favorite and Keshava’s, the child Kunti always loved? He was Keshava’s equal in prowess and learning and dignity. How was he killed on the field? What followed was a father’s inventory, and Sanjaya gives all of it because a father would. If I do not see him, Arjuna said, I will go to the house of Yama. The soft curling hair, the tender years, the eyes of a young gazelle, the walk of an elephant in rut, the height of a young shala tree; the sweet speech and the smile that came with it; the quiet, the obedience to his elders, the ripeness of a grown man in a boy’s body; the agreeable words, the absence of vanity, the great courage and the great energy, the large eyes like lotus petals, the kindness to those who depended on him, the self-restraint, the refusal of anything mean; the gratitude, the knowledge, the skill in weapons, the never retreating, the delight in fighting and the fear he put into enemies, the labor for his kinsmen, the wish for his fathers’ victory, the never striking first, the perfect fearlessness in battle. If I do not see that son, I will go to the house of Yama. Counted always among the maharathas, superior to me by half again, tender in years, mighty in arm, dear to Pradyumna and to Keshava and to me: if I do not see that son, I will go to the house of Yama. The beautiful nose, the beautiful forehead, the fair eyes and brows and lips; without that face, what peace can my heart have? A voice like the male kokila’s, sweet as the vina; without hearing it, what peace can my heart have? A beauty without rival, rare even among the gods; without looking on that form, what peace can my heart have? Then the inventory turned over and became its own opposite, item by item. He was accustomed to every luxury and deserved the softest bed, and tonight he sleeps on the bare ground as if he had no one to care for him, he who had more protectors than anyone alive. The most beautiful of women used to wait on him in his bed; tonight, torn by arrows, he will have jackals prowling the field to wait on him. Singers and bards and panegyrists used to wake him; tonight the beasts of prey will wake him with their discord. That face deserved the shade of the royal umbrella, and tonight the dust of the battlefield will foul it. Child, he said, unlucky as I am, death takes you from me by force, and I was never done looking at you. Without doubt the house of Yama, which is the goal of the righteous, is more beautiful tonight for your splendor in it. Without doubt Yama and Varuna and Shatakratu and Kubera, receiving you as a favored guest, are making much of your heroic self.
Sanjaya compares him to a merchant whose ship has gone down, and the comparison is exact: a man standing on a shore doing the arithmetic of everything that was aboard. Arjuna turned to Yudhishthira and the arithmetic became questions. Kuru’s son, did he go to heaven having made a great slaughter of the enemy, having fought the best of them face to face? Without doubt, fighting alone against the foremost warriors, countless in number, fighting with all his strength and resolve, his heart turned toward me, wanting help. Tormented by the sharp bright-pointed shafts of Karna and Drona and Kripa and the rest, my son of small strength must have thought again and again, my father will come and save me in this press. I think he was still thinking it when the cruel ones brought him down. Or perhaps, being begotten by me, being Madhava’s nephew, being born of Subhadra, he could not have uttered such a lament at all. My heart must be made of the essence of the thunderbolt, hard as it is, since it does not break when I cannot see that mighty-armed hero with the red eyes. How could those mighty bowmen with their cruel hearts shoot their deep-piercing arrows at a boy of tender years, who was my son and Vasudeva’s nephew? That noble-hearted youth who came forward every day to congratulate me, why does he not come to me today when I return having killed the enemy? Without doubt he is lying on the bare earth, bathed in blood, like the sun fallen out of the sky, beautifying the ground with his body. I grieve for Subhadra, who will hear that her son died in battle without retreating and will throw away her life for it. What will Subhadra say to me, missing Abhimanyu? What will Draupadi say to me? What will I say to them, in their grief? My heart must be made of the essence of the thunderbolt, since it does not break into a thousand pieces at the sight of my weeping daughter-in-law. Then the memory arrived that would matter most, the one thing about the day he had actually witnessed. The lion roars of the Dhritarashtras, swollen with pride, did reach my ears this afternoon, he said. And Krishna heard Yuyutsu rebuking their heroes: you mighty chariot warriors, unable to defeat Vibhatsu, having killed only a child, why do you rejoice? Having done what is hateful to Keshava and Arjuna, why do you roar like lions for joy when the hour for sorrow has truly come? The fruit of this sin will overtake you soon. The crime you have committed is heinous. How long will it go without bearing fruit? So Yuyutsu, the high-souled son of Dhritarashtra by his Vaishya wife, rebuked them and went away, throwing down his weapons in rage and grief. Krishna, Arjuna said, why did you not tell me all this during the battle? I would have burned those cruel-hearted chariot warriors where they stood.
Krishna gave him the only thing there is to give a Kshatriya father. Do not yield to grief this way, he said. This is the road of every brave man who does not retreat, and above all of Kshatriyas, whose profession is battle. This, foremost of the wise, is the very end that the authors of our scriptures ordained for unretreating heroes engaged in battle. Death is certain for heroes who do not retreat. There is no doubt that Abhimanyu has gone to the regions reserved for people of righteous deeds. This is what every brave man wants, bull of the Bharatas: to die in battle facing his foes. Abhimanyu killed many brave and mighty princes and then met, in the face of battle, the death that heroes covet. Do not grieve, tiger among men. The lawgivers of old declared it the eternal merit of Kshatriyas, death in battle. Your brothers are all in misery, and the king, and these friends of yours, seeing you plunged in grief. Giver of honors, comfort them with consoling words. What should be, you know. It does not become you to grieve. Comforted, or at least steadied, Arjuna spoke to his brothers, and what came out was a demand and then an accusation. Lord of the earth, he said to Yudhishthira, I want to hear how the mighty-armed Abhimanyu fought, that hero with the large eyes like lotus petals. You will see me exterminate the enemy with his elephants and chariots and horses; I will exterminate the killers of my son with all their followers and kinsmen. Then, to all of them: you are all accomplished in arms, you were all armed, so how could Subhadra’s son be killed, even if it were the wielder of the thunderbolt he fought? If I had known the Pandavas and the Panchalas could not protect my son in battle, I would have protected him myself. You were on your chariots, you were shooting your arrows; how then was Abhimanyu killed by the enemy while making a great carnage in their ranks? You have no manliness and no prowess, since Abhimanyu was killed in the sight of you all. Or I should blame myself, for going away when I knew you were all weak and cowardly and irresolute. Are your coats of mail and your weapons of every kind only ornaments for your bodies, and was speech given to you only for talking in assemblies, that you failed to protect my son, clad in mail, armed from head to foot, after you had assured me in words that you were able? Having said it, he sat down, holding his bow and his excellent sword, and no one could look at him. He was breathing in long deep pulls, like the Destroyer in his wrath, his face wet, and none of his friends or kinsmen dared meet his eyes or say a word. None. In all circumstances only two people were acceptable to Arjuna, Vasudeva and Yudhishthira, because he revered them and loved them above everyone; only those two could speak to him at such a time. So it was the king who spoke, to the lotus-eyed Partha, full of rage and torn by grief for his son.
A key to reading this (names and kinship): Jishnu, Vibhatsu, Partha, Phalguna and the ape-bannered one are all Arjuna. “Indra’s younger brother” is Vishnu in his dwarf birth, Vamana, born of Aditi after Indra. Abhimanyu is the son of Arjuna and Subhadra, and Subhadra is Krishna’s sister, which is why Arjuna keeps saying the boy was Madhava’s nephew, Vasudeva’s nephew: the crime was against both of them. Yuyutsu is Dhritarashtra’s son by a Vaishya wife, who crossed over to the Pandavas at the start of the war; his rebuke to the Kauravas is the one report from the enemy side that Arjuna trusts. The death itself is told in the previous chapter; earlier in this one, Vyasa has already consoled Yudhishthira with the origin of Death and the sixteen kings, and now the one man who does not know anything comes home.
The gist: Arjuna rides home at dusk with a fear he cannot explain, and Krishna, who can, keeps it from him on the road. The camp is silent, no trumpet, no song, and the boy who always ran out smiling to meet him does not come. Arjuna understands before anyone speaks and mourns his son quality by quality, then turns the same inventory into what the field will do to that body tonight. Krishna reminds him of the Kshatriya’s ordained end; Arjuna demands the story, accuses his brothers of cowardice, and sits with bow and sword where no one dares look at him. Only Yudhishthira can answer.
Yudhishthira’s account: six chariot warriors and Rudra’s boon; and Arjuna’s vow that Jayadratha will not see tomorrow’s sunset
Yudhishthira told it plainly, which was the only way it could be told to that face. After you had gone toward the samsaptaka army, mighty-armed one, he said, the preceptor Drona made fierce efforts to seize me. We held him at the head of the array on every side, our chariot divisions drawn up in counter-array and fighting hard, and though many warriors kept him in check and I myself was well guarded, Drona kept smiting us with great activity, his whetted arrows raining down. Afflicted by him like that, we could not even look at his army, let alone face it. So all of us said to your son by Subhadra, who is your equal in prowess, lord: son, pierce this array of Drona. Urged by us, that valorous hero took the burden on himself like a good horse, however unbearable it might have been for him. Full of your energy, armed with the knowledge of weapons he had from you, the boy went into that array like Garuda going into the sea. And we followed him, meaning to enter the Dhritarashtra host by the same path he had opened. Then, sire, the wretched king of the Sindhus, Jayadratha, by the boon that Rudra gave him, checked all of us. The king did not soften what came next. Drona, Kripa, Karna, Drona’s son, the king of the Kosalas and Kritavarma, he said, those six chariot warriors surrounded Subhadra’s son. Too many for a child, though he fought to the limit of his power, those great chariot warriors stripped him of his chariot. And after he was without his chariot, Duhshasana’s son, who had himself escaped by a hair’s breadth, succeeded, as chance would have it, in making an end of Abhimanyu. As for Abhimanyu, he killed many thousands of men and horses and elephants, and eight thousand chariots, and nine hundred elephants more, and two thousand princes, and a great number of brave warriors unknown to fame, and sent king Brihadbala to heaven in that battle, and then, through ill luck, met his own death. So this thing happened that so increases our grief. That tiger among men went to heaven even so.
Arjuna said one word, son, and drew one long breath, and went down onto the ground in great pain. The Pandava warriors closed around him with cheerless faces and stood looking at one another without blinking, the way people do when the thing they have been dreading has finally been said aloud and there is nothing left to do with their eyes. When Vasava’s son came back to himself he came back furious. He was shaking as if with fever and sighing again and again; he squeezed his hands together, breathed in deep, his eyes swimming, and looked around him like a madman, and then he spoke.
Truly I swear, Arjuna said, that tomorrow I will kill Jayadratha. Unless, from fear of death, he abandons the Dhritarashtras, or begs my protection, or the protection of Krishna, foremost of men, or yours, king, I will surely kill him tomorrow. That wretch forgot his friendship with me and gave himself to pleasing Dhritarashtra’s son, and he is the cause of the child’s slaughter. Tomorrow I will kill him. Whoever comes against me in tomorrow’s battle to protect him, be it Drona, be it Kripa, king, I will cover them all with my arrows. And if I do not accomplish this in tomorrow’s battle, bulls among men, then let me never reach the regions reserved for the righteous. Then he built the oath, and he built it out of hell. The regions that belong to those who kill their mothers, or their fathers, or who violate their preceptor’s bed, or who are vile and wicked, or who envy the righteous, or who slander others, or who steal what was entrusted to them in confidence, or who betray a trust, or who speak ill of wives they once enjoyed, or who kill Brahmanas, or who kill cows, or who eat sweetened milk and rice, or barley food, or pot-herbs, or dishes of milk and sesame and rice, or thin cakes of powdered barley fried in ghee, or other cakes, or meat, without first dedicating them to the gods: even those regions shall quickly be mine if I do not kill Jayadratha. The regions of those who insult Brahmanas devoted to the Veda, or otherwise worthy of respect, or their own teachers: those regions shall quickly be mine if I do not kill Jayadratha. The end that comes to those who touch a Brahmana or a fire with the foot, the end that comes to those who spit and pass excrement and urine into water, that miserable end shall be mine if I do not kill Jayadratha. The end of the man who bathes naked, of the man who does not entertain a guest, of those who take bribes and speak falsehood and deceive and cheat others, of those who offend against their own souls, of those who utter false praise, of the low wretches who eat sweetmeats in front of their servants and sons and wives and dependents without sharing: that terrible end shall be mine if I do not kill Jayadratha. The end of the ruthless man who casts off a righteous and obedient dependent instead of supporting him, of the man who gives the shraddha offerings to the undeserving instead of to a deserving neighbor, of the wine drinker, of the man who insults those worthy of respect, of the ingrate, of the man who speaks ill of his brothers: that end shall soon be mine if I do not kill Jayadratha. The end of every sinner I have named and of every sinner I have not named shall be mine, if, when this night has passed, I do not kill Jayadratha tomorrow.
And then, as if all that were only the preface, the second oath, the one that would govern the whole of the next day. Listen now to another oath of mine, he said. If tomorrow’s sun sets without my having killed that wretch, then here, on this spot, I will enter the blazing fire. Asuras and gods and men, birds and snakes, Pitris and all who wander the night, regenerate rishis and celestial rishis, all creatures that move and all that do not, and all whom I have not named: you will not succeed in protecting my enemy from me. If he goes down into the nether regions, or up into the sky, or to the gods, or to the realms of the Daityas, still, when this night is over, I will cut off the head of Abhimanyu’s enemy with a hundred arrows.
Having said it, Arjuna took Gandiva in both hands and drew it, and the sound of the bow rose over the sound of his voice and touched the sky. Krishna, filled with wrath, blew Panchajanya, and Phalguna blew Devadatta; and the great conch Panchajanya, filled with the wind from Krishna’s mouth, gave a blast that shook the regents of the cardinal and the intermediate points, the nether regions, and the whole universe, as happens at the end of a yuga. After the high-souled Arjuna’s oath, thousands of instruments sounded from the Pandava camp and the lion roars went up, and the silence that had met him at the gate was over.
A key to reading this (Jayadratha’s boon and the six): Jayadratha is king of the Sindhus and Dhritarashtra’s son-in-law, married to Duhshala, and Arjuna calls him a friend because the Pandavas spared his life when he carried off Draupadi during the exile (chapter 14, part 2). After that humiliation he worshiped Rudra and won the boon that on one day he could hold back the four Pandavas other than Arjuna; that boon is the door he shut on the thirteenth day. The six who ringed Abhimanyu: Drona, Kripa, Karna, Ashvatthama (Drona’s son), Brihadbala of Kosala (whom Abhimanyu killed) and Kritavarma. The numbers in Yudhishthira’s mouth, eight thousand chariots, nine hundred elephants, two thousand princes, are the epic’s own. Arjuna’s oath has two halves: a catalogue of sinners’ ends, which is a mirror of the age’s whole moral code, and the vow of self-immolation, whose shadow lies across the entire fourteenth day that follows.
The gist: Yudhishthira tells the truth: it was they who sent the boy in, Jayadratha’s boon from Rudra shut the door behind him, six great chariot warriors stripped him alone of his chariot, and Duhshasana’s son finished him. Arjuna falls senseless, rises in fury, and swears to kill Jayadratha before the next sunset or take on himself the ends of every sinner ever named and walk into the fire. Gandiva’s twang, the blasts of Panchajanya and Devadatta, and the lion roars of the camp turn a night of mourning into the eve of the fourteenth day.
A frightened king in the Kuru camp: Jayadratha asks to go home, Drona talks him out of it, and Krishna rebukes Arjuna
The Pandavas’ roar of joy carried across the dark ground between the two camps, and Duryodhana’s spies did what spies do: they found out why an army in mourning was shouting, and they brought the reason back. The reason had one name in it. Jayadratha heard it and went under. Sanjaya, telling the blind king, chose the picture of a man sinking in an ocean with no floor. The ruler of the Sindhus sat for a long time with a heart gone dull, then rose slowly and walked to the assembly where the allied kings were gathered, and there, before men who looked like gods to him, ashamed and afraid of Abhimanyu’s father, he thought a while longer and said what he had come to say. The one that Indra begot in Pandu’s soil, he said, that wretch means to send me to Yama’s house. Bless you all; I want to live, so I am going home. Or else, you bulls among Kshatriyas, protect me with your weapons. Partha means to kill me. Make me unafraid. Drona and Duryodhana and Kripa and Karna and the king of the Madras and Bahlika and Duhshasana and the rest could shield a man from Yama himself. When one man, Phalguna, threatens me, will all of you together fail to protect me? He confessed what the roar had done to him: his limbs had gone as weak as a dying man’s. There was no doubt left in him. The wielder of Gandiva had sworn his death, and that was why the Pandavas were shouting on a night when they should have been weeping. Kings aside, he said, the gods and Gandharvas, the Asuras, the serpents and the Rakshasas could not undo a vow of Arjuna’s. Give me leave to go. I want to make myself scarce. The Pandavas will not be able to find me.
Duryodhana answered him as a man answers who values the getting done of his own business over everything else. Have no fear, tiger among men. Who will come at you in battle while you stand in the middle of these Kshatriya heroes? And he recited the wall he meant to build around the king of the Sindhus, name by name: himself, Karna the son of Vikartana, Chitrasena, Vivinshati, Bhurishravas, Shala, Shalya, the invincible Vrishasena, Purumitra, Jaya, Bhoja, Sudakshina the ruler of the Kambojas, mighty-armed Satyavrata, Vikarna, Durmukha, Duhshasana, Subahu, the king of the Kalingas with his weapons raised, Vinda and Anuvinda of Avanti, Drona, Drona’s son, and Shakuni the son of Subala; these and many more kings with their forces would fight around him on every side. Let the fever leave your heart, Duryodhana said. You are yourself among the first of chariot warriors, you are yourself a hero, so where do you see a cause for fear, king of the Sindhus? The eleven akshauhinis I own will fight carefully to protect you. So comforted, Jayadratha went that same night with Duryodhana to Drona, touched the preceptor’s feet, sat down humbly, and asked the question a frightened pupil asks a teacher. In hitting the mark, in hitting it from a distance, in tightness of hand, in force of stroke: tell me truly, illustrious one, the difference between me and Phalguna. I want to know exactly how far apart we stand in the science of arms. Drona did not soften the answer. Both of you, he said, had the same measure of instruction from me, son. But because of his yoga and the hard life he has led, Arjuna is your superior. Then he built the reasons why that should not matter. You need not fear Partha for any reason; I will protect you from this fear, and the very gods cannot prevail over a man my arms are guarding. I will form an array Partha will not succeed in piercing. So stand in the battle, observe the duties of your order, walk the road of your fathers and grandfathers. You have studied the Vedas duly, poured your offerings into the fire by the rule, performed many sacrifices; death cannot be an object of terror to you. And if you die, you gain what vile men never reach, the regions in heaven that are won by the strength of one’s arms. The Kauravas, the Pandavas, the Vrishnis, other men, and I myself with my son, all of us are mortal and short-lived. Think of it. One after another, slain by Time who is all-powerful, we shall go to the other world carrying only our deeds. The regions ascetics win by severe penance, Kshatriyas win by keeping the duties of their order. That was how Bharadvaja’s son consoled the ruler of the Sindhus. Jayadratha put away his fear of Partha and set his heart on battle, and the Kuru troops, feeling it, made the night loud with instruments and lion roars.
On the other side of the field, the vow had produced a quarrel. After Partha had sworn the death of the ruler of the Sindhus, Krishna said to him what no one else in that camp would have dared to say. With the consent of your brothers, and without consulting me, you have sworn to kill the ruler of the Sindhus. That was an act of great rashness. Without asking me you have taken a great weight on your shoulders. How are we going to escape the ridicule of the whole world? Then he told Arjuna what his own spies had brought back from Dhritarashtra’s camp, because Krishna had spies there too. When you vowed it, he said, the lion roars mixed with our instruments were heard by the Dhritarashtras, and they and their well-wishers were terrified. These roars are not causeless, they thought, and they waited to see what would follow. A din went up among the Kauravas, elephants and horses and foot soldiers, and a terrible rattle of chariots, because they were sure that Dhananjaya, grieving for Abhimanyu, would come out in the night to fight, and they stood ready for it. And while they made ready, lotus-eyed one, they learned the exact terms of the vow you made, you who are wedded to truth. Every counselor of Suyodhana lost heart like a small animal. Jayadratha himself, king of the Sindhus and the Sauviras, overcome with grief and thoroughly cheerless, got up and went into his own tent with all his counselors, and having taken counsel on every remedy that could help him at a time when he needed counsel, he went to the assembly of the allied kings and told Suyodhana that Dhananjaya, thinking him the slayer of his son, would meet him tomorrow; that he had sworn his death in the midst of his army; that gods and Gandharvas, Asuras, serpents and Rakshasas could not frustrate a vow of Savyasachin’s; protect me, then, all of you; do not let Dhananjaya set his foot on your heads and hit his mark; make proper arrangements; or, delighter of the Kurus, if you think you cannot protect me, give me leave to go home. Suyodhana sat with his head hanging, Krishna said. He saw that Jayadratha was in great fright and reflected in silence, and Jayadratha, seeing the Kuru king so afflicted, spoke slowly, for his own good: I see no bowman here of energy enough to baffle Arjuna’s weapons with his arms; who, even if he were Shatakratu himself, will stand in front of Arjuna with Vasudeva beside him and Gandiva in his hand; it is heard that Partha met the lord Maheshvara himself on foot in the Himalaya; urged by the chief of the gods he killed a thousand Danavas of Hiranyapura from a single chariot; that son of Kunti is now joined with Vasudeva of great intelligence, and I think he could destroy the three worlds with the gods in them; so give me leave, or let the high-souled and heroic Drona with his son protect me, or I will await your pleasure. And Suyodhana, Krishna said, humbly begged the preceptor about it. Then he laid before Arjuna what the begging had bought. Every remedial measure has been taken. Chariots and horses are arranged. Karna and Bhurishravas and Drona’s son and the invincible Vrishasena and Kripa and the ruler of the Madras, these six will stand in Jayadratha’s van. Drona will form an array half of which is a cart and half a lotus, and in the middle of the petals of the lotus a needle-mouthed array, and there Jayadratha, hard to conquer, will take his stand protected by heroes. In bow, in weapons, in prowess, in strength, and in lineage too, those six chariot warriors are exceedingly hard to bear, Partha. Without first defeating those six there will be no access to Jayadratha. Think of the prowess of each of them, tiger among men; united, they are not easily vanquished. We should therefore take counsel once more with well-wishing counselors versed in policy, for our benefit and for the success of our object.
A key to reading this (the array and the names): A shakata array is an army drawn up in the shape of a cart, a padma array in the shape of a lotus; “needle-mouthed” means an array with a point like a needle’s. This is the structure Arjuna will have to pierce in the next chapter. Jayadratha’s sneer about “the one Indra begot in Pandu’s soil” is aimed at Arjuna, whom Kunti bore by Indra’s grace. The fight on foot with Maheshvara and the destruction of Hiranyapura are both in the Vana Parva (chapter 12 of this sequence), where Arjuna wrestles Shiva in the Kirata’s shape and wins the Pashupata, and destroys the Nivatakavacha Danavas for Indra. Sindhu and Sauvira are Jayadratha’s countries. Krishna’s complaint that the vow was made without consulting him sets up his own measures later that same night.
The gist: The roar that greets Arjuna’s vow reaches the Kuru camp, and Jayadratha comes into the assembly asking leave to go home. Duryodhana gives him a roll call of champions and eleven akshauhinis; Drona tells him the plain truth that Arjuna is the better archer and then talks him back into the fight with an unbreakable array and a Kshatriya’s view of death. Across the field Krishna scolds Arjuna for swearing without asking him, reports everything his spies saw, and names the price of the vow: six great warriors in front of Jayadratha, and an array half cart, half lotus, with a needle at its heart.
Arjuna’s answer: “Those six together are not half of me”; a night without sleep, a headless trunk on the sun, and Krishna sent to Subhadra
Arjuna heard Krishna out, the six names, the cart and the lotus and the needle, the call for more counsel, and then he answered the way a bowstring answers a finger. These six chariot warriors of Dhritarashtra’s army whom you think so strong, he said, their united energy is not equal to half of mine. You will see their weapons cut off and baffled by me, slayer of Madhu, when I go against them to kill Jayadratha. In the very sight of Drona and all his men I will bring the head of the ruler of the Sindhus down to the earth, and they will watch it and wail. Then he swore, and the oath went up through every tier of creation. If the Siddhas, the Rudras, the Vasus with the Ashvins, the Maruts with Indra at their head, the Vishvedevas with the other gods, the Pitris, the Gandharvas, Garuda, the Ocean, the mountains, the firmament, Heaven, Earth, the points of the compass with their regents, every creature that is domestic and every one that is wild, everything that moves and everything that stands still, if all of them together become the protectors of the ruler of the Sindhus, still, slayer of Madhu, you will see Jayadratha killed by my arrows tomorrow. Krishna, I swear by Truth, and I touch my weapons and swear by them, that at the very outset I will meet Drona, that mighty bowman who has made himself the protector of that sinner Jayadratha. Suyodhana thinks this game rests on Drona. So I will pierce the van that Drona himself commands and get at Jayadratha through it. Tomorrow you will see the greatest of bowmen split by my shafts like hilltops split by the thunderbolt. Blood will run from the breasts of fallen men and elephants and horses laid open by whetted arrows. The shafts from Gandiva, fast as thought or wind, will take the lives of thousands. Men will see tomorrow the weapons I had from Yama and Kubera and Varuna and Indra and Rudra. You will see the weapons of everyone who comes to protect the ruler of the Sindhus baffled by my Brahma weapon. You will see the earth strewn with the heads of kings cut off by the force of my arrows. Tomorrow I will feed the eaters of flesh, rout the enemy, gladden my friends, and crush the ruler of the Sindhus. A great offender, a man who did not act like a kinsman, born in a sinful country, the ruler of the Sindhus will grieve his own people when I have killed him; you will see that sinner, raised in every luxury, pierced by my shafts. Tomorrow, Krishna, I will do what will make Suyodhana understand that there is no other bowman in the world equal to me. Then, having named everything he had, he named what he had beside him. My Gandiva is a celestial bow. I myself am the warrior. And you, Hrishikesha, bull among men, are the charioteer. What is there I cannot conquer? By your grace, holy one, what is unattainable to me in battle? Knowing my prowess cannot be resisted, why do you still rebuke me? As Lakshmi is always in the moon, as water is always in the ocean, know, Janardana, that my vow is always accomplished. Do not think lightly of my weapons. Do not think lightly of my tough bow. Do not think lightly of the might of my arms. Do not think lightly of Dhananjaya. I will go to this battle in such a way that I will truly win and not lose. Since I have vowed it, know that Jayadratha has already been killed. Verily, in the Brahmana is truth; verily, in the righteous is humility; verily, in sacrifice is prosperity; verily, in Narayana is victory. Sanjaya adds that Arjuna said it to Hrishikesha and, as it were, to himself, and then dropped his voice and asked the only favor the night required: see to it, Krishna, that my chariot is fully equipped the moment this night dawns, for the task ahead is grave.
Neither of them slept. Vasudeva and Dhananjaya, afflicted with sorrow and grief, sighing again and again like two snakes, lay awake through the night, and the gods with Vasava, understanding that Nara and Narayana were both in a rage, grew anxious about what would come of it. The world showed what it knew. Fierce dry winds blew, the kind that mean danger. A headless trunk and a mace appeared on the disc of the sun. Thunder rolled out of a cloudless sky again and again, with lightning in it. The earth shook, with her mountains and waters and forests. The seas, home of the makaras, swelled up in agitation, and rivers ran backward against their courses. The upper and lower lips of chariot warriors, of horses, of men and elephants, began to tremble. And as if to gladden the eaters of flesh, foretelling a great increase in the population of Yama’s kingdom, the animals on the field voided urine and dung and cried out in woe. Seeing those omens that made the hair stand up, and hearing of Arjuna’s terrible vow, every warrior on the Kuru side was badly shaken. It was in that hour that Arjuna, the mighty-armed son of Pakashasana, turned to the one thing that could still be mended before morning. Go, he said to Krishna, and comfort your sister Subhadra with her daughter-in-law. Comfort the daughter-in-law and her companions too, Madhava. Comfort them, lord, with soothing words that are also true. So Vasudeva, with a cheerless heart, went to Arjuna’s quarters to comfort his grieving sister, whose son was dead.
What he said to her was a Kshatriya’s consolation, and he did not pretend it was anything gentler. Lady of the Vrishni race, do not grieve with your daughter-in-law for your son. Timid one, all creatures have one end, ordained by Time. The end your son met is the end that becomes a hero of a proud line, above all a Kshatriya; do not grieve. It is good fortune that that mighty chariot warrior of great wisdom, whose prowess equaled his father’s, met the end heroes covet, in the Kshatriya manner. He conquered foes past counting and sent them into Yama’s presence, and he himself has gone to the eternal regions that grant every wish and belong to the righteous. Your son has reached the end the righteous reach by penance, by the vow of celibacy, by knowledge of the scriptures and by wisdom. Mother of a hero, wife of a hero, daughter of a hero, kinswoman of heroes, amiable one, do not grieve for a son who has won the supreme end. Then he gave her the promise that was the real medicine. The wretched ruler of the Sindhus, beautiful lady, that murderer of a child, that doer of a sinful act, will reap the fruit of his arrogance with his friends and kinsmen when this night is over. Even if he enters Indra’s own house he will not escape Partha’s hands. Tomorrow you will hear that the head of the Sindhus has been cut from his trunk in battle and has rolled to the edge of Samantapanchaka. Dispel your sorrow. Keeping a Kshatriya’s duties before him, your brave son has reached the end of the righteous, the end we ourselves hope for here, and so do all who bear arms for a living. Broad-chested, mighty-armed, a crusher of chariot warriors who never turned back, your son has gone to heaven, beautiful lady. Drive this fever from your heart. Obedient to his fathers and to his mother’s kin, that heroic warrior of great prowess has fallen to death after killing thousands. Comfort your daughter-in-law, queen. Do not grieve too much, Kshatriya lady. Drive away your grief, daughter, for tomorrow you will hear news that pleases you. What Partha has vowed must be accomplished; it cannot be otherwise. What your husband sets out to do can never remain undone. Even if all human beings and snakes and Pishachas and all the wanderers of the night and the birds, all the gods and the Asuras, help the ruler of the Sindhus on the field, he will still cease to exist tomorrow, and they with him.
A key to reading this (names and omens): A kabandha is a headless trunk; a headless trunk and a mace seen on the sun’s disc belong to the Mahabharata’s stock of portents before great slaughter. The weapons Arjuna lists, from Yama, Kubera, Varuna, Indra and Rudra, are the ones the world guardians gave him in the Vana Parva (chapter 12). Samantapanchaka is the name of the part of Kurukshetra where Parashurama made five lakes of Kshatriya blood; Jayadratha’s head is to roll to its edge tomorrow. The “daughter-in-law” is Uttara, Virata’s daughter and Abhimanyu’s wife, who is carrying the child who will be Parikshit. Pakashasana is a name of Indra, so Pakashasana’s son is Arjuna. Krishna calling Subhadra “daughter” is an elder brother’s tenderness, since she is his younger sister.
The gist: Arjuna answers Krishna’s rebuke with a long oath: the six are not half of him, all creation could guard Jayadratha and he would still die tomorrow, and the first blow will fall on Drona. Krishna and Arjuna lie awake; sky and earth throw up omens and the Kauravas tremble. Arjuna sends Krishna to Subhadra and Uttara, and Krishna consoles his sister in the language of Kshatriya duty, promising that Abhimanyu has gone where heroes go and that Jayadratha’s head will roll at Samantapanchaka before the next sunset.
Subhadra’s lament: “He whose bed was spread with the whitest sheets, why does he sleep tonight on the bare ground?”
Krishna had gone from Arjuna’s side to his sister’s tent, and what he had to tell her there could not be softened by any arrangement of words, because she already knew it. The camp had known it since afternoon. Subhadra heard him out, and when he had finished, the grief that had been held in her body all evening came out of her as speech. Son of a wretched mother, she said, child who was your father’s equal in prowess, how could you go into battle and die? That face of yours, like a blue lotus, with its beautiful teeth and its fine eyes, how does it look now, covered in the dust of the field? You were brave, you never turned back, and now you lie fallen, with your handsome head and neck and arms, your broad chest and slender waist, your limbs still wearing their ornaments, your beautiful eyes, your body torn by weapons, and every creature that passes is looking at you as it would look at the rising moon. You, whose bed was spread with the whitest and costliest sheets, you who deserved every comfort, how do you sleep tonight on the bare earth with arrows through your body? That mighty-armed hero who was waited on by the loveliest of women, how does he pass his time now, lying on the field in the company of jackals? He who was praised in song by singers and bards and panegyrists is greeted tonight by screaming eaters of flesh and beasts of prey. By whom were you killed, helpless, when you had the Pandavas for your protectors, my lord, and all the Panchalas? Son, sinless one, I had not yet looked at you enough. It is plain that I, wretched as I am, will have to go to Yama’s house. When shall I see again that face with its large eyes and its beautiful hair, that smooth face without a blemish, from which sweet words and a sweet fragrance always came?
Then the lament turned outward and found the men. Fie on the strength of Bhimasena, she said, on the bowmanship of Partha, on the prowess of the Vrishni heroes, on the might of the Panchalas! Fie on the Kaikeyas, the Chedis, the Matsyas and the Srinjayas, who could not protect you, hero, while you fought! The earth looks empty to me today, and cheerless. Without my Abhimanyu my eyes are sick with grief. You were the sister’s son of Vasudeva, the son of the wielder of Gandiva, and yourself a hero and an atiratha. How am I to look at you slain? You were to me like a treasure seen in a dream and lost. Everything human is as brief as a bubble on water. This young wife of yours is drowned in grief over the evil that has come to you; how am I to comfort her, who is like a cow whose calf has been taken? Son, you ran away from me before your time, just when you were about to bear the fruit of greatness, and I was longing for the sight of you. Truly the ways of the Destroyer cannot be understood even by the wise, since you had Keshava for your protector and were killed all the same, as if you had been utterly alone.
And then, because she was a mother and not only a mourner, she began to ask for him. Son, she said, may that end be yours which belongs to those who perform sacrifices, to Brahmanas of purified soul, to those who have kept the vow of brahmacharya, to those who have bathed in sacred waters, to the grateful and the charitable and those devoted to the service of their teachers, to those who have given lavish gifts at sacrifices. May that end be yours which belongs to the brave who never retreat in battle, or to those who have fallen in battle after killing their enemies. May that auspicious end be yours which belongs to those who have given away a thousand cows, or given at sacrifices, or given houses and mansions that pleased those who received them, or given gems and jewels to worthy Brahmanas, or punished crime. May that end be yours which sages of strict vows attain by brahmacharya, and which women attain who keep to a single husband. May that eternal end be yours which kings attain by good conduct, or those who have purified themselves by living the four stages of life one after another and doing every duty; the end of those who are compassionate to the poor and the distressed, who share sweets fairly between themselves and their dependents, who are never given to deceit and wickedness. May that end be yours which belongs to keepers of vows, to the virtuous, to those devoted to their teachers, to those who have never sent a guest away unfed. May that end be yours which belongs to those who keep the balance of their souls in distress and in the hardest straits, however badly the fire of grief burns them. May that end be yours which belongs to those who serve their fathers and mothers, to those who are devoted only to their own wives, to the wise men who keep away from other men’s wives and go to their own in season, to those who look on all creatures with an eye of peace, who never cause pain, who always forgive, who abstain from honey, meat, wine, pride and untruth, and who are modest, learned in all the scriptures, content with knowledge, and masters of their passions.
While Subhadra was lamenting like this, cheerless and stricken, the princess of Panchala came to her, and Virata’s daughter Uttara with her. All three wept without restraint and cried out in words that tore the heart, and then, like people whose reason grief has taken, they fainted and fell to the ground. Krishna had been standing ready with water. Deeply afflicted, he sprinkled it over his weeping, unconscious, trembling sister, whose heart had been pierced through, and as she came back he said to her what is said on such occasions, and said it as her brother. Do not grieve, Subhadra, the lotus-eyed one said. Panchali, comfort Uttara. Abhimanyu, that bull among Kshatriyas, has reached the goal that is most worthy of praise. Beautiful one, may every man of our line who is still alive reach the goal that Abhimanyu of great fame has reached. We ourselves, with all our friends, want to achieve in this battle the feat that your son, that great chariot-warrior, achieved with no one to help him. Having consoled his sister, and Draupadi, and Uttara, the mighty-armed chastiser of foes went back to Partha’s side. He saluted the kings, his friends, and Arjuna, and went into the inner room of Arjuna’s tent, and the kings went to their own quarters.
A key to reading this (who is in the tent): Subhadra is Krishna’s own sister, which is why Abhimanyu is called Vasudeva’s sister’s son; Arjuna is his father, so the boy is Krishna’s nephew on one side and Krishna’s cousin’s son on the other. The “young wife” is Uttara, daughter of Virata, married to Abhimanyu at the end of the Virata Parva; she is carrying Parikshit, though the text does not say so here, and the whole future of the line hangs on that unspoken fact. The long second half of the lament is a catalogue of every road that leads to heaven, from sacrifice to forgiveness, and a mother asking for all of them at once; it is grief in the form of a list, and it has been kept whole for that reason.
The gist: Subhadra mourns her son: his lotus face in the dust, bare earth in place of white sheets, jackals in place of singers. She curses the strength of Bhima and the bow of Arjuna that could not protect him, marvels at a Destroyer who could take a boy guarded by Krishna, and then asks for her son every heavenly end that virtue can earn. Draupadi and Uttara faint with her; Krishna revives the three with water and tells them Abhimanyu has reached the goal every man in the family should want, and goes back to Arjuna’s tent.
A bed of kusha grass, a camp in which no one slept, and Krishna to Daruka at midnight: “Arjuna is half of myself”
Keshava went into Arjuna’s tent, which had no equal in the camp, and did with his own hands what a servant would ordinarily have done. He touched water. On the level, auspicious floor he spread a bed of kusha blades, the color of lapis lazuli, and around the bed he set excellent weapons, and he decked it properly with garlands of flowers and parched grain and perfumes and the other things that belong to a blessing. Arjuna touched water too, and the quiet, obedient attendants brought in the nightly offering to the Three-eyed god. Then Partha, with a lighter heart, anointed Madhava with perfumes and hung garlands on him, and presented the night’s offering to Mahadeva. Govinda smiled a little and said: blessings on you, Partha; lie down, I am leaving you. He posted doorkeepers and well-armed sentries, and with his charioteer Daruka he went to his own tent, lay down on his white bed, and began to think. The lotus-eyed one, whose fame was everywhere, was turning over the means by which Partha’s grief and anxiety could be dispelled and his prowess and splendor increased. Vishnu, the supreme lord of all, whose soul was wrapped in yoga and who had always done what pleased Jishnu, went down into yoga and meditation for Arjuna’s sake.
Nobody in the Pandava camp slept that night. Wakefulness had hold of every man, and every man was thinking the same thing. The high-souled wielder of Gandiva, burning with grief for his son, has suddenly sworn the death of the ruler of the Sindhus. How is that slayer of hostile heroes, that son of Vasava, that mighty-armed warrior, going to accomplish it? The son of Pandu has made a most difficult resolve. King Jayadratha is a man of great energy. Let Arjuna succeed. The vow he has made in grief for his son is a hard one. Duryodhana’s brothers are all men of great prowess, his forces are beyond counting, and Dhritarashtra’s son has assigned all of them to Jayadratha as his protectors. Let Dhananjaya come back to camp having killed the ruler of the Sindhus in battle. Let Arjuna defeat his enemies and keep his word. If he fails to kill the ruler of the Sindhus tomorrow, he will surely enter blazing fire, because Dhananjaya, Pritha’s son, will not make his oath false. And if Arjuna dies, how will the son of Dharma ever recover his kingdom? Yudhishthira has rested every hope of victory on Arjuna. If we have earned any merit, if we have ever poured clarified butter into the fire, let Savyasachin, helped by the fruit of it, defeat all his enemies. Talking like this to one another about tomorrow’s victory, they got through the long night.
In the middle of that night Janardana woke, remembered Partha’s vow, and spoke to Daruka. Arjuna, in grief for his son, has sworn that before tomorrow’s sun goes down he will kill Jayadratha. When Duryodhana hears of it he will certainly take counsel with his advisers about how Partha can be made to fail. His several akshauhinis will protect Jayadratha. Drona, who knows the use of every weapon, will protect him, and Drona’s son with him. Even the matchless Thousand-eyed one, the crusher of the pride of Daityas and Danavas, would not venture to kill a man protected by Drona. So tomorrow I will do that by which Kunti’s son Arjuna may kill Jayadratha before the sun sets. My wives, my kinsmen, my relations, not one of them is dearer to me than Arjuna. Daruka, I could not look for a single moment at an earth without Arjuna on it. I tell you, the earth will not be without Arjuna. Putting out my strength for Arjuna’s sake I will defeat them all, with their horses and elephants, and I will kill them, with Karna and Suyodhana. Let the three worlds see my prowess tomorrow in the great battle, when I put out my valor for Dhananjaya’s sake. Tomorrow thousands of kings and hundreds of princes will run from the field with their horses and chariots and elephants. Tomorrow, Daruka, you will see that army of kings overturned and crushed by my discus, by me, in wrath, for the son of Pandu. Tomorrow the three worlds, with the gods and the Gandharvas and the Pishachas and the Snakes and the Rakshasas, will know me for the true friend of Savyasachin. Whoever hates him hates me. Whoever follows him follows me. You have intelligence; understand that Arjuna is half of myself.
Then the orders, which were the orders of a man who meant every word he had just said. When morning comes at the end of this night, Daruka, equip my excellent chariot according to the rules of the military science, bring it, and follow me with it carefully. Put on it my celestial mace, Kaumodaki, my dart and my discus, my bow and arrows, and everything else that is needed. Make room on the terrace of the chariot for my standard and for the heroic Garuda on it, who adorns my umbrella. Yoke to it my best horses, Valahaka and Meghapushpa and Shaivya and Sugriva, cased in golden mail that shines like sun and fire, and put on your own armor, and stay on it, alert. When you hear the loud and terrible blast of my conch Panchajanya sounding the shrill Rishabha note, come to me quickly. In the course of a single day, Daruka, I will dispel the wrath and the many sorrows of my cousin, the son of my father’s sister. I will try by every means so that Vibhatsu may kill Jayadratha in battle in the very sight of the Dhartarashtras. I tell you, charioteer, Vibhatsu will certainly succeed in killing every man he sets out to kill. Daruka answered him the way a charioteer answers a god. He is certain of victory, tiger among men, whose reins you have taken; where could defeat come to him from? As for me, I will do what you have commanded. This night will bring in its train the auspicious morning of Arjuna’s victory.
A key to reading this (names and things): Kaumodaki is Krishna’s mace; Valahaka, Meghapushpa, Shaivya and Sugriva are the four horses of his chariot; Panchajanya is his conch, and the Rishabha note one of its particular sounds. Krishna calls Arjuna the son of his father’s sister because Kunti is Vasudeva’s sister. The nightly offering that Arjuna makes to Mahadeva through Krishna will reappear inside the dream of the next scene, lying beside the Three-eyed god himself, so its presence here is a thread and not a detail. Two Krishnas share this scene: the friend who spreads a bed of grass for a grieving man, and the lord of all who says he will drive an army of kings before his discus; what he actually does on the fourteenth day belongs to the next chapter.
The gist: Krishna makes Arjuna’s bed of kusha grass with his own hands, the night offering to Mahadeva is made, and Krishna goes to his own tent to meditate on how to save Arjuna. No one in the camp sleeps; every man repeats that the vow is a hard one and that everything rests on Arjuna. At midnight Krishna wakes Daruka and tells him to have his chariot, mace and discus ready at dawn, because Arjuna is half of himself and the earth will not be left without him.
The journey through the sky in a dream: Krishna holds Arjuna’s left arm and takes him to the mountain where the bull-bannered god sits, and the Pashupata is won again from a lake of amrita
Dhananjaya, whose prowess no one could measure, lay on the grass bed thinking about how the vow could possibly be kept, and he called to mind the mantras Vyasa had given him, and sleep took him. And to the ape-bannered hero, burning with grief and lost in thought, Keshava of the Garuda banner appeared in a dream. Arjuna’s love and reverence for Krishna were such that in no circumstance did he fail to stand up and go a few steps to receive him, and so now, in the dream, he rose and gave Govinda a seat, though he had no heart to sit down himself. Krishna, who knew what was in Partha’s mind, spoke from his seat to the man standing before him. Do not set your heart on grief, Partha. Time cannot be conquered; Time drives every creature down the road it must go. Foremost of men, what is this grief for? Grief is a hindrance to action, best of learned men; do the thing that has to be done. The grief that makes a man give up all effort is that man’s enemy. A man who indulges his grief gladdens his enemies, saddens his friends, and weakens himself. So you must not grieve. The unconquered Vibhatsu answered him with the weight of what he had promised. The vow I have made about killing Jayadratha is a grave one. Tomorrow I will kill that wicked wretch, the killer of my son; that is my vow, Keshava. To break it, the Dhartarashtras will keep Jayadratha in their rear, guarded by every great chariot-warrior. Their force, Madhava, is what remains of eleven akshauhinis after the slaughter, and it is hard to defeat. Surrounded in battle by all of it and by all those great warriors, how am I even to catch sight of the wicked ruler of the Sindhus? My vow will not be accomplished, Keshava. How can a man like me go on living when he has failed to keep his word? Hero, the failure of this vow, which is the source of my great grief, is plain to see. And I tell you, at this season the sun sets early. Krishna heard the cause of Partha’s grief, touched water, and sat facing east, and then the lotus-eyed one said, for the good of the son of Pandu who had resolved on the death of the ruler of the Sindhus: Partha, there is an indestructible, supreme weapon called the Pashupata. With it the god Maheshvara killed all the Daityas in battle. If you remember it now, you will be able to kill Jayadratha tomorrow. If it is unknown to you, worship in your heart the god whose emblem is the bull. Think of that god in your mind and remember him, Dhananjaya. You are his devotee. Through his grace you will obtain that great possession.
Dhananjaya touched water, sat down on the earth with his mind gathered, and thought of the god Bhava. He sat like that through the hour called Brahma, the hour of good omens before dawn, and then Arjuna saw himself traveling through the sky with Keshava. Partha, who had the speed of thought, seemed to reach with Keshava the sacred foot of Himavat and the mountain Manimat, which is full of brilliant gems and frequented by Siddhas and Charanas. Lord Keshava seemed to have hold of his left arm. He saw many wonders as he went. He came to the White Mountain in the north. He saw, in the pleasure gardens of Kubera, the beautiful lake covered with lotuses, and the Ganga, first of rivers, full of water. Then he reached the country of the Mandara mountains, whose trees always bore blossom and fruit, where the scattered stones were all transparent crystal, where lions and tigers and animals of every kind lived, where the retreats of ascetics echoed with the notes of delightful birds and the songs of Kinnaras, where peaks of gold and silver were lit by herbs and plants of many kinds and the Mandara trees carried their loads of flowers. He came to the mountains called Kala, which look like a heap of antimony, and to the summit called Brahmatunga, and to many rivers and many inhabited provinces. He came to Shatashringa and the woods called Sharyati. He saw the sacred place called the Horse’s Head, and the region of Atharvana. He saw the prince of mountains called Vrishadamsha, and the great Mandara full of Apsaras and graced by Kinnaras. Roaming that mountain with Krishna, Partha saw a stretch of earth adorned with fine springs, veined with gold ore, bright as moonlight, holding many cities and towns; he saw seas of wonderful shapes and mines of many kinds of wealth. Going like this through the sky, the firmament and the earth, he reached the place called Vishnupada, and then, with Krishna beside him, he came down at great speed, like an arrow leaving a bow.
Below him was a blazing mountain whose light was that of the planets, the constellations, or fire. He came to it, and on its summit he saw the high-souled god whose emblem is the bull, forever at his austerities, burning with his own light like a thousand suns gathered together. Trident in hand, matted hair on his head, white as snow, robed in bark and skin, he was of such energy that his body seemed to flame with a thousand eyes. He sat with Parvati, and around him were many beings of brilliant form; his attendants were singing and playing instruments, laughing and dancing, moving and stretching out their hands, and shouting aloud. The place was full of fragrance, and Rishis who worship Brahma were adoring the wielder of the great bow Pinaka, the protector of all creatures, with hymns of unfading glory. Seeing him, Vasudeva of righteous soul touched the earth with his head, and Partha with him, uttering the eternal words of the Veda. Krishna worshiped with speech, mind, understanding and act that god who is the first source of the universe, himself uncreated, the supreme lord of unfading glory; who is the highest cause of the mind, who is space and the wind, the cause of all the lights in the sky, the maker of the rain, the supreme primordial substance of the earth; who is worshiped by gods, Danavas, Yakshas and human beings; who is the supreme Brahma that yogins see and the refuge of those who know the shastras; who creates all creatures that move and do not move, and destroys them; who is the Wrath that burns everything at the end of the age; who is the supreme soul; who is Shakra and Surya, and the origin of every attribute. Krishna took refuge in that Bhava whom men of knowledge behold when they seek what is called the subtle and the spiritual, the uncreated one who is the soul of all causes. And Arjuna worshiped that deity again and again, knowing him to be the origin of all creatures and the cause of past, future and present.
Bhava looked at the two of them, Nara and Narayana come to his mountain, and he smiled. Welcome, foremost of men. Rise, and let the fatigue of your journey be over. What is the wish in your hearts, heroes? Say it quickly. What business has brought you here? I will accomplish it and do what is good for you. I will grant whatever you desire. They rose at his words, and with joined hands the faultless Vasudeva and Arjuna, both of great wisdom, began to gratify the high-souled god with a hymn. We bow to Bhava, to Sharva, to Rudra, to the giver of boons. We bow to the lord of all living creatures, to the god who is always fierce, to him who is called Kapardin. We bow to Mahadeva, to Bhima, to the Three-eyed, to him who is peace and contentment. We bow to Ishana, the destroyer of Daksha’s sacrifice. Salutation to the slayer of Andhaka, to the father of Kumara, to the blue-throated, to the creator. Salutation to the wielder of Pinaka, to him who is worthy of offerings of clarified butter, to him who is truth, to him who pervades all, to the unvanquished, to him whose hair is always blue, to the bearer of the trident, to him whose sight is celestial. To him who is the Hotri, who protects all, who has three eyes, who is disease, whose seed fell on fire. To him who is beyond thought, the lord of Ambika, adored by all the gods. To him whose emblem is the bull, who is bold, whose hair is matted, who is a brahmacharin, who stands as an ascetic in the water, who is devoted to Brahma, who has never been conquered. To him who is the soul of the universe, the maker of the universe, who lives pervading the whole universe. We bow to you who are revered by all, the original cause of all creatures; to you who are called Brahmachakra, who are called Sharva, Shankara and Shiva. We bow to you, lord of all great beings; to you of a thousand heads and a thousand arms, who are called Death; to you of a thousand eyes and a thousand legs, whose acts are numberless. We bow to you whose color is gold, who are cased in golden mail, who are always compassionate to your devotees. Lord, let our wish be accomplished. Having worshiped Mahadeva in these words, Vasudeva and Arjuna set about winning from him the great weapon called Pashupata.
Partha, with a glad heart and joined hands and eyes wide with wonder, gazed at the god of the bull banner, the vessel of every energy, and he saw something that told him where his nights had been going: the offerings he made each night to Vasudeva were lying at the side of the Three-eyed god. Worshiping Krishna and Sharva together in his mind, the son of Pandu said to the god: I desire the celestial weapon. Shiva smiled at the two of them. Welcome, foremost of men. I know the wish you hold and the business that has brought you here. I will give you what you want. Not far from here, slayers of foes, is a celestial lake full of amrita. Some time ago my celestial bow and arrow were laid there; with them I killed all the enemies of the gods in battle. Bring that excellent bow here, Krishnas, with the arrow set on it. So be it, they said, and with all of Shiva’s attendants the two heroes went to the lake the god had pointed out, a sacred lake of a hundred heavenly wonders that grants every object. The Rishis Nara and Narayana, that is Arjuna and Vasudeva, went to it without fear. Reaching that lake, bright as the disc of the sun, Arjuna and Achyuta saw in its water a terrible snake, and beside it another foremost of snakes with a thousand heads, blazing like fire and vomiting fierce flames. Krishna and Partha touched water, joined their hands, bowed to the bull-bannered god, and went toward the snakes, and as they went, knowers of the Veda that they were, they recited the hundred verses of the Veda in praise of Rudra, bowing with sincere souls to Bhava of immeasurable power. By the force of that praise the two terrible snakes gave up their serpent forms and became a bow and an arrow that kill enemies. Gladdened, Krishna and Arjuna took up the bow and arrow of great effulgence and carried them back and gave them to the illustrious Mahadeva. Then from one side of Shiva’s body came a brahmacharin with tawny eyes, who seemed to be the refuge of all austerity, blue-throated and red-haired and endowed with great might. He took up that best of bows and stood with the bow and his feet placed properly, fixed the arrow on the string, and drew it in the proper way. Watching how he took the grip of the bow, how he drew the string and how he set his feet, and hearing the mantras Bhava uttered, the son of Pandu of inconceivable prowess learned all of it, correctly. Then the mighty brahmacharin shot that arrow back into the lake and threw the bow into the lake after it. Arjuna, whose memory was good, understood that Bhava was pleased with him; he remembered the boon the god had given him in the forest and the sight of himself he had granted there, and he formed the wish in his mind: let all this bear fruit. Bhava knew the wish and, pleased with him, granted it. The god gave him the terrible Pashupata weapon, and with it the accomplishment of his vow. Having obtained the Pashupata once more from the supreme god, the invincible Arjuna, his hair standing on end, considered his business already done. Arjuna and Krishna, full of joy, bowed their heads to the great god, and with Bhava’s leave the two heroes came back almost at once to their own camp, transported with delight, and their joy was as great as that of Indra and Vishnu when, wanting to kill Jambha, those two gods had obtained the permission of Bhava, the slayer of great Asuras.
A key to reading this (why “once more”): Arjuna first received the Pashupata from Shiva in the forest, when the god came to him as a Kirata hunter (chapter 12 on this site), and Vyasa gave him in Dvaitavana the science called Pratismriti, which is what “the mantras given by Vyasa” refers to here. That is why Krishna’s first question is whether Arjuna remembers the weapon, and why Arjuna on the mountain remembers the boon given in the forest. The whole journey happens inside meditation and dream: Arjuna sits in the Brahma hour and sees himself flying with Krishna, and the itinerary (Manimat, the White Mountain, Mandara, Kala, Brahmatunga, Shatashringa, the Sharyati woods, the Horse’s Head, Vrishadamsha, Vishnupada) is given in the order Vyasa gives it. Shiva greets the two as Nara and Narayana, the ancient pair of rishis whom Krishna and Arjuna are. The brahmacharin who steps out of Shiva’s side and draws the bow is a portion of Shiva himself, and Arjuna’s learning by watching him is the giving of the weapon. The two snakes are Shiva’s bow and arrow, released from their serpent shape by the hundred verses to Rudra. And the offerings Arjuna made every night to Krishna are found lying beside Shiva: with that one detail the story says that the two worships arrive at the same place.
The gist: In his sleep Arjuna sees Krishna, tells him that Jayadratha will be unreachable behind eleven akshauhinis and that the sun sets early, and is told to remember the Pashupata and to meditate on Shiva. Inside the meditation, with Krishna holding his left arm, he flies over the Himalaya through mountains, rivers and Vishnupada and comes down on a blazing peak where the trident-bearing god sits with Parvati. The two worship him; Shiva sends them to a lake of amrita for his bow and arrow, which lie there as two snakes; a brahmacharin out of Shiva’s own side draws the bow and shows the method, Arjuna learns it, and Shiva grants him the Pashupata and the success of his vow. Before morning both are back in camp, filled with joy.
Sunrise on the fourteenth day: a hundred and eight golden jars, nine thousand Brahmanas, and Yudhishthira’s plea to Krishna to be their boat
The night that Krishna and Daruka talked away ended the way every royal morning in that camp ended, with noise. Yudhishthira did not wake by himself. He was woken by singers who clapped the time with their palms, by the genealogists whose trade was the praise of kings, by the men who carried the honey-and-curd offering, by the bards of the Suta caste, and by an orchestra that Sanjaya lists instrument by instrument for the blind king who will never hear it again: the mridanga and the jharjhara, the bheri and the panava, the anaka, the gomukha, the adambara, the conch and the deep-voiced dundubhi. The sound climbed like cloud-thunder and touched the sky, and the king who had slept well on a costly bed opened his eyes to it. That detail, that he slept well, is worth holding. The man who had wept on the ground the evening before over Abhimanyu’s body had been told by Vyasa that the boy’s death was not his fault, and had heard the sixteen kings, and had slept. What follows is the morning of a king who has decided to be a king.
He went first to the bathing room, and a hundred and eight young attendants in white, themselves already bathed, came to him with golden jars filled to the brim. Seated at ease in thin cloth on a royal seat, he was washed in waters scented with sandalwood and made holy with mantras; strong, trained hands rubbed him down with water in which healing herbs had steeped, and then with the fragrant adhivasa water; a long cloth white as a swan’s feathers, kept loose before him, went around his head to dry it. Sandal paste, garlands, clean robes, and then the king sat facing east with his palms joined and said his prayers silently, as the righteous do, before he went with bowed humility into the room where the fire was kept and fed it with sacred wood and butter sanctified with mantras. In the next room waited the Brahmanas, and here Sanjaya gives a number that tells you what kind of camp this was: a thousand worshippers of the sun, and eight thousand more of the same order, all self-controlled, all purified by Veda and vow, all fresh from the bath that closes a completed sacrifice. Yudhishthira made them speak their blessings clearly, gave each of them honey and butter and the best of auspicious fruits, and then a gold nishka, a hundred ornamented horses, costly robes and whatever else pleased them, and cows that gave milk at a touch, with their calves, their horns sheathed in gold and their hooves in silver, and he walked around them with his right side toward them. Then he looked at and touched the things one touches before a day like this: swastikas that grow fortune, golden nandyavartas, garlands, water pots and burning fire, vessels heaped with sun-dried rice, the yellow cow-pigment, decked and lucky girls, curds and butter and honey, birds of good omen, and much else held sacred, and only then did he come out to the outer hall.
The attendants there brought him a round seat of gold, set with pearls and lapis, spread with a rug of great price and over it a finer cloth, the work, Sanjaya says, of the divine artificer himself. When the king had sat, his bright ornaments were brought and he put them on, and his beauty became the kind that deepens an enemy’s grief. White yak-tail fans with golden handles moved over him, and he shone like a bank of cloud with lightning inside it. The bards began, the panegyrists began, the singers began, and in a moment their voices had swollen into a roar. Under the roar came other sounds: the clatter of chariot wheels, the tread of horses, the bells of elephants, conches, and the footfalls of a great many men, until the ground seemed to shake with it. A young doorkeeper in mail, earrings in his ears and a sword at his hip, came into the private chamber, knelt, bowed his head to the king who deserved every reverence, and told the son of Dharma that Hrishikesha was waiting to be announced. Let an excellent seat and the arghya be made ready for him, the king said, and Krishna of the Vrishnis was led in and seated on a costly seat, and Yudhishthira asked after his welfare and worshipped him with the full rite.
Then, before he had asked anything of him, he asked the ordinary thing. Did you pass the night happily, slayer of Madhu? Are all your perceptions clear, you of unfading glory? And Krishna asked the same of him. The doorkeeper returned: the other Kshatriyas were waiting. At the king’s word the whole company of heroes came in, and Sanjaya names them so that Dhritarashtra can count what is ranged against his sons: Virata and Bhimasena, Dhrishtadyumna and Satyaki, Dhrishtaketu the Chedi king, the great chariot-warrior Drupada, Shikhandi, Nakula and Sahadeva, Chekitana, the king of the Kekayas, Yuyutsu of the Kuru house, Uttamaujas of the Panchalas, Yudhamanyu, Subahu, and the five sons of Draupadi. They took their seats. Krishna and Satyaki, the two splendid Vrishnis, sat together on one seat. And in the hearing of all of them Yudhishthira turned to the lotus-eyed one and said what he had come down from that bed to say. We rely on you alone, he said, as the gods rely on the thousand-eyed one, for victory in battle and for lasting happiness. You know how our kingdom was taken, how the enemy drove us into exile, all our different griefs. Lord of all, compassionate to those devoted to you, on you rests the happiness of all of us and our very existence. Do that by which my heart may always rest on you. Do that by which Arjuna’s vow may come true. Rescue us today from this ocean of grief and rage; be a boat today to those who want to cross it. What a chariot-warrior cannot do in battle, however much he wants his enemy dead, a charioteer can do if he exerts himself with care. As you always save the Vrishnis in every calamity, save us from this distress. You who carry the conch, the discus and the mace, the sons of Pandu are sinking in the bottomless Kuru-ocean where there is no boat: be the boat. And then, in front of the assembled kings, the king bowed to the man on the seat beside Satyaki as to something more than a man. I bow to you, god of the lord of the gods, eternal, supreme destroyer, Vishnu, Jishnu, Hari, Krishna, Vaikuntha, best of male beings. Narada described you as that ancient and best of rishis, Narayana, the giver of boons, the bearer of the bow Sharnga, the foremost of all. Madhava, make those words true.
Krishna answered in a voice as deep as a rain cloud, and he answered as a charioteer answers, with a plan and a promise. In all the worlds, including the world of the gods, there is no bowman equal to Dhananjaya, the son of Pritha. Full of energy, accomplished in weapons, of great prowess and great strength, famous in battle, always quick to wrath, Arjuna is the foremost of men. Young, bull-necked, long-armed, treading like a lion or a bull, and exceedingly handsome, he will slay all your foes. As for me, I will do that by which Kunti’s son can consume Dhritarashtra’s troops like a spreading fire. This very day Arjuna’s arrows will send that vile wretch of sinful deeds, the slayer of Subhadra’s son, down the road from which no traveler returns. Today vultures and hawks and hungry jackals and the other eaters of flesh will feed on him. Yudhishthira, if all the gods with Indra at their head became his protectors today, Jayadratha would still be killed in the thick of battle and go to Yama’s city. Having killed the ruler of the Sindhus, Jishnu will come back to you this evening. Put away your grief and the fever in your heart, king, and be graced with prosperity. It was the promise the king had wanted, and it had a time on it: this evening.
A key to reading this (names and objects): The singers who woke the king are trade names: Panisvanikas keep time with their hands, Magadhas sing lineages, Madhuparkikas present the honey-and-curd offering, Sutas are the bards and charioteers by caste. A nishka is a gold coin or neck-piece. The nandyavarta is an auspicious figure like the swastika; the yellow pigment is gorochana, taken from the cow. The bath that “closes a sacrifice” is the avabhritha, which is why Sanjaya says the Brahmanas had completed their rites. Yuyutsu is Dhritarashtra’s son by a Vaishya woman, who crossed to the Pandavas on the first day of the war. The divine artificer is Vishvakarma. Yudhishthira’s closing address (“Narada described you as Narayana”) points to the identity this book keeps returning to: Arjuna is Nara and Krishna is Narayana, the two ancient rishis.
The gist: The fourteenth morning is a coronation in miniature: music, the ritual bath, the fire, nine thousand Brahmanas paid in gold and horses and gilded cows, the touching of lucky things, the golden seat. Then Krishna is announced, the whole Pandava command files in, and in front of all of them Yudhishthira asks Krishna for one thing, to be the boat across this ocean of grief and to make Arjuna’s vow come true. Krishna’s answer is a deadline: Jayadratha dies today, whoever protects him, and Arjuna will be back by evening.
Krishna at the reins of the ape-bannered chariot, the king’s safety handed to Satyaki, and the silence in Hastinapura that Dhritarashtra is listening to
Arjuna came in while they were still talking. He had come to see the king, and his friends, and the men who wished him well, and when he had entered that auspicious chamber, made his salute and taken his stand before the throne, Yudhishthira did what an elder brother does when he has spent a night not knowing whether the younger one has slept: he rose from his seat, embraced him hard, smelled his head, held him in his arms and blessed him. Then he smiled. It is plain, Arjuna, he said, that complete victory awaits you in battle; I can read it in your face, and in the fact that Janardana is pleased with you. And Arjuna told him why his face looked like that. Blessed be you, king, he said; by Keshava’s grace I have seen something exceedingly wonderful. And he told the whole hall about the night before: the journey through the sky with Krishna, the god with three eyes, the weapon. Sanjaya says he told it to reassure his friends, and it worked on them exactly as the dream had worked on him. Every listener bent his head to the floor, bowed to the god whose sign is the bull, and said, excellent, excellent. When the son of Dharma gave the word, the friends and allies of the Pandavas went out to battle quickly and carefully, their hearts full of anger against the enemy, and three men in particular, Satyaki, Krishna and Arjuna, saluted the king and left his pavilion in high spirits.
Satyaki and Krishna rode together on one chariot to Arjuna’s pavilion, and there Hrishikesha did a charioteer’s work, as a man who did it for a living would have done it. He equipped the chariot that carried the sign of the prince of apes, and under his hands that car, bright as heated gold and rumbling like the deep roar of clouds, came to shine like the morning sun. Krishna was already in mail. He went to Partha, who had finished his morning prayers, and told him the chariot was ready. Arjuna came out in golden armor with his bow and arrows in his hand, and walked once around the car with it on his right. Brahmanas old in austerity, in knowledge and in years, men of rites and sacrifices with their passions under control, blessed him with victory, and he climbed onto that great chariot, which had already been sanctified with the mantras that give victory in battle, the way the sun of blazing rays climbs the eastern mountain. Decked in gold, on a chariot decked in gold, he looked like the sun on the breast of Meru. Satyaki and Krishna mounted after him, and Sanjaya reaches for the oldest pictures he has: the twin Ashvins riding one car with Indra to the sacrifice of Sharyati; Matali taking the reins of Indra’s horses when Indra went to kill Vritra. Govinda, foremost of charioteers, took the reins. With his two friends on the chariot, Partha set out to kill the ruler of the Sindhus, like the moon rising with Budha and Shukra to destroy the dark, or like Indra going with Varuna and Surya to the great war that was fought over the abduction of Tara, Brihaspati’s wife.
Musicians and bards went with him a little way, playing and singing hymns of good omen, and the voices of the panegyrists wishing him victory and a good day mixed with the instruments in a way the three men on the chariot were glad to hear. A breeze rose behind Partha, cool and fragrant, and Sanjaya says it gladdened him and sucked the strength out of his enemies. Omens appeared everywhere at that hour, many kinds of them, and all of them said the same thing, victory for the Pandavas and defeat for Dhritarashtra’s warriors. Arjuna read them, and then he turned to the great bowman seated on his right and gave him an order that shows what he was thinking about under the anger. Yuyudhana, he said, my victory in today’s battle seems certain, bull of the Shini line; all these signs are here. I am going where the ruler of the Sindhus is waiting for a display of my energy and for his journey to Yama’s regions. But the killing of the Sindhu king is one of my most imperative duties, and the protection of king Yudhishthira the just is another. You, mighty-armed one, be the king’s protector today. Protect him as I myself would protect him. I do not see the man in the world who could defeat you; in battle you are the equal of Vasudeva himself, and the chief of the gods could not beat you. With this burden resting on you, or on the great chariot-warrior Pradyumna, I can kill the ruler of the Sindhus without anxiety. Do not be anxious about me, Satvata. Protect the king with your whole heart. Where the mighty-armed Vasudeva is and where I am, no danger, not the slightest, can ever reach him or me. Satyaki, killer of hostile heroes, answered in two words: so be it. And he went back to where Yudhishthira was. The reader who knows what comes later in this chapter knows that this order will be undone before noon, when Yudhishthira, sick with fear for Arjuna, sends Satyaki after him; but at this hour the arrangement is clean, and the chariot goes out under it.
Then the story leaves the field entirely, because it has a second listener, and Sanjaya’s listener has been waiting. In Hastinapura Dhritarashtra asks his question about the day after Abhimanyu, and the question comes out as a lament. After Abhimanyu’s slaughter, when the next day came, what did the Pandavas do in their grief? Who among my warriors fought them? Knowing what Savyasachin can do, how could the Kauravas, having done such a wrong, stay unafraid? How could they even look at that tiger among men as he came on like Death himself, burning for his son? What did my warriors do when they saw the ape on the banner and the enormous bow shaking in his hands? What has happened to Duryodhana? And then the blind king does the thing that makes this speech one of the strangest in the war-books: he describes his sons’ camp by what he can no longer hear. The charming sounds that used to come from the pavilion of the Sindhu king are gone. The bards and panegyrists, the dancers, the songs that struck his ears without pause in his sons’ camp are gone. In the house of Somadatta, devoted to truth, where he used to sit and listen, there is nothing. In the houses of Vivimshati, Durmukha, Chitrasena, Vikarna and his other sons, nothing. In the pavilion of Drona’s son, where Brahmanas and Kshatriyas and Vaishyas and crowds of disciples used to attend him, where there was debate and talk and music day and night, where singers and dancers waited on him, nothing. The evening roar from the camp of Vinda and Anuvinda, the songs and hand-clapping of the Kekaya soldiers at their revels, the priests who served Somadatta’s son, the twang of bowstrings and the Vedic chanting and the whistle of lances and the rattle of wheels in Drona’s quarters, the swell of songs from many countries, all of it silent. A man who cannot see has been mapping his sons’ camp by its noise for thirteen days, and on the fourteenth the map has gone blank.
And then, as he always does, he pleads his own case. When Janardana came from Upaplavya wanting peace, out of compassion for every creature, he says, I told the wicked Duryodhana: with Vasudeva as your means, make peace with the Pandavas, my son; the time has come; do not overstep my command; if you set aside Vasudeva, who begs you for peace and speaks for my good, you will never have victory in battle. Duryodhana set aside that bull among bowmen who was speaking for his own good, and so embraced his own calamity; seized by Death, my wicked-souled son rejected my counsel and took Duhshasana’s and Karna’s. I did not approve of the dice. Vidura did not. Nor did the ruler of the Sindhus, nor Bhishma, nor Shalya, nor Bhurishravas, nor Purumitra, nor Jaya, nor Ashvatthama, nor Kripa, nor Drona. If my son had followed these men he would be living in happiness and peace with his kinsmen. The Pandavas are sweet-spoken and high-born and loved by everyone and wise; a man who keeps his eye on righteousness is happy here and blessed after death; the Pandavas have the strength to deserve half the earth, and the sea-girt earth is as much their inheritance as ours; with a kingdom they would never leave the path of dharma. I have kinsmen the Pandavas would listen to, Shalya, Somadatta, high-souled Bhishma, Drona, Vikarna, Bahlika, Kripa and the other honored elders of the Bharatas; if they spoke to the Pandavas on your behalf, the Pandavas would do as they advised. Who on their side would tell them otherwise? Krishna will never leave the path of righteousness, and the Pandavas obey him; they would not disobey my words either, being righteous themselves. I said all this to my son, weeping, and the fool did not listen. I think it is all the mischief of Time. Then the arithmetic of despair: where Vrikodara is, and Arjuna, and Satyaki of the Vrishnis, and Uttamaujas and Yudhamanyu of the Panchalas, and Dhrishtadyumna and Shikhandi, the Ashmakas, the Kekayas, Kshatradharma of the Somakas, the Chedi king, Chekitana, Vibhu the son of the Kashi king, Draupadi’s sons, Virata, Drupada, the twins, and the slayer of Madhu to give them counsel, who in this world would fight them and expect to live? And on our side, who besides Duryodhana, Karna, Shakuni and Duhshasana as the fourth? I do not see a fifth who would stand against those celestial weapons. Men who have Vishnu himself on their chariot, in armor, with the reins in his hands, and Arjuna for their warrior, can never be defeated. Does Duryodhana remember my laments now? You have told me Bhishma is slain. I think my sons are weeping now over the fruit of Vidura’s far-seeing words, over an army crushed by Shini’s grandson and Arjuna, over the empty platforms of their chariots. As a fire driven by wind eats a heap of dry grass at winter’s end, so Dhananjaya will eat my troops. Tell me everything, Sanjaya, from the moment that great wrong was done to Partha in the evening. When Abhimanyu was killed, what was the state of your minds? What did Duryodhana resolve, and Karna, and Duhshasana, and Shakuni? Whatever has happened to all my children together is the fruit of Duryodhana’s wickedness, that greedy, foolish, wrath-blinded coveter of kingdoms. Tell me what he did that night. Was it well judged or ill judged?
A key to reading this (the similes and the names): The Ashvins earned their share of the soma at Sharyati’s sacrifice through the sage Chyavana, a story told in chapter 13a; Matali is Indra’s charioteer; the war over Tara, Brihaspati’s wife, was fought when the moon god carried her off. Yuyudhana and “Shini’s grandson” are both Satyaki. Dhritarashtra’s list of the silenced camps is an inventory of his side’s leadership on the eve of the fourteenth day: Jayadratha, Ashvatthama, Vinda and Anuvinda of Avanti, the Kekaya brothers, Somadatta and his son Bhurishravas, and Drona. His claim that he urged Duryodhana to accept Krishna’s peace refers to the embassy told in chapter 20; his claim that even Jayadratha disapproved of the dice is his own, made here for the first time.
The gist: Arjuna tells the hall about his night with Shiva, Krishna harnesses the ape-bannered chariot with his own hands, and the three of them ride out under omens, with Arjuna giving Satyaki the one order that will matter later: guard the king as I would. Then Sanjaya’s story returns to the blind king, who measures the disaster by the silence in his sons’ camps, insists that he told Duryodhana to make peace when Krishna came, counts the Pandava captains against his own four, and asks what Duryodhana did that night.
Source: the Mahabharata of Krishna-Dwaipayana Vyasa, Drona Parva. This chapter follows K. M. Ganguli, sections LI-CXXIII (51-123); the Gita Press Hindi edition numbers these chapters differently. Names, order, and events were checked against Ganguli’s complete translation. Dialogue and commentary are adapted, not a verbatim translation. About the sources.
Based on: The Mahabharata, Vyasa (Gita Press, Gorakhpur)