These four were Duryodhana himself, Kripa, Açwathamanand Kritavarman. Now Duryodhana possessed a charm by which he could remain under water as long as he pleased; and, taking advantage of this, he hid himself in the lake, carrying his mace in his hand. But he was traced to his hiding-place. Yudhisthira approaching the lake taunted Duryodhana with cowardice, and challenged him to come out and fight as a Kshatriya should. Stung by his taunts Duryodhana emerged from his hiding-place, dripping with blood and water, having agreed to engage in a single combat with the giant Bhima, both being armed with clubs only. So equal were the combatants that a prolonged fight ensued. Tremendous blows were freely given and received. The very earth trembled under the dreadful contest, and the Pandavas began to entertain grave fears that if Bhima were vanquished the rest of them would be easily defeated and slain in detail by Duryodhana, who was a proficient in the use of the mace. At this critical moment Krishna artfully suggested by a gesture to Bhima that he should strike Duryodhana on the thigh, and thus fulfil his vow and vanquish his enemy at the same time. A successful blow delivered upon this suggestion, which was contrary to the recognized rules of club fighting, laid Duryodhana low, and left the Pandavas undisputed masters of the day. But, even though countless millions of human beings had already perished on the fatal field of Kurukshetra, and Duryodhana, the cause of all this havoc, lay there mortally wounded, more blood was yet to flow. Of the Kaurava hosts there still remained three men, and of these, one, Açwathaman, lived only in the hope of avenging to some extent the blood of his father Drona. Brooding schemes of vengeance through the dark hours of the night, the young man observed in a forest where he had taken refuge an owl approach noiselessly some sleeping crows and destroy them oneafter another. Accepting this event as a suggestion for his guidance, he persuaded his two companions to join him in an attempt to steal into the camp of the Pandavas—whose followers were sleeping in fancied security—with the object of wreaking their vengeance on their unarmed and unsuspecting enemies. They justified this nocturnal attack by calling to mind the many unfair advantages which the Pandavas had taken of their more honourable foes during the course of this fratricidal war—as in the cases of Bhisma, Drona and Karna.
At the entrance to the camp the three desperate warriors were met by an awful figure who barred their progress. With him Açwathaman fought a fierce battle, during the course of which he recognized in his redoubtable adversary the great god Siva, before whom he humbly prostrated himself. Presently there appeared a golden altar attended by hideous monsters, and Açwathaman, to obtain the favour of Siva, offered himself as a sacrifice in the fire which blazed upon the altar. Siva was propitiated by this pious act, and himself graciously entered the body of Açwathaman, after explaining to him that he had up to that time protected the family of Draupadi in order to please Krishna, but that he would do so no longer as their hour was at hand.
Açwathaman thus inspired by Siva, and now glorious to behold, boldly penetrated the hostile camp, while Kripa and Kritavarman stood at the gate to intercept and destroy all fugitives. The five Pandavas themselves were away in the now vacant camp of the Kauravas, whither they had gone to take possession of the spoils of the vanquished.
The revenge taken by Açwathaman and his associates was complete and bloody. The first to perish in the nocturnal attack was the generalissimo of the Pandava army, Dhrista-dyumna himself, whom Açwathamanfound sleeping in his tent and whom he literally trampled to death under his feet. An indescribable panic was caused by the massacre which followed the murder of the commander-in-chief; and, in the dire confusion of darkness, friends fell upon each other, fathers killed their own sons and sons their fathers. In this terrible “night of slaughter” Açwathaman killed the five sons of Draupadi, one after the other, and carried away their bleeding heads with him to gratify the heart of the chieftain, his master, who lay in the agony of death upon that field of carnage.
Açwathaman approaching the prince told him that he had slain the Pandavas and had their heads in his possession. Even with his life ebbing fast away the feelings of gratified revenge put a transient vigour into Duryodhana, and he leaped from the ground in a transport of fierce joy. The morning was not far distant, and in the uncertain twilight preceding the dawn he examined the heads and was deceived by the resemblance the sons of Draupadi bore to their respective fathers. Gloating over the complete vengeance which had been wreaked by Açwathaman he took into his hands what he believed to be the head of Bhima and squeezed it with all his might. The skull burst in his hands under the violent pressure, and Duryodhana at once perceived that some deception had been practised on him; for he felt that Bhima’s skull would not have thus yielded in his grasp. He desired to see the other heads and, on close inspection, understood what had really occurred. With reproaches on his lips and bitterness in his heart the dying man expired, while his three followers made haste to quit the spot and flee from the pursuit of their enemies.[105]
The war was over. The five Pandavas, now undisputed masters of the situation, sought a reconciliation with the blind king. Helpless though he was, Dhritarashtra’s feelings of bitterness against Bhima, for the unfair defeat of his son Duryodhana, were so intense that he meditated crushing the hero to death in his mighty arms, under the pretence of a friendly welcome; but Krishna, divining his intention, placed an iron image in his embrace, which the blind king, who possessed gigantic strength, crushed to pieces against his breast. Eventually, however, a reconciliation was effected between the Pandavas and the heart-broken old monarch.
The scene of the terrible carnage during eighteen consecutive days was now covered with mourners seeking, with breaking hearts, to recognize their beloved dead amongst the reeking corpses. At length arrangements were made for the cremation of the bodies that lay upon the battle-field, and they were duly disposed of, according to their rank.
A triumphal procession was next arranged from the plain of Kurukshetra to the city of Hastinapur, where Yudhisthira was installed with great pomp and ceremony as Rajah, under the nominal sovereignty of his blind uncle. At the inauguration a friend of Duryodhana’s began to revile the new king for the slaughter of his kinsfolk; but the Brahmans looked upon the reviler with angry eyes, and he fell upon the ground like a tree struck by lightning and was burnt to ashes upon the spot.
Yudhisthira, though now enthroned at Hastinapur, seems to have found his new office so beset with anxieties that he desired to have the advice of Bhisma for his guidance. He accordingly proceeded to thebattle-field at Kurukshetra, where the old hero was still alive upon his couch of arrows. The dying sage gave the king excellent advice on many important subjects relating to the duties of kings and the conduct of life, which we cannot, unfortunately, find space for. When he had passed fifty-eight days on his uncomfortable bed Bhisma resolved to die. At once the cruel arrows left his body, his head split open, and his released spirit ascended to heaven like a bright star.
As soon as Yudhisthira was firmly established on the throne of Bharata he determined to perform anAswamedha, or horse-sacrifice. The performance of this sacrifice was an assertion of sovereignty over the whole earth, and had such peculiar virtue that the successful performance of one hundred Aswamedhas gave the sacrificer power even over Indra, the god of heaven. In Yudhisthira’s case, it is true, the Aswamedha was suggested by the sage Vyasa, as atonement for all the monarch’s sins. A horse of a particular colour had to be obtained and, as a preliminary to the sacrifice, the animal was set free to wander at its pleasure for one year. The Rajah who proposed performing the Aswamedha, or the deputy of such Rajah, followed with an army in the track of the horse. If the animal found its way into the territories of any foreign state, the ruler of that state was bound either to seize the horse and fight the invader, or else to acknowledge his own inferiority; and, in proof of submission, to swell with his own forces those of his superior lord.
In order to be present at the ceremony of loosing the horse, Krishna journeyed to Hastinapur. A detailed account of his march is given in the “Mahabharata,” and is of special interest when it is remembered that this Rajah is regarded as an incarnation of the Supreme Being. Krishna’s trip to Yudhisthira’scapital was a joyous progress. He was accompanied by Rukmini and Satyabháma, and his other favourite wives, as well as various members of the family. The crowd that attended him was a motley one, and included no small number of loose characters, dancing-girls and performers of all sorts, with whom Krishna seems to have been on the most familiar footing. And they are represented as having been aware of his divine nature, for a harlot having met with an accident which excited the mirth of the bystanders, remarked: “There is no occasion for laughing, for every day I behold the divine Krishna and therefore all my sins are forgiven me.”[106]
The horse destined for the sacrifice was at length set free, and was followed by Arjuna at the head of a mighty army. It led him and his followers into many strange adventures, but we shall here only allude to a few of them. The horse, in his wanderings, entered the country of the Amazons, young and lovely warriors—“perfect in the arts of love, and in the various ways of fascinating men”[107]—whose charms were as dangerous as their weapons; but who were prevailed upon to allow the horse free passage through their country. Then the host was conducted into a region where the trees bore men and women, and where the men had ears with one of which they covered their heads and with the other their bodies. In this land of marvels the terrible prime minister wore, as ear-rings, a dead elephant and a dead camel.
The horse next passed into the country of Manipura, which Arjuna had visited in one of his earlier wanderings, and over which a son of his was now ruling. This king’s magnificence was such that his palace was surrounded by a golden wall and his capital by a silverone. His reception-hall was supported on golden pillars, and illuminated at night by torches made of sandal wood, wound round with cloth steeped in perfumed oils. The greatness and power of the ruler of this country was commensurate with his wealth and splendour; but his filial respect was so great that he tendered his submission to the invader, his father Arjuna, in the most abject manner. Arjuna disdainfully repudiated a son who exhibited, as he thought, so much cowardice. The result was a terrible battle, in which Arjuna’s head was severed from his body by a crescent-shaped arrow from his son’s bow. However, Arjuna was not to perish thus; and his son procured, from the King of the Serpents, who lived in the bowels of the earth, a certain jewel which possessed the power of restoring life. This, when applied to the body of the dead Pandava, caused the head and trunk to reunite. Arjuna, restored to life, was easily reconciled to his brave son, the mighty Rajah of Manipur.
The year appointed for the wandering expedition at length came to an end, and the horse with its escort returned to Hastinapur. The sacrifice was then performed with the usual magnificence. Gold, jewels, elephants, horses, and cows were, as on all such occasions, freely given away, particularly to the Brahmans. With great ceremony the head of the horse was struck off by Bhima and, immediately mounting towards the sky, soared out of sight. The body was cast into the sacrificial fire. To crown the great ceremony, Indra, with attendant gods, presented himself to partake of the sacrifice, and, amidst general rejoicings, feastings and further extravagant largesses, the Aswamedha was brought to a successful conclusion.
Years passed; the blind old Maharajah, weighed down with sorrowful recollections of his sons andfollowers who had fallen in the great war, retired, with his wife Gandhari, into a jungle on the banks of the Ganges. Kunti also accompanied them. To this hermitage the Pandavas paid a visit. The conversation, as was natural, turned upon the friends and kinsfolk who had perished on the plain of Kurukshetra. While this sad subject was being discussed the sage Vyasa made his appearance, and promised the mourners that he would, that very night, show them the relatives for whom they had been sorrowing. After bathing in the Ganges the company stood together on the bank of the sacred river. Vyasa, standing by the king, summoned the dead to appear. A scene of inexpressible grandeur followed immediately. The river began to foam and boil. A great noise was heard, and out of the troubled water arose the men who had died at Kurukshetra. They came as when alive, but more beautiful and in all the pomp of martial glory, in full armour, upon their chariots and with music. The foes who had cruelly slaughtered each other now appeared as friends, and were attended by troops of singers and of dancing-girls. Dead and living communed freely with each other and, in the joy of reunion, the sorrows of so many years were forgotten. But, with the morning, the ghostly visitants disappeared. And now Vyasa gave the widows who wished to rejoin their dead husbands permission to do so; upon which all the widows drowned themselves in the Ganges and were reunited to their lords.
The Pandavas with their followers returned to Hastinapur and, about two years afterwards, the old king, his wife and Kunti, with their attendants, perished in a jungle fire.
Krishna, the friend of the Pandavas, also met with an untimely end after another fratricidal civil war in his own country, and his capital city of Dwarka—from which the remaining inhabitants had been removedby Arjuna to Hastinapur—was overwhelmed by a wave of the sea.
After the many trials and sorrows they had gone through, a weariness of life, such as would seem only too natural under the circumstances, took possession of the Pandavas, and they were minded to be done with earthly things.
“Let us go forth to die! Time slayeth all.We will find Death who seeketh other men.”
—Sir Edwin Arnold.
With this resolve the five brothers adopted the hermit’s garb, and accompanied by the still peerless Draupadi, and attended by one faithful dog, they turned their steps towards Mount Meru—the abode of the gods. A long, circuitous and weary journey was theirs, performed on foot, and in decorous Indian file. The brothers walked one behind the other according to their respective ages. Draupadi, “with soft dark face and lustrous eyes,” dutifully followed her husbands with unwavering devotion. The dog brought up the rear. Through hoary forests, by running streams, along the shores of the sounding ocean, over parched and burning plains lay their toilsome way to the sacred mountain. But alas! the king alone was destined to reach it alive. One by one the tired pilgrims succumbed to inevitable death. First Draupadi fainted and perished on the way, because—her only fault—her woman’s heart had loved Arjuna too much. After her Sahadeva paid the penalty of pride, and Nakula of self-love. The three who still survived hastened on without looking back, for they knew that their loved companions were beyond the reach of any help. The king with Bhima and Arjuna pressed on for Meru. But the great archer’s turn to die soon arrived, and the giant Bhima perished also. Of all the pilgrims who, weary of theworld, had set out from Hastinapur, King Yudhisthira alone, with the hound closely following him, reached the Celestial Mountain and was warmly welcomed by the gods.
With the gates of Swarga wide open for his reception the magnanimous king paused upon the very threshold of Paradise and, more mindful of others than of himself, asked that his brothers and Draupadi should accompany him into heaven. Being assured that he would meet them there, his next solicitude was for his canine companion. At the gate he was informed that the hound must be left outside to the fate that might await him, for such could certainly not enter the abode of the gods. The large-hearted king, however, would not consent to abandon even this humble comrade of his weary pilgrimage, and lo!
“Straight as he spake, brightly great Indra smiled,Vanished the hound, and in its stead stood there,The lord of death and justice, Dharma’s self.”
—Arnold.
In Swarga Yudhisthira did not find his noble brothers, nor the tender Draupadi, and learned that they were still in Purgatory expiating the sins of their earthly lives. Without them heaven had no charms for the king. He preferred to share the unhappy fate of his kinsfolk, and was conducted to the nether regions by a celestial messenger, along a dismal road reeking with loathsome corruption, and through hideous scenes of terrible suffering, such as have filled the morbid imaginations of men in every nation.
Yudhisthira’s presence in those abodes of anguish brought some mitigation to the punishments of the many who were there undergoing a fierce purgation from the dross of their mundane existence. Wailing voices entreated the great king to stay awhile for their comfort amongst them, and he magnanimously consentedto do so. But the gods, at length interposing, conducted him back to Swarga. With him were his brothers and Draupadi—all purified by punishment from such sins or frailties as had marred their perfection during their terrestrial life.
Thus grandly closes the wonderful story of the great war!