“And when it was thrown into the sea by Manu, it said these words to

him with a smile:[81] ‘O adorable being thou hast protected me with

special care; do thou now listen to me as to what thou shouldst do in

the fulness of time! O fortunate and worshipful sir, the dissolution

of this mobile and immobile world is nigh at hand. The time for the

purging of this world is now ripe. Therefore do I now explain what is

well for thee. The mobile and the immobile divisions of the creation,

those that have the power of locomotion and those that have it not,

of all these the terrible doom hath now approached. Thou shalt build

a strong and massive ark, and have it furnished with a long rope. On

that must thou ascend, O great Muni, with the seven Rishis, and take

with thee all the different seeds which were enumerated by regenerate

Brahmans in days of yore, and separately and carefully must thou

preserve them therein. And whilst there, O beloved of the Munis, thou

shalt wait for me, and I shall appear to thee like a horned animal, and

thus, O ascetic, shalt thou recognize me.’”

Manu, having carried out the instructions of the fish in all its

details, entered his ark and embarked upon the surging ocean. He

thought of the fish, and it appeared with horns on its head, to which

Manu fastened his vessel. A terrific tempest arose, in which the ark

“reeled about like a drunken harlot.” Water covered everything, even

the heavens and the firmament. For many years the fish towed the vessel

through the flood, and at length conveyed it towards the highest peak

of the Himavat (Himalayas) and instructed the occupants to moor their

vessel to it. “Then the fish, addressing the associated Rishis, told

them these words: ‘I am Brahma, the lord of all creatures; there is

none greater than myself’. Assuming the shape of a fish I have saved ye

from this cataclysm. Manu will create (again) all beings--gods, Asuras

and men, and all those divisions of creation which have the power of

locomotion and which have it not. By practising severe austerities he

will acquire this power, and, with my blessing, illusion will have no

power over him.” Manu, of course, underwent the necessary austerities,

and recreated “all beings in proper and exact order.”

Such is the “Legend of the Fish,” and whosoever listens to it every day

is assured of heaven.[82]

From this easy mode of reaching heaven,[83] as taught by the sage

Markandeya, we turn to his exposition of the _doctrine of Karma_,

which, if less comforting in respect to the means of attaining heavenly

joys has, at least, something of philosophical plausibility to

recommend it to our attention.

The divine sage, addressing Yudhisthira, explained to him that

happiness is to be attained neither by learning, nor good morals, nor

personal exertion. There is yet another and more important factor than

all these to be reckoned with, and that is _Karma_. “If the fruits of

our exertion,” says Markandeya, “were not dependent on anything else,

people would attain the object of their desire by simply striving to

attain it. It is sure that able, intelligent, and diligent persons

are baffled in their efforts and do not attain the fruits of their

actions. On the other hand, persons who are always active in injuring

others, and in practising deception on the world, lead a happy life.

There are some who attain prosperity without any exertion; and there

are others who with the utmost exertion are unable to achieve their

dues. Miserly persons with the object of having sons born to them

worship the gods and practise severe austerities, and these sons ... at

length turn out to be very infamous scions of their race; and others

begotten under the same auspices, decently pass their lives in luxury,

with hoards of riches and grain accumulated by their ancestors. The

diseases from which men suffer are undoubtedly the result of their

own _Karma_,” that is of their actions in previous and unremembered

existences. “It is,” pursues Markandeya, “the immemorial tradition[84]

that the soul is eternal and everlasting, but the corporeal frame of

all creatures is subject to destruction here (below). When, therefore,

life is extinguished the body only is destroyed, but the spirit, wedded

to its actions, travels elsewhere.” It inhabits innumerable bodies in

succession, it lives countless lives, it passes through the infernal

regions, it attains to the heaven of the gods; and, after untold woes

and infinite struggles, is eventually re-absorbed in the divine

essence from which it sprang.[85]

Turning from these episodes and mystic speculations to the Pandavas

themselves, we find that the ever-fair Draupadi having, by her

perennial and faultless beauty, aroused the passions of Jayadratha,

Rajah of Sindhu, was artfully carried off by him during the temporary

absence of her husbands; but the ravisher was overtaken and suffered

punishment at the hands of the ardent Bhima, who, after inflicting

severe bodily chastisement upon the defeated Rajah, cut off his hair,

all except five locks, and made him confess himself the slave of the

Pandavas. At the request of Yudhisthira, backed by generous Draupadi,

Jayadratha was released.

This abduction and rescue recalled to the mind of Markandeya the story

of Rama and Sita, which he proceeded to relate, at considerable length,

for the edification of the Pandavas. The sage also recounted the story

of Savitri, more charming than that of Orpheus and Eurydice. How the

lovely Savitri set her affections upon young Satyaván, the only son of

the blind Dyumatsena, ex-king of the Salwas; how she learned from the

lips of the celestial sage Narada, that the beautiful youth was fated

to die within a year; how notwithstanding this secret knowledge she

willingly linked her lot with his; and how, when the inevitable hour

arrived, and the doom of fate was accomplished in the lonely forest,

her austere piety and devoted love enabled her to follow Yama, on and

on with fearless footsteps and touching entreaties, as he conveyed away

her dear husband’s spirit to the Land of Shades, and at last to prevail

upon the dread deity to restore to her the soul of her Satyaván.

“Adieu, great God!” She took the soul,

No bigger than the human thumb,

And running swift, soon reached her goal,

Where lay the body stark and dumb.

She lifted it with eager hands

And as before, when he expired,

She placed the head upon the bands

That bound her breast, which hope new fired,

And which alternate rose and fell;

Then placed his soul upon his heart,

Whence like a bee it found its cell,

And lo, he woke with sudden start!

His breath came low at first, then deep,

With an unquiet look he gazed,

As one awaking from a sleep,

Wholly “bewildered and amazed.”[86]

Of the doings of the Kauravas, during the twelve years that we have

been following the fortunes of their cousins, little is recorded,

and that little is not to their credit. Knowing full well where the

Pandavas were passing their term of exile in the forests, Duryodhana,

upon the advice of Karna, went thither in great state with a view of

meanly feasting his eyes upon the wretchedness of his hated kinsmen,

and of intensifying their misery by the cruel contrast between his

own grandeur and their destitution. This was the real, if unworthy,

motive of the journey to the forest of Kamyaka; the alleged reason

was to inspect the royal cattle-stations in order to count the stock

and mark the calves.[87] Attended by his courtiers, by thousands

of ladies belonging to the royal household, and by a great army of

followers and soldiers, Duryodhana proceeded towards the sylvan abode

of the Pandavas; but his advance guard was refused admission into the

forests by the Gandharvas, whose king had come with his celestial hosts

and several tribes of Apsaras to have a merry time in those woods.

As neither party would abate a jot of its pretensions, a terrible

battle ensued, resulting in the complete defeat of the Kauravas, the

ignominious flight of the redoubtable Karna, and the capture, by the

victorious enemy, of Duryodhana himself, his court, and all his harem.

In this extremity the beaten followers of the captive king fled for

help to the Pandavas. For the sake of the honour of the family,

and particularly for the protection of the ladies of their house,

Arjuna and Bhima, with the twins came, by the magnanimous command of

Yudhisthira, to the rescue of their kinsmen; and, after performing

feats of war which none but an Indian poet could imagine, obtained

the release of the crestfallen Duryodhana, whose bitterness

against his cousins was only increased by this humiliating and

never-to-be-forgotten incident.

Stung to the quick by the intolerable mortification of his position,

Duryodhana, in despair, resolved to give up his kingdom and his life.

To the remonstrances of his friends, he answered: “I have nothing more

to do with virtue, wealth, friendship, affluence, sovereignty and

enjoyment. Do not obstruct my purpose, but leave me, all of you. I am

firmly resolved to cast away my life by foregoing food. Return to the

city and treat my superiors there respectfully.” He might have fallen

upon his own sword; but the Hindu hero elects to die otherwise. “And

the son of Dhritarashtra, in accordance with his purpose, spread kuça

grass on the earth, and purifying himself by touching water sat down

upon that spot. And, clad in rags and kuça grass, he set himself to

observe the highest vow. And stopping all speech, that tiger among

kings, moved by the desire of going to heaven, began to pray and

worship internally, suspending all external intercourse.”

However, this meditated suicide was not fated to be accomplished. The

Daityas and Danavas interfered, “knowing that if the king died, their

party would be weakened.” By means of certain rites and sacrifices

they called into being “a strange goddess with mouth wide open,” who

carried Duryodhana into their presence at night. The Daityas and

Danavas explained to the dejected king that he was of more than human

origin, and their especial ally. They undertook to help him in his

struggles with the Pandavas, and promised him a complete triumph over

his rivals. Cheered by these assurances, the would be suicide abandoned

his purpose, resumed his royal position and, emulating the Pandavas,

performed a great and costly sacrifice, known as the _Vaishnava_. To

this important rite Duryodhana insultingly invited his cousins, who

prudently declined the invitation on the plea that the period of their

exile was not yet completed.

Notwithstanding the recent defeat of Karna by the Gandharvas, and his

precipitate flight from the field of battle, there seems to have been

a lurking dread of his prowess amongst the friends of the Pandavas.

Indra, the god of heaven, determined therefore to render him less

formidable, by depriving him of his native coat of golden mail and

the celestial ear-rings with which he was born. For this purpose he

presented himself before Karna in the guise of a Brahman, and asked

him for his armour and ear-rings. Now Karna had made a vow never to

refuse anything to a Brahman, and was thus placed on the horns of a

cruel dilemma. However, he had been forewarned by his own father,

the sun-god, of Indra’s intentions, and had been advised to ask

for an infallible weapon in exchange for his armour and ear-rings.

Recognizing the god of heaven under his Brahmanical disguise, Karna

preferred his request, which was granted with conditions which made

it almost nugatory. Karna peeled off his natural armour, which act,

by Indra’s favour, left no scar upon his person. “And Sakra (Indra),”

says the poet, “having thus beguiled Karna, but made him famous in the

world thought, with a smile, that the business of the sons of Pandu

had already been completed.” The Pandavas were naturally elated, and

the Kauravas depressed, when the news of these events reached them.

Though the sons of Pandu had received repeated assurances that they

would ultimately triumph over their enemies, they were, it seems,

subject to frequent fits of somewhat unreasonable depression; so Vyasa,

ever devoted to the interests of the heroes, visited them in their

forest-home, and consoled Yudhisthira once more by the prediction that,

after the thirteenth year of exile had expired, he would regain his

kingdom and his influence in the world.

The twelfth year of exile was now drawing to a close; the thirteenth

year, it will be remembered, was to be passed by the Pandavas in

disguise in some city or other. Their last experience in the woods

was as wonderful as any they had previously gone through. A wild stag

carried away on its branching antlers the sticks with which a Brahman

ascetic was wont to kindle his fire. The five brothers were appealed to

by the hermit in his trouble, and pursued the animal, but could neither

kill it nor run it down. Overcome with fatigue and thirst they sat down

to take rest. One climbed a tree to look-out for signs of water, and

having discovered them, Nakula was sent to fetch water for the party.

Not far away he found a pleasant pond, but was warned by the commanding

voice of some unseen being not to touch the water. He was too thirsty

to give heed to the injunction and, proceeding to drink of the crystal

spring, fell down dead. Wondering at Nakula’s prolonged absence,

Sahadeva set out to look for him and, coming upon the pond, heard the

warning voice. He, too, disregarded it, and suffered the same penalty

as his brother had done. Arjuna and Bhima in turn went through the same

experiences with the same sad result. At last the wise Yudhisthira came

upon the scene; he prudently refrained from touching the water when

warned against doing so, and entered into conversation with the aërial

voice, which now took an embodied form,--that of a mighty _Yaksha_.

This being of terrible aspect, interrogated the king upon a number of

important points, and receiving satisfactory answers,[88] revealed

himself to Yudhisthira as his father, Dharma, god of justice. He then

restored the dead Pandavas to life, and bestowed this boon upon them

that, during the thirteenth year of their exile, if they even travelled

over the entire earth in their proper forms, no one _in the three

worlds_ would be able to recognize them.

The twelfth year was now nearly completed, and the brothers left the

woods resolved to spend the next twelve months in the city of Virata,

which seems to have been close at hand. Before entering the city they

had to conceal their weapons in order to avoid detection (for they

do not seem to have placed implicit confidence in the boon granted

by Dharma). Just outside the city they came upon a cemetery with a

gigantic _Sami_ tree. To the topmost boughs of this tree they fastened

their weapons. They also hung a corpse on the tree that people might

avoid it. This action of theirs was evidently noticed, for the poet

tells us that, on being asked by the shepherds and “cowherds regarding

the corpse, those repressors of foes said unto them, ‘This is our

mother, aged one hundred and eighty years. We have hung up her dead

body, in accordance with the custom observed by our forefathers.’”

On the way Yudhisthira, ever anxious for divine help, invoked the

goddess Durga in terms which reveal at once the attributes of the

goddess and the Hindu poet’s idea of the most suitable expressions to

be employed in addressing a female divinity. “Salutations to thee, O

giver of boons.... Salutations to thee, O thou of four hands and four

faces, O thou of fair round hips and deep bosom, O thou that wearest

bangles made of emeralds and sapphires, O thou that bearest excellent

braces on thy upper arm.... Thou art the only female in the universe

that possessest the attribute of purity. Thou art decked with a pair of

well-made ears graced with excellent rings. O goddess thou shinest with

a face that challengeth the moon in beauty! With an excellent diadem

and beautiful braid, with robes made of the bodies of snakes, and with

also the brilliant girdle round thy hips thou shinest like the Mandara

Mountain encircled with snakes! Thou shinest also with peacock-plumes

standing erect on thy head, and thou hast sanctified the celestial

regions by adopting the vow of perpetual maidenhood. It is for this,

O thou that hast slain the _Buffalo-Asura_, that thou art praised and

worshipped by the gods for the protection of the three worlds! O thou

foremost of all deities, extend to me thy grace, show me thy mercy and

be thou the source of blessings to me! Thou art Jaya and Vijaya, and it

is thou that givest victory in battle! Grant me victory, O goddess,

and give me boons also at this hour of distress. Thy eternal abode is

on Vindhya, that foremost of mountains, O Kali! O Kali thou art the

great Kali, ever fond of wine and meat and animal sacrifice. Capable of

going everywhere at will and bestowing boons on thy devotees, thou art

ever followed in thy journeys by Brahma and the other gods,”[89] etc.,

etc.

“Thus praised by the son of Pandu, the goddess showed herself unto

him,” and promised the exiles that, through her grace, they would

remain unrecognized, either by the Kurava spies or the inhabitants of

the city, as long as they resided in Virata.

Under such favourable auspices and protection, the Pandavas and

their joint-wife entered Virata. Yudhisthira presented himself

before the Rajah, and was engaged as a companion and teacher of

dice-playing, in which art, as the reader will remember, he received

special instruction from a Rishi in the woods of Kamyaka. Bhima was

taken on as superintendent of the cooks, being it seems especially

clever in preparing _curries_. Arjuna, who personated a eunuch, was

appointed music and dancing-master to the ladies, having learned those

accomplishments in Indra’s heaven. Nakula was taken on as master of the

horse, and Sahadeva, who was skilled in milking and managing kine, as

superintendent of the cattle. Draupadi professed to be a _Sairindhri_,

or maid-servant, ready to serve anybody who would maintain her. The

queen chanced to see Draupadi and took her into her service, although

she felt and expressed some reluctance to have about her person a

woman of such an attractive appearance. The Rani apparently had her

suspicions about Draupadi, to whom she candidly expressed her opinion

that she was too beautiful to be a servant, “for,” said she, “your

heels are not prominent and your thighs touch one another. And your

intelligence is great, and your navel deep, and your words solemn.

And your great toes, and bust, and hips, and toe-nails, and palms,

are all well-developed.” The Rani also naïvely added: “What man will

be able to resist thy attractions? Surely, O thou of well-rounded

hips, O damsel of exquisite charms, beholding thy form of superhuman

beauty, King Virata is sure to forsake me and will turn to thee with

his whole heart.” But the fair wife of the five Pandavas seems to have

allayed the Rani’s natural jealousy and fear, by assuring her that

she was watched over by Gandharvas, and that if anyone attempted to

make improper advances to her the Gandharvas would put an end to him.

However, the Rani’s anxiety was fully justified by after events. Her

brother, Kechaka, smitten with the charms of the new maid-servant,

prevailed upon his sister, by his importunities, to send Draupadi

to his house on the pretext of fetching some wine from his stock.

Draupadi went as directed to the house of the Rani’s brother; but, on

his making insulting proposals to her, she made her escape from him,

and fled direct to the king’s council chamber, followed by the baffled

and enraged Kechaka, who seized her by the hair of her head before the

assembled courtiers and shamefully kicked the beautiful lady in the

presence of the king and his attendants. The Rajah would not interfere,

and Bhima, who was present[90] and boiling with suppressed indignation,

was restrained by the command of his elder brother from taking notice

of the affair. But Draupadi was not to be pacified. Bent on having

revenge, she went at dead of night to Bhima, and heaped reproaches upon

him and his brothers; and well she might, for all the degrading insults

she had had to endure while they looked tamely on. Between them they

planned that Draupadi should pretend to yield to Kechaka’s desires,

and should appoint a secret meeting with him, when Bhima should be her

substitute, and kill the man who had insulted and ill-used her. The

plan was successfully carried out. A terrible fight took place between

Kechaka and Bhima. The latter at length slew his antagonist by whirling

him swiftly round his head and dashing him against the ground. He then

broke all his bones into small pieces, formed his body into a great

ball of flesh, and brought Draupadi to behold the complete _vengeance_

he had taken upon her hated persecutor. To wreak their malice on the

person they believed to be the cause of Kechaka’s death, his kinsmen

seized Draupadi, “of faultless limbs,” who was found leaning against

a pillar hard by the scene of the grim revenge, and carried her off

outside the city walls with the intention of burning her with the

dead man’s body. In her distress she cried aloud for help, and Bhima,

in disguise, came to her rescue. Panic-stricken at the sight of this

supposed Gandharva, the men who had assembled at the cremation ground

fled for their lives, but were pursued by Bhima, who killed a great

number of them.

Of course this event created an immense sensation, and even the king

feared to speak to Draupadi, while the Rani only ventured to ask her

to leave Virata. But Draupadi begged permission to stay just a few

days longer, assuring the Rani that her Gandharva husbands would yet

be of great service to the king. Shortly after the occurrences just

related, and as a consequence of the death of Kechaka, who was a man

of great note and generalissimo of Rajah Virata’s forces, Suçarman,

King of the Tregartas, an old enemy of Virata’s, thinking it a

favourable opportunity, proposed a raid into his territory for the

purpose of plunder. The Kauravas willingly agreed to make a separate

but simultaneous attack upon their neighbour. When intelligence of the

inroad into his territory reached Virata, he hastened to repel the

invasion, taking in his train his servants Yudhisthira, Bhima, Nakula,

and Sahadeva, who volunteered to fight for him. The Tregartas and

Matsyas soon came into conflict, and Virata was, after a bloody fight,

taken captive by Suçarman, but was rescued by the Pandavas who, as

usual, performed prodigies of valour.

Meanwhile the Kauravas made an unexpected attack in another direction

and began carrying off the royal herds. There was no one at the

capital who could go out to oppose them--the troops being all away

with the king--but the king’s son, Uttara, ventured out against the

invaders with only Arjuna as his charioteer. At sight of the forces

arrayed against him and the mighty heroes who led them, Uttara’s

courage failed him, and leaping off his chariot he fled from the

field, but was brought back by Arjuna who, directing him to take the

reins, boldly resolved to give battle to the enemy. After providing

himself with the famous and deadly weapons he had concealed a year

previously in the _Sami_ tree near the cemetery, he went out alone,

with Uttara as his charioteer, to attack the Kaurava host. All the

redoubtable heroes of the party were present that day. Old Bhisma the

terrible, and well skilled Drona with his mighty son Açwatháman, and

Kripa and Karna the famous offspring of Kunti and the day-god. There

too, arrayed in all the glittering panoply of war, were the formidable

Duryodhana and his brother Dusçasana, with the other proud princes of

Dhritarashtra’s race. But Arjuna alone, armed with his wonderful bow,

Gándiva, completely defeated them all in one of those incomprehensible

battles which delight the Hindu bard but bewilder the European reader.

In the unfortunate rank and file of the Kaurava host the slaughter

caused by Arjuna was prodigious; but not a single one of the leading

heroes engaged in conflict that day was killed, or even seriously

incommoded--although each of them, including Arjuna himself, was

pierced by scores of deadly arrows.

The defeated Kauravas, of course, recognized their conqueror; but the

stipulated period of exile was now fully completed, and the enforced

truce was at an end.

Rajah Virata, now enlightened as to the names and proper rank of the

Pandavas, engaged to assist them in regaining their Raj; though, after

recent events, it is hard to comprehend what assistance such heroes

could want from Virata, or anyone else. To cement the alliance between

his royal house and that of the Pandavas, Virata offered his lovely

daughter, Uttará, in marriage to Arjuna. That hero, however, had been

the fair damsel’s dancing-master and on intimate terms with her in the

harem. He, therefore, with fine delicacy of sentiment, declined the

offer, lest suspicions injurious to the lady’s reputation might be

whispered about; but, to attest her fair fame in the most conclusive

and impressive way, he accepted her hand for his son, Abhimanyu, to

whom she was duly married in the presence of an assembly of kings

invited for the occasion, including Krishna, who came attended by a

“hundred millions of horse and a hundred billions of foot-soldiers.”

A resort to the final arbitrament of battle seemed inevitable, and

warlike preparations were vigorously pushed on by both parties, who

despatched their envoys in all directions, requesting the assistance

of their friends and allies. Krishna had returned to Dwarka after

the marriage festivities at Panchala. Both sides anxiously sought

his alliance. Duryodhana and Arjuna posted in hot haste to Dwarka to

secure the aid of the mighty Prince of the Vreshnis, and both of them

arrived simultaneously at Krishna’s abode while he was asleep. As

privileged kinsmen they entered his bed-chamber and placed themselves

near his bed, Duryodhana at the head and Arjuna at the foot, but did

not dare to disturb him. As soon as Krishna awoke from his slumber the

two chieftains eagerly claimed his help. As he was equally related to

both he desired to divide his favours between them. He placed himself,

but strictly as a non-combatant, on one side, and, on the other, his

army of a hundred million soldiers, and offered Arjuna, as he had seen

him first upon awakening, the choice between the two. Without any

hesitation Arjuna chose Krishna himself, leaving the mighty army of one

hundred millions to swell the ranks of Duryodhana’s host.

But before having recourse to arms one party at least deemed it

expedient to endeavour to effect a reconciliation by negotiations; and

it takes one’s breath away with astonishment to find the mighty Pandava

heroes--after all the gross indignities they had suffered, after

the outrageous insults to which their joint-wife had been exposed,

and after their terrible vows of vengeance publicly uttered--tamely

proposing to make peace with their arrogant cousins on condition of

having nothing more than _five villages_ assigned to them. All this,

too, in the face of Draupadi’s bitter and indignant taunts. However,

even this humble offer of theirs was scornfully rejected by Duryodhana.

But the Pandavas, even Bhima and Arjuna, being still anxious to avoid

shedding the blood of their kinsfolk, Krishna undertook to act as their

ambassador, and in this capacity presented himself at the capital of

Dhritarashtra. His reception was of the most magnificent kind, and his

mission was attended by many supernatural events. When the princes

and great officers of State were assembled in solemn conclave to

consider Krishna’s proposals, a number of Brahman sages appeared in the

sky, and were respectfully invited to come down and take part in the

deliberations of the assembly, an invitation they readily accepted.

A prolonged sitting of the council took place, during which many

speeches, embellished with instructive stories of olden times, were

made in order to induce Duryodhana to come to terms with the Pandavas.

Advice was, however, thrown away upon the haughty and obstinate prince,

who left the chamber in great indignation.

Krishna, seeing that Duryodhana was bent on pushing matters to

extremities, expressed an opinion that the best course for the old

Maharajah to pursue would be to seize the young prince and his abettors

and make them over to the Pandavas. He argued that “For the sake of a

family an individual may be sacrificed; for the sake of a village a

family may be sacrificed; for the sake of a province a village may be

sacrificed; and, lastly, for the sake of one’s self the whole earth

may be sacrificed;” and concluded with this exhortation: “O monarch,

binding Duryodhana fast, make peace with the Pandavas. O bull among

Kshatriyas let not the whole Kshatriya race be slaughtered on thy

account.” This proposal being secretly communicated to Duryodhana,

he in turn plotted to seize and confine Krishna, but his plan was

discovered by that monarch. Now, as the reader is aware, Krishna was no

mere mortal, but an incarnation of the Supreme Being. Addressing the

prince the next time they met, he said:

“From delusion, O Duryodhana, thou regardest me to be alone, and it

is for this, O thou of little understanding, that thou seekest to

make me a captive after vanquishing me with violence. Here, however,

are all Pandavas and all the Vrishnis and Andhakas. Here are all the

Adityas, the Rudras, and the Vasus with all the great Rishis. Saying

this, Keçava (Krishna), that slayer of hostile heroes, burst out

into loud laughter. And as the high-souled Cawri laughed, from his

body, that resembled a blazing fire, issued myriads of gods, each of

lightning effulgence and not bigger than the thumb! And on his forehead

appeared Brahma, and on his breast Rudra. And on his arms appeared the

regents of the world, and from his mouth issued Agni, the Adityas,

the Sáddhyas, the Vasus, the Açwins, the Maruts, with Indra and the

Viçwedevas. And myriads of Yakshas and Gandharvas, and Rakshasas also,

of the same measure and form, issued thence. And from his two arms

issued Sankarshana and Dhananjaya. And Arjuna stood on his right,

bow in hand, and Rama stood on his left, armed with the plough. And

behind him stood Bhima and Yudhisthira, and the two sons of Madri, and

before him were all the Andhakas and the Vrishnis, with Praddyumna and

other chiefs bearing mighty weapons upraised. And on his diverse arms

were seen the conch, the discus, the mace, the bow called Cáruga, the

plough, the javelin, the Nandaka, and every other weapon, all shining

with effulgence and upraised for striking. And from his eyes and nose

and ears, and every part of his body, issued fierce sparks of fire

mixed with smoke.” All, except a few privileged ones, closed their

eyes, unable to bear the splendour of this divine manifestation, which

was attended with an earthquake, celestial music, and a shower of

heavenly flowers.

After this amazing display of his personality as the very embodiment of

all the gods, Krishna, resuming his human form, left the hall leaning

on the arms of two of his kinsmen. The perverse Duryodhana, however,

regarded this exhibition of Krishna’s godhood as a mere illusion--a

clever conjuror’s trick[91]--and, doomed to destruction as he was,

treated it with contemptuous disregard.

The envoy’s mission having thus failed, he prepared for an immediate

return to his friends. Before setting out he paid a friendly visit

to his aunt Kunti, the mother of the Pandavas; and, as a last piece

of diplomacy, artfully endeavoured to detach Karna from Duryodhana’s

party. He disclosed to the famous bowman that he was Kunti’s son

and, _therefore_, morally, a son of Pandu; since, according to the

scriptures, sons “born of a maiden have him for their father who

weddeth the maiden.” According to this system of paternity, Karna

was not only Pandu’s son, but the elder brother of Yudhisthira; and,

as such, entitled to the headship of the Pandava family, to the

sovereignty of Hastinapur, and to supremacy over the kings of the

whole earth. Krishna represented this aspect of the matter to Karna

in the most tempting manner possible, not failing to mention that, if

he joined his brothers, the fair Draupadi would be _his_ wife too.

But he, who had thus far gone through life known as the humble Suta’s

son, had the manliness to treat these offers and suggestions of the

divine Prince of Dwarka with proud indifference, adhering with unshaken

loyalty to his friend Duryodhana, and the party with which he had

been so long associated. The crafty Krishna then urged the absolute

certainty of the complete success of the Pandavas in the contest

which was approaching; but no cowardly fears disturbed the settled

resolution of the hero, who, as he said, was pledged to meet Arjuna in

the field of battle and would not, even if sure destruction awaited

himself, withdraw from his obligations or shirk his obvious duty to the

Kauravas.

Kunti herself next made an effort to win over Karna to the side of the

Pandavas. For this purpose she stealthily followed him to the banks of

the Ganges and stood silently behind him while he piously performed

his devotions. When he discovered her, and respectfully inquired the

object of her presence there, she disclosed to him the secret of

his parentage, and with well-chosen arguments urged him to join his

brothers. An affectionate voice issuing from the sun, the voice of

Surya himself, confirmed the statements and supported the advice of

Kunti. But Karna, “firmly devoted to truth,” even though thus solicited

by both his parents, protested his determination to remain firmly

faithful to the cause of his friends. He gently reproached his mother

for her abandonment of him in his infancy and her subsequent neglect of

her maternal duties, but, with noble generosity, he made an important

concession in favour of the Pandavas. “I will not speak deceitfully

unto thee;” said the hero, “For the sake of Dhritarashtra’s son I shall

fight with thy sons to the best of my strength and might! I must not,

however, abandon kindness and the conduct that becometh the good. Thy

words, therefore, however beneficial, cannot be obeyed by me now. This

thy solicitation to me will not yet be fruitless. Except Arjuna, thy

other sons--Yudhisthira, Bhima, and the twins, though capable of being

withstood by me in fight, and capable also of being slain--shall not

yet be slain by me.” Thus did the magnanimous Karna worthily close one

of the most interesting incidents in the great epic.

War was now inevitable. Krishna returned to Yudhisthira, and both

parties prepared to join issue on the famous field of Kurukshetra.[92]

The Pandavas gave the supreme command of their forces to Dhrista-dyumna

who, as the reader will remember, was the destined slayer of Drona.

The Kauravas marshalled their cohorts under the leadership of the

terrible Bhisma. This ancient chief had performed mighty deeds in his

day; and proudly recounted, in the camp at Kurukshetra, his terrible

and successful duel with Rama, the son of Jamadagni, a hero who had,

single-handed, vanquished all the Kshatriyas of the earth.

The old man’s end was, however, approaching, and he himself was

well aware that he must fall by the hand of one Cikhandin, an ally

of the Pandavas, since that prince in a previous existence (being

then a woman, the Princess Amba (page 107), and subjected to great

humiliations through Bhisma’s conduct) had undergone the most dreadful

austerities for the express purpose of compassing his destruction, and,

by the favour of Siva, would succeed in so doing.

Both parties with their armies and their allies marched to and

encamped upon the famous battle-field. The Pandavas had seven and the

Kauravas eleven _akshauhinis_ of soldiers on the ground, making a

total of eighteen akshauhinis in all. Now an akshauhini consisted of

21,870 chariots, 21,870 elephants, 109,350 foot-soldiers, and 65,610

cavalry; so that there were at Kurukshetra altogether 393,660 chariots

with their fighting men, drivers, and horses; 393,660 elephants with

their drivers and riders; 1,968,300 foot-soldiers, and 1,180,980

cavalry.[93] All this, of course, exclusive of camp followers--a mighty

host in themselves; for we learn that there were crowds of artisans

of all sorts, also bards, singers, panegyrists, venders, traders, and

prostitutes; besides surgeons, physicians, spies, and spectators--all

housed and provided for by the chiefs.

The commissariat arrangements were necessarily on a gigantic scale, and

the arsenals in proportion to the mighty hosts assembled for mutual

destruction on that famous battle-field. The leading heroes had their

own peculiar weapons, often of celestial origin or possessed of magic

properties, and their own inexhaustible quivers of wondrous arrows.

For the rank and file there were heaps, as high as little hills, of

bows and bow-strings, coats of mail and weapons of every kind; such as

battle-axes, lances, poisoned darts, scimitars, nooses, and lassoes.

There was also an ample supply of hot oil, treacle and sand to be

thrown upon the enemy, and a store of inflammable materials, such as

pulverized lac. And, lastly, there was a collection of earthen pots

filled with deadly serpents, designed to cause confusion in the ranks

amidst which they might be cast.

Before hostilities actually commenced Duryodhana sent a message to the

camp of the Pandavas, challenging them to the fight, and scornfully

reminded them of the many gross insults and humiliating indignities

they had had to endure at his hands. He sent an especially insulting

message and challenge to Krishna, making light of his prowess and

former achievements. Vaunting and blood-thirsty rejoinders of a

suitable kind were, of course, carried back from the insulted Pandavas

to Duryodhana and the leaders of his armies.

Before joining issue it was arranged between the hostile parties that

only “persons equally circumstanced should encounter each other,

fighting fairly;” that car-warriors should engage car-warriors; those

on elephants should fight those similarly mounted; that horsemen should

encounter horsemen, and foot-soldiers foot-soldiers. It was agreed

that no one should strike a disarmed, a panic-stricken, or retreating

foeman; that no blow should be given without due notice, and that

stragglers, charioteers, and chariot-horses, and drummers, with a

host of others, were not to be assailed on any account. It is almost

needless to say that in the succession of battles which took place at

Kurukshetra these generous covenants were never observed. They seem,

indeed, to have been only a formal and somewhat farcical preliminary,

drawn up in accordance, possibly, with some ideal but inoperative code

of Kshatriya honour.

While the hosts were assembling Vyasa presented himself before King

Dhritarashtra and offered to restore the blind old king’s eyesight,

but Dhritarashtra, unwilling to behold the bloodshed of his kinsfolk,

declined the proffered boon, preferring that his charioteer, Sanjaya,

should be enabled by the Rishi’s favour to survey any portion, however

remote, of the field of battle, and relate all the events to him in the

minutest and most circumstantial detail.

As preparations for the approaching contest were pushed on many strange

portents occurred. A shower of flesh and blood fell from the skies.

Unusual solar and lunar eclipses took place. Earthquakes shook both

land and ocean, and rivers were turned into blood. Revolting acts of

immorality were being commonly committed. Some women were giving birth

to five daughters at a time, who, as soon as they were born, began to

dance and sing. Other women, as well as lower animals, were bringing

forth strange monsters; and, as Vyasa assured the blind king, “The

images of gods and goddesses sometimes laughed and sometimes trembled,

sometimes vomited blood and sometimes fell down.”[94]

After Vyasa had gone away the blind king remarked to Sanjaya that,

since “many hundreds of millions of heroic men” had assembled at

Kurukshetra, he desired to know all about the countries from which they

had come, for there were many nationalities represented in the two

armies. Sanjaya, having been endowed with superhuman perception by the

Rishi Vyasa, gave his master, the king, a long lesson in geography,

which it is rather disappointing to find so largely mythical as to be

of little value, except perhaps as an indication of the very imperfect

geographical knowledge possessed by the authors of the “Mahabharata.”

Sanjaya’s inspired description of the countries of the world abounds in

mountains of gold and gems; it embraces oceans of butter, milk, curds

and wine; and dwells upon such objects in nature as trees yielding

fruits which measure 2,500 cubits in circumference. While revelling in

these glories of sea and land, Sanjaya’s descriptive narrative does

not quite overlook the causes of natural phenomena; for he, no less

than the modern scientist, has his own theory of the winds. It is, we

learn from him, all due to “four princely elephants adored by all.”

These magnificent beasts, whose enormous proportions Sanjaya does not

venture to calculate, seize with their lithe trunks the wandering winds

and then breathe them over the earth. “The winds thus let out by those

respiring elephants, come over the earth and, in consequence thereof,

creatures draw breath and live.”

In the wonderful lands pictured by the inspired geographer, the men

were necessarily long-lived. Some races, indeed, were exempt from

death, and there were others whose lives extended to many thousands of

years. In respect to their own land of _Bharatavarsha_, where the great

battle was about to be fought, Sanjaya makes some statements which seem

worthy of note. He says, for example, after naming certain mountain

ranges, that there are many “smaller mountains inhabited by barbarous

tribes;” and he adds that “Aryas and Mlecchas, and many races mixed

of the two elements, drink the waters of the following rivers, viz.,

magnificent Ganga, Sindhu, and Saraswati; of Godavari and Narmuda ...

and that large river called Yamuna,” etc.

At length the day of real battle arrived. The chiefs on both sides

made their final preparations. With tall and handsome standards, borne

conspicuously aloft,[95] drums beating and conchs sounding, they took

up their positions on the great plain. Karna alone held aloof from the

contest, resolved to take no part in it while Bhisma lived, for he was

smarting under some unbearable insults received from the aged leader of

the Kauravas.

As both armies drawn up for battle awaited the dawn, a dust storm arose

which wrapped everything in darkness. When the air cleared and each

party could see the other, as well as hear the blare of its trumpets, a

sort of mutual dread seems to have afflicted them, for the warriors on

either side trembled at the sight of the mighty heroes of the opposing

hosts.

At this critical juncture in the fate of the world, Arjuna, by the

advice of Krishna, offered a special prayer for victory to Durga. The

goddess in answer to this invocation appeared in the sky and assured

her votary of complete success.

As the virtuous Yudhisthira, his white umbrella borne above his head,

moved about marshalling his forces, he was attended by a crowd of

Brahmans and Rishis hymning his praises and praying for the destruction

of his enemies. Of course the pious king could do no less, even at such

a busy and anxious moment, than bestow upon these saintly allies of his

what, indeed, they, with their habitual proud condescension, were there

to receive,--rich presents of kine, ornaments, clothes and gold.

When the armed millions were finally ranged for immediate hostilities,

in all the pomp and glitter of approaching battle, Arjuna desired

Krishna to place his chariot in the open space between the two armies.

Surveying the embattled hosts from this position, Arjuna appears to

have been dismayed at the thought of the unparalleled slaughter of

kinsmen, which a struggle between such colossal armies would inevitably

lead to; and, in view of this deplorable issue, hesitated to join

battle with his foes, doubtful whether any personal consideration

whatever could justify an appeal to arms under such circumstances.

Krishna undertook to remove his doubts, and succeeded in doing so, the

dialogue between them, known as the “Bhagavatgita,” or divine song,

which is introduced into the great epic at this stage of the narrative,

forming, from a religious point of view, one of its most important

parts.[96]

When Arjuna, convinced of the lawfulness of entering into the contest,

had taken up his bow, _Gandiva_, in readiness for the fray, his

followers raised a joyful shout, and the gods with the Gandharvas, the

Rishis and the rest, crowded to the spot eager to witness the impending

battle.

But there was still another interruption. Yudhisthira, suddenly laying

down his arms and divesting himself of his armour, advanced eastward

towards the opposing forces. Although filled with astonishment at

this proceeding, his dutiful brothers immediately followed him,

themselves unarmed and unprotected by armour. What was the mission the

king had undertaken? Was he bent on making a final effort to effect

a reconciliation, or was he, terror-stricken by the superior numbers

of his adversaries, going to offer an unconditional surrender? No, it

was neither the one object nor the other which stirred the heart of

the virtuous king to this strange performance in presence of the two

armies drawn up for deadly strife. He, pious soul, was only going to

crave the permission of his elders and preceptors in Dhritarashtra’s

army to engage in battle with them; to solicit, with childlike

trustfulness, their _blessing_ in the coming contest with themselves;

and, if possible, to induce them to tell him how their own destruction

might be compassed by him! The leaders he went to propitiate, though

resolved to fight to their utmost for the king whose cause they had

espoused, were very affable to the pious son of Dharma; they received

him with affection and dismissed him with honour. The conduct of the

Pandavas on this occasion excited universal admiration, and met with

the hearty approval of all, and we learn that, “in consequence of this,

the minds and hearts of everyone there were attracted towards them, and

the Mlecchas and the Aryas[97] there, who witnessed or heard of that

behaviour of the sons of Pandu, all wept with choked voices.”

The battle of Kurukshetra, which closed the golden age of India, lasted

for eighteen consecutive days.

During the first ten days Bhisma commanded Dhritarashtra’s forces,

while Karna held aloof in sullen indignation. A goodly volume is

devoted to the incidents of these ten days, each of which seems

to have had its own special heroes, who, under the influence of a

sort of divine fury, like that attributed by the Norsemen to their

_Berserkers_, carried everything before them. In picturing the events

of these battles the Hindu bards have allowed their imaginations to

run riot in a most incomprehensible way. Not only the demigods, but

the merely human leaders (very little inferior to the demigods in

martial qualities) in both armies, perform the most astonishing feats

of arms, and display the most wonderful indifference to wounds.

Sometimes a hero will shoot at his adversary arrows enough to envelop

him completely and shroud him from view, or to darken the whole sky;

but his antagonist, well skilled in the art of self-defence, will, with

the greatest composure, stop those myriads of arrows[98] in mid-air

with an equal or superior number of shafts from his own bow;[99] or,

as Cikhandin did, cut in pieces with his dexterous sword the shower of

arrows poured upon him. Sometimes a heavy mace, hurled by a powerful

arm with well-directed aim, will whiz through the air towards some

leader of men; but as it is hurtling along it will be cut into many

fragments by crescent-headed arrows discharged at it with unerring

skill, by the hero for whose destruction it was intended. Sometimes

standards are brought down by sharp arrows, sometimes the bow is

severed in a warrior’s hand by the shaft of an opponent, while horses

and elephants, though cased in mail, fall easy victims to the archer’s

skill. Occasionally, in pressing emergencies, superhuman weapons are

called into requisition, and _mantras_ or spells are employed to give

them more destructive force. Nor are the powers of producing strange

illusions to terrify or baffle the foe neglected by those who possess

them, namely, the Rakshasas in either army.[100] These terrible beings,

capable of assuming any shape at will, and able to deceive their

foes by strange illusions, would at one time raise up a spectral host

of demons to terrify their opponents, and at another time, perhaps,

paralyze them by producing before their startled eyes a false picture

of their friends and allies lying cruelly slaughtered around them, or

in headlong flight before the enemy.

Notwithstanding their inimitable skill in the arts of attack and

defence the heroes do not get off unscathed. In a single fight one of

them might be pierced with any number of arrows, from one or two to

five hundred or a thousand[101] as the case might be, yet, usually,

the chiefs seem hardly the worse for the punishment. Indeed the poets

love to depict their dauntless favourites bristling with arrows

and streaming with blood, when they resemble in beauty blossoming

_kincukas_ in spring-time, or “clouds tinged with the rays of the

sun.” One warrior with three arrows fixed in his forehead is likened

to Mount Meru with its triple summits of gold; another, with a circle

of sharp arrows lodged in his ample breast, resembles “the sun with

his rays at mid-day.” Odds are of no account when the heroes are once

carried away with ungovernable fury, roaring tremendously, and “licking

the corners of their mouths like lions in the forest.” Bhima on foot

with his club in his hand, is, under such conditions, a match for

whole armies, through which he rages, with leonine roars, crushing

chariots and horses under his blows and smashing luckless elephants

and their riders by thousands, himself bespattered with the blood, fat

and marrow of his slaughtered foes; resembling, as the poet tells us,

the Destroyer himself, with wide open mouth, as he appears at the end

of the _yuga_. Similarly Arjuna, when attacked simultaneously by forty

thousand charioteers and hemmed in by them, kills the entire number

of his rash assailants with arrows from Gandiva. When Yudhisthira,

ordinarily cold-blooded, blazed up with wrath on the battle-field, “the

thought that arose in the minds of all creatures was that this king

excited with rage will to-day consume the three worlds.” Bhisma, too,

and Drona, and many another hero semi-divine or only mortal, seems, in

his turn, quite irresistible, and carries everything before him when

excited to mad (_Berserk_) fury.

The dire confusion caused by the vast multitudes of resolute

combatants, the blind rage and terror of thousands of wounded elephants

and horses trampling wildly through the midst of friends and foes, the

deafening uproar of the strife, where the tumultuous shouts and cries

of contending warriors mingled with the clash of arms, the twang of

bow-strings, the blare of trumpets, and the bellowing of elephants, are

all vividly pictured by the poet of Kurukshetra.

It would be too tedious to recount the innumerable combats which the

author describes, or to follow the varying fortunes of the field,

as victory inclines now to one side, now to the other. It would be

cruel work, to dwell upon the prodigious slaughter of the rank and

file which occurred each day, or to picture the vast plain covered

with the mangled corpses of men, horses and elephants. Nor would it

be either profitable or pleasant to wander over the ground encumbered

with shattered chariots, broken standards and abandoned weapons of

every kind, amidst which pitiful wreck flowed great sluggish streams

of crimson blood. Somehow the sickening horror of the terrible scenes

of carnage which the epic bards have conjured up does not seem to

have struck them, for when they remark upon the appearance of the

field--strewn with mangled corpses and broken armour, with banners and

weapons all reeking with blood--it is usually with admiration of its

_beauty_, unmingled with any feeling of aversion or regret. In their

eyes the scene of death and ruin, with its gory trophies, “shines as

if with floral wreaths,” or “looks beautiful like the firmament in

autumn,” or “like a damsel adorned with different kinds of ornaments.”

In the gloom of night, however, the Hindu poets realize, with

superstitious awe, the abhorrent nature of the dreadful battle-field,

“abounding as it did with spirits and with jackals howling piteously.”

How the multitudinous dead and the wreckage which littered the field

were disposed of we do not learn, but the opposing parties retired each

day at sunset to their respective camps and renewed the battle with

the dawn of next day. However, occasional allusions to hungry dogs and

vultures, howling jackals, stealthy hyenas and fierce cannibals give a

dark, if not very intelligible, hint of the fate of the unburied dead.

The death of Bhisma is the prominent and crowning event of the battles

which raged with unabated fury for the first ten days of the war.

The old hero performed prodigies of valour, and many a time proved

himself more than a match for his brave opponents, slaughtering no

less than “a hundred million of warriors in ten days.”[102] Such huge

work, it must be admitted, required great celerity of action, and we

learn, accordingly, that in one battle Bhisma “felled the heads of

car-warriors like a skilful man felling (with stones) ripe (palmyra)

fruits from trees that bear them. And the heads of warriors falling

upon the surface of the earth produced a loud noise resembling that

of a stony shower.”[103] His success against the Pandavas aroused

the anger of Krishna, who had not escaped unwounded in these hotly

contested fights, and, jumping off the car he was driving, he rushed

impetuously forward to slay the son of Ganga, “and the end of his

yellow garments waving in the air looked like a cloud charged with

lightning in the sky.”

Bhisma cheerfully awaited his doom from such hands, and Arjuna with

difficulty restrained the fury of his divine ally and kinsman by

promising to slay the chief himself. Later on, Krishna was again roused

to fury against the aged champion of the Kauravas, and this time could

only be dissuaded from taking his life by being reminded that he had

engaged _not to enter personally into the contest_. So despondent did

Bhisma’s remarkable success make King Yudhisthira that the latter,

accompanied by his brothers and Krishna, actually sought an interview

with the ancient chief for the express purpose of ascertaining from

himself in what manner his death might be compassed and victory secured

for the Pandavas. In consequence of what Bhisma said on this occasion,

Cikhandin was, on the tenth day of the war, placed prominently in the

forefront of the battle, supported by Arjuna and the best men of his

party. A well-directed and persistent attack was made upon Bhisma.

A fierce battle ensued, but the chivalrous Bhisma refused to assail

Cikhandin, _because he had once been a woman_, and he was eventually

overpowered, mostly, however, by the arrows of Arjuna. There was

nowhere about the person of the hero a space two fingers wide free from

the shafts of his enemies, and when he fell from his chariot he did

not touch the ground, being literally supported on a couch of arrows.

Although so sorely afflicted by the darts of his enemies, Bhisma did

not die immediately. The time was inauspicious and he postponed his

death, as he possessed the privilege of doing, till a more propitious

moment. “Meanwhile the valiant and intelligent Bhisma, the son of

Cantanu, having recourse to that _Yoga_ which is taught in the great

Upanishads, and engaged in mental prayers, remained quiet, expectant of

his hour.”

The fall of the aged leader was the signal for a cessation of the

battle, the chiefs of both sides pressing forward to pay their

respects to the dying general. While conversing with those around him

he complained that his head was unsupported. Luxurious pillows were

quickly brought for his use, but he rejected them all. Upon this Arjuna

made a rest for his head with three arrows, and the grim warrior was

satisfied. To allay Bhisma’s burning thirst Arjuna shot an arrow into

the ground, whence a fountain of pure water came springing up to the

great comfort of the wounded veteran. Guards were placed round the old

man as he lay on his arrowy couch, and both sides retired to rest.

In the dead of night Karna came to pay his homage to the dying general,

and to ask forgiveness for any faults he may have committed. Bhisma

freely forgave him, and advised him to transfer his allegiance to the

Pandavas, but Karna, nobly faithful to the path of honour, rejected the

suggestion as on so many previous occasions.

After the fall of Bhisma the command of the army was given to Drona,

and the contest was carried on with unabated vigour, resulting more

than once in the defeat of the Pandavas. The record of Drona’s command

abounds in numerous descriptions of single combats, in which, besides

the more prominent leaders, many another chief fought with marvellous

skill and daring. As was inevitable, many heroic warriors were

killed--such as Abhimanyu, the son of Arjuna, and the mighty Rakshasa

Ghatotkacha, Bhima’s son, who in his fall crushed to death a whole

akshauhini of Dhritarashtra’s troops.

In one of the battles Jayadartha, King of the Sindhus performed,

single-handed, deeds of matchless daring; for he alone held in check

all the sons of Pandu. Arjuna, enraged at Jayadartha’s success, and

attributing Abhimanyu’s death to him, vowed, in the presence of all

men, either to slay the victorious chief before the day was done or to

lay down his own life on the funeral pyre. But the Rajah of Sindhu was

so well supported by his friends that there appeared every likelihood

that he would survive the day. Rather than this should occur and Arjuna

fall by his own hand, Krishna obscured the sun by his _Yoga_ power. The

unsuspecting Jayadartha and his friends, believing that the sun had set

and night come on, were filled with joy at the prospect of Arjuna’s

doom, and were carelessly looking up towards the darkened sky, when

Arjuna, at Krishna’s suggestion, taking advantage of their being off

their guard, renewed the battle with redoubled vigour. He eventually

struck off Jayadartha’s head with one of his wonderful weapons and sped

it along through the air with his arrows till it fell into the lap of

Vriddhakshatra, the father of Jayadartha, whence it rolled on to the

ground. It appears that when Jayadartha was born, a voice, proceeding

from some unseen being, predicted that he would meet his death by

having his head cut off. His pious father thereupon prophesied that

the man who should cause his son’s head to fall to the _earth_, would

have his own cracked into a hundred pieces. For his own protection,

therefore, Arjuna, at Krishna’s suggestion, had hurled the dead man’s

head into Vriddhakshatra’s lap and, as it fell to the earth, lo! the

old man’s head cracked into a hundred fragments in grim fulfilment of

his own prophecy.

Other marvellous events are not wanting in the narrative; as when,

in the thick of battle, Arjuna, piercing the earth with one of his

arrows, creates in a moment a lake of water for his thirsty horses to

drink from--a lake inhabited by swarms of aquatic birds and covered

with lotuses--or when Açwathaman employs the irresistible _Narayana_

weapon, and the Pandavas, on their part, _pacify_ and _propitiate_ this

destructive missile by laying down their arms before it.

Drona himself, although advanced in years, defeated the Pandavas many

times, and it was only by a cruel stratagem that his destruction was

ultimately effected. When he was carrying everything before him in

the battle the Pandavas informed him, falsely, that his son had been

killed. He did not credit the report at first, but when assured of

its truth by the virtuous Yudhisthira himself, who stooped to this

mean falsehood upon the advice of Krishna, the old hero threw away

his arms and, devoting _himself_ to _Yoga contemplation_, passed

away immediately. After his spirit had ascended to heaven in great

glory, Dhrista-dyumna beheaded his lifeless corpse,[104] upon which

Dhritarashtra’s troops fled precipitately from the field.

Karna succeeded Drona as generalissimo of the forces, but his

command was of short duration: for although he performed wonders of

gallantry against his adversaries _fate_ was too strong for him, and

on the second day he was overthrown by Arjuna. There was something

unfortunate, if not unfair, in the circumstances attending his death;

for just when he had obtained an advantage over Arjuna, who seemed

likely to get the worst of the contest, a wheel of Karna’s chariot came

off. He was obliged to leap to the ground and, in this unfavourable

position, was despatched by Arjuna.

In the battles which took place under Karna’s direction an eventful

combat occurred between Bhima and Dhusashana, ending in the defeat and

death of the latter, whose warm blood Bhima drank in fulfilment of

his vow on the occasion of Draupadi’s humiliation in the gaming hall.

Another incident of some interest is the vigorous but unsuccessful

attack made by an army of Mlecchas on Arjuna, as the narrative shows

the poet’s high opinion of the martial qualities of the non-Aryan races

in the Kaurava army.

For the fourth time Dhritarashtra’s forces were without a commander.

This time the choice fell upon Salya, King of Madra, who gallantly

emulated the deeds of his heroic predecessors. But though he fought

with vigour and determination, though he was ably supported by chiefs

like Sakuni, who still survived, though his Mleccha allies, under

their leader Salva, did great execution amongst the enemy, victory

eventually declared for his opponents. A terrific battle was followed

by a complete rout and the utter annihilation of the Kaurava forces, of

whose eleven akshauhinis there remained, at the end of the eighteenth

day of the war, but _four_ men,--_four men only_ out of all the

countless hosts who had joined the blind king’s party!

These four were Duryodhana himself, Kripa, Açwathaman and 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 one after 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

Açwathaman found 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 the

battle-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 an _Aswamedha_, 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’s capital 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 silver one. 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 and followers 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 removed

by 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 the

world, 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 consented to 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!