‘Duryodhana is now telling his guru Dronacharya,’ Sanjaya resumed, ‘how very fortunate he is to have on his side Hastinapur’s mightiest warriors. Here are the words, not a syllable missing: “There, O my revered teacher, behold across this no-man’s-land the Pandavas, led by Dhrishtadyumna. And over there is Arjuna, the mighty archer, with his brother Bheema, the steel-muscled wielder of the gada – all renowned for their valour, all riding their glittering chariots. But on my side, my pride singles out you, my peerless guru, the glory of all Brahmins. And can I forget Asvatthama, your son, and many others? All are pledged to spill their blood for me. Thus fortified, I wait for victory to come and kiss my feet. Now comes the moment for venerable Bheeshma, my commander-in-chief, to signal the start of battle.”
‘At the nod of aged Bheeshma Pitamaha, the trumpeteer has just blown his mammoth conch whose blast rises like a lion’s roar. Then, like a thunder’s echo that leaps from hilltop to hilltop, other bugles follow. Gongs, drums, cymbals, horns and trumpets vie with each other in sending tremors down the earth’s spine.
‘The Pandavas now announce their response with blasts from their own conches. Krishna, the curly-haired charioteer, holding the reins of his milk-white steeds, blows his conch made out of a giant’s bone. Then blows Arjuna his conch, Indra’s gift to him. Now I hear the bugles of Bheema and of Yudhishthira. Lastly, I hear the conches of the younger Pandavas, Nakula and Sahadeva.
‘As the blasts of trumpets and horns rend the atmosphere, all weapons on the battlefield now bare their teeth – swords are unsheathed, maces brandished in the air, and bows drawn.’
‘Dreadful!’ exclaimed Dhritarashtra. ‘Two branches of the same tree clashing with each other. I feel terrified.’
‘If the gods have willed it so, let both armies fight,’ said Sanjaya.
‘But from what you have just heard,’ the king responded, ‘Duryodhana’s spirits are high. Also, is he not armed with my blessings?’ He paused. ‘But what about Arjuna, the archer whose arrow got the fish’s eye revolving in a bowl of oil? What is he doing? Is he talking to Krishna? His charioteer may be a divine being, but since he has now taken sides in this war, he is also a cog in the wheel of the battle, like any other warrior. So let us see which way the dice will turn. I pray it would be a victorious throw for my son.’
‘There, I see Prince Arjuna saying something to his charioteer,’ Sanjaya said. ‘But let me give you the words as they fall on my ears:
‘“O Krishna, my divine guide, take me to the neutral spot between the two armies for a close look at those whom I must slay – even though for a just cause. I wish to think before I let flow in the river of blood that will sweep across the battlefield of Kurukshetra – all this at the behest of the bloodthirsty Duryodhana, whose lust for greed and power is insatiable.”
‘As desired by Prince Arjuna, Krishna now drives the chariot to the open ground between the two armies,’ Sanjaya resumed. ‘Then Krishna turns to Arjuna and says, “Look, there is the other half of your family, the Kauravas, now your mortal enemies, ranged against you.”
‘At this, Prince Arjuna’s eyes rove around, taking in the faces of his kinsmen. And now, I see his brow darken and his forehead wrinkle. He seems to be caught on the horns of a dilemma, faced with some inner turmoil that I cannot fathom. I am confounded, O King.’
‘I know what has happened,’ Dhritarashtra said, gleefully. ‘Confronted with such veterans as Drona, Bheeshma, Asvatthama and others, Arjuna’s inner defences have collapsed.’
‘I don’t know,’ responded Sanjaya. ‘I wish I could plumb his mind. But that is beyond me. Wait, O King, for I hear Arjuna again speaking to Krishna:
‘“Help me, O divine guide. Compassion seizes me as my eyes linger on the faces of those arrayed against me – my kinsmen, my teachers and my friends. Would killing them not be a grievous sin, since they are limbs of my own body?
‘“A cold shiver runs down my spine and a fever races through my veins. My hair prickles, my throat dries up and words freeze on my tongue. From my hand slips my Gandiva, and life seems to drain out of my body, leaving me benumbed. I faint, I stumble, I falter!
‘“I lay my heart bare before you, O Krishna, as there is nobody else I can turn to in this hour of my distress. A film has descended over my eyes, as if they dare not visualize the horror of the imminent massacre. Already, I imagine pools of blood all over the battlefield. Tell me, can blood be nectar to the gods? Or can it be water to quench the thirst of birds? Can a field soaked in human blood grow flowers for a wayfarer to pause and marvel at? Or grow vegetation to offer sustenance to the hungry? Was I born to act as an instrument in the hands of Yama to unleash devastation, to leave behind me men, maimed and blinded, their eyes raised for mercy to a ruthless sky? I already hear around me the sounds of wailing.
‘“The way to create is not to demolish; the way to regenerate is not to kill. Would I bequeath to posterity widows and orphans? Would it not be a shame to ride to victory over the bodies of the dead and the wounded? Would I not leave behind me a world inhabited by phantoms?
‘“If those arrayed against me are sinful, would we not become doubly so by slaying them? Would we not become partakers of their guilt? Can peace, O Vasudeva, be born out of the womb of sin, out of the slaughter of God’s creatures? The souls of our noble ancestors would then fall from their heavenly abode down to the earth, to grovel in the dust. I would rather expose my bosom to my kinsmen’s arrows than strike back vengefully, out of bitter wrath.
‘“I was endowed with an invincible bow to protect the weak and the destitute, not to kill those in whose veins runs my blood. What would this victory lead us to? To the throne of Indraprastha? A segment of the earth, a mere piece of land! No, I would not crave for sovereignty even over the entire universe, wading through pools of blood.
‘“So here I kneel before you, O Vasudeva, to seek enlightenment from you. I feel distraught, perplexed and shattered. A tempest is raging within me. If I cannot conquer myself, how can I triumph over others? No, I will not fight. I will not butcher my own kith and kin!”
‘O King, I have reported to you what I have just heard from the lips of the mighty warrior, Arjuna,’ said Sanjaya. ‘I now see him dropping his bow and arrows in his chariot. My heart bleeds to see the glory of the Pandavas sink into such despondency and pain.’
‘That is where your heart lies, I know,’ sneered the king. ‘Haven’t I said that already? Well, I too respect Arjuna’s sentiments. A noble prince he indeed is. But now that he has opted for this war, let him show his mettle, not run away. Or let him walk barefoot across the middle ground, lay his arms before Bheeshma, Drona or my son and surrender!’
‘You have got him wrong, O King,’ said Sanjaya. ‘A mighty archer, armed with Gandiva, would not run away from the battlefield. Let us be fair to all the warriors, Pandavas or Kauravas. Victory or defeat lies in the hands of God.’
‘Then let the stars decide,’ said the king. ‘Let Time make the next move.’
‘In any case,’ said Sanjaya, ‘Krishna has not yet spoken. I gave you the words from Arjuna’s lips only. But what about his charioteer’s response?’ Sanjaya paused. ‘I now see Krishna turning to the warrior, with his one hand reining in his white steeds and the other pointing to Arjuna.’