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.