Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 4 - Sauptika Parva - Chapter 2 - Aśvatthāma’s Night Slaughter

Sañjaya said: Kṛpa, calm as a lotus rooted in muddy waters yet unsoiled, bent his head and spoke again, seeking to temper a son's fury with the coolness of counsel.

“An ungoverned heart,” he said, “will not learn even at the feet of the wise. Intelligence without humility is like a well-formed vessel that never sips the nectar set before it; humility makes the tongue taste what the mouth has before it. He who waits on elders and keeps his passions under restraint learns his duty; he who is headstrong and irreverent will only fashion his ruin. Friends must restrain the friend who veers toward sin; if he yields, prosperity follows; if he persists, misery is sure.”

Halt your hand when fury clouds the sight;

Let counsel cool the fever of the night.

The wise who heed the elder’s voice

Find steadier feet and surer choice.

He warned, with a voice threaded through sorrow, that the slaughter of sleeping men is contrary to dharma. Those who have thrown down their arms, who call “We are thine,” whose hair is disordered, whose chariot is broken—these are not to be cut down. A man who strikes such helpless folk sinks into a pit no raft can cross; a warrior so stained bears a blot that time cannot wash away. “Thy fame,” Kṛpa urged, “is spotless. Let the morning disclose thy valor; fight in the light as a second sun, and let honour remain unblemished.”

Let not thy hand profane the sleeping plain;

A crimson blot on white is sin’s remain.

Rise with the dawn and show thy skill;

Let battle crown thee, not the stealthy kill.

Aśvatthāma answered, voice thick with grief and iron with resolve. “All this is true in law,” he said, “yet the law has been broken before our eyes. My sire, after slaying thousands, laid down his weapons and was then struck by those who scoff at right. Karṇa fell when his chariot sank; Bhīṣma fell with Shikhandi before him; Bhurishrava was slain despite vows; my lord Duryodhana was struck where he lay. The Pancalas have rent the very frame of righteousness. If their hands are stained by such deeds, where lies my restraint? If I do not answer with like, I cannot look upon men. Let my next birth be low if such is the price I pay, but I will not live unavenged.”

Their words like thunder and thunder’s reply,

When law is torn, shall law then pacify?

If justice reels and virtue bows,

Then vengeance comes with tightening vows.

So saying, Aśvatthāma yoked his steeds and prepared to go. Kṛpa and Kritavarma entreated him once more to defer until dawn, to put off the shame of nocturnal slaughter and meet the foe in open fight; but the son of Droṇa, heart aflame with the cry of his father, would not be stayed. He bade them arm and follow; he rehearsed the wounds that would not close in his breast—the sight of his lord felled when disarmed, the cries of the dying king—and thus steeled himself to the deed.

At last, clad in mail, the three moved forth together—Aśvatthāma, Kr̥pa, and Kritavarma—like three bright offerings set to a sacrificial flame. In the hush of the forest they shone against the dark, and, issuing from the shadow, they sped toward the Pāñcāla camp where the sentries slept and banners drooped. They halted at the gate. There, at the threshold between night and the tents of the sleeping, the mighty car-warrior paused—poised on an edge that would bind destiny to the deed he had sworn.

Sañjaya said: As Aśvatthāma paused at the camp-gate, Kr̥pa and Kr̥tavarmā stood by him; then, O king, the son of Droṇa beheld a figure that made his heart reel. Before the entrance there stood a giant whose sight struck terror into the marrow. He shone with a radiance like the sun and the moon together; a tiger-skin, dark with fresh blood, girded his loins, and a black deer-hide clothed his shoulders. About his chest there coiled a great serpent that served for sacred thread; another serpent, wound like an armlet, bound his arm. His limbs were vast and held many uplifted weapons; his mouth breathed a flame that seemed to scorch the air, and his teeth made his face terrible to behold. A thousand eyes decorated his visage, and from each eye and from his nostrils and ears there issued tongues of fire. From that furnace of a face arose hosts of Hr̥śīkeśas — radiant warriors armed with conchs and discs and maces — countless as motes in a sunbeam.

Aśvatthāma hurled his celestial shafts and searing darts; they struck that form and were swallowed like rain into a conflagration. He launched a long, blazing dart that shivered upon the apparition as a meteor breaks before the sun; he drew a scimitar, sky-coloured with a golden hilt, and flung it like a serpent from its lair — it vanished within that being as a mongoose slips into a hole. In anger he swung a mace, massive as a pillar raised to Indra; even that the apparition devoured. All his weapons, one by one, were wasted against that mysterious guardian.

Then, O sire, Aśvatthāma lifted his eyes and saw the heaven itself thick with images of Janardana, visions of the Lord of beings crowding the firmament. Struck dumb, the son of Droṇa remembered Kr̥pa’s counsels; a cold horror crept upon him, and his face paling, he confessed the truth to himself: the man who hears not friendly counsel brings upon himself inevitable repentance. He thought of the precepts that forbid striking the helpless — kine, brahmanas, women, surrendered men, the disarmed and the drunken — and saw how he had been tempted to tread the forbidden path.

He reflected that human exertion, when it runs counter to destiny, is barren; to press on now would be to swerve from righteousness into the trackless wilderness of sin. He named the phantom before him a rod of divine chastisement, raised to baffle the sinful resolve he had conceived, a living rebuke of his own wrongful vow. Overwhelmed, he bowed inward and said that if destiny did not favour his enterprise, his sword and skill would avail him nothing.

Humbled and desperate, he resolved to seek refuge in Mahādeva. “I shall take the shelter of Girisha,” he said in his heart — of Hara, the trident-bearer, decked with skulls, the plucker of Bhaga’s eyes, the ascetic who surpasses the gods in tapas. If any power could sweep away that terrible rod uplifted before him, it was Rudra alone.

A voice in the night seemed to answer him, and the forest held its breath.

“Not by the hand that hastens without light,

Nor by the rage that scorns the just decree,

Shall vengeance find the sanctifying path;

Seek Him who wears the skull, and bend the knee.”

Thus troubled, Aśvatthāma stayed awhile at the gate, his fury checked by a sight that was more than mortal and by the memory of wise words. The three — he, Kr̥pa, and Kr̥tavarmā — remained poised at the threshold, each feeling the night press close: one with wrath not yet spent, one with counsel still ringing, one with duty torn between filial grief and the law that hems the warrior’s hand.

Sañjaya said:

Then the son of Droṇa, having resolved within his heart, descended from his chariot and bowed his head to the earth. Folding his palms in reverence, he stood before the unseen but all-pervading Lord of beings, and his voice rose like a chant from the depths of anguish and devotion.

“I seek the shelter,” he said, “of Him who is called Ugra and Sthāṇu, Śiva and Rudra, Śarva and Īśāna, the Lord of all. I bow to that boon-giving God who is without birth or end, whose throat is darkened with the poison of the worlds, who crushed the pride of Dakṣa and is named Hara. I adore Him who is the form of the universe, the three-eyed Lord of Umā, the dweller in the cremation-ground, the ascetic crowned with serpents, the wielder of the skull-topped club, the eternal brahmacārin, the Destroyer of the triple city. Thou art the refuge of all ascetics, the source of the Veda, the flame in every heart, the Lord of ghosts and spirits, blue-throated and red-haired, higher than the high, fierce yet compassionate, crowned with the moon and riding the bull. To Thee I offer the five elements of this body as sacrifice, for in Thee are all worlds contained.”

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As he uttered these words, a golden altar rose before him, radiant and adorned with fire. From that altar burst a flame that filled the horizon, and out of the flame came hosts of beings—the companions of Rudra—terrible in form and splendid in light. They had countless shapes: faces of beasts and birds, of serpents and lions, of jackals and elephants and boars; some shone like sunlit gold, some glowed red as coral, some were pale as ashes. Their arms were many, their eyes unnumbered, their limbs decked with jewels and serpents alike. Some bore bows and tridents, some axes and clubs, some swung whirling wheels of fire. Some were smeared with dust, others shone in white robes; some were garlanded with skulls, others with lotuses; some were small as dwarfs, others vast as mountains.

They beat drums and cymbals and horns; they danced and sang and leapt through the flames, their hair streaming like banners in a storm. Their laughter rolled like thunder. Terrible were they to behold—drinkers of blood, devourers of flesh, companions of the Great Lord—and yet joyous in their devotion, for they were the chosen attendants of Maheśvara.

From every quarter they came, encircling Aśvatthāma in a ring of living fire. The son of Droṇa, undaunted, felt no fear. His heart was fixed like steel in the furnace of purpose. He took up his bow and, as though the bow were fuel and his arrows the ladles, he made himself the offering in sacrifice. His soul was the clarified butter; his wrath, the flame.

“I am of the line of Aṅgiras,” he cried, “and I pour my soul into this fire, O Lord of the universe. Accept me as Thy victim. In this hour of distress, when my strength fails and my vow cannot be fulfilled, I offer myself to Thee. Thou art the Self of all; in Thee all creatures live and move. Be pleased with this offering, O Rudra, for I am Thine.”

Then he stepped upon the blazing altar and entered the fire, motionless, palms joined, eyes fixed upon the unseen.

And lo—the fire folded inward like a lotus closing, and from its heart arose the Lord Himself, radiant and smiling, wearing the crescent moon upon His brow, the trident in His hand, garlanded with skulls, His matted hair crowned with the Ganges.

Mahādeva spoke, his voice deep as the sea:

“With truth, purity, and devotion, Kṛṣṇa of pure deeds hath long worshipped Me. For his sake have I guarded the Pāñcālas and veiled the field with illusion. Yet their time is ended; the wheel of fate has turned. The hour has come for thee, O son of Droṇa, to fulfil thy vow.”

Having spoken thus, the Great Lord placed in Aśvatthāma’s hands a sword bright as lightning, and entering his body filled him with divine power. Transfigured by that spirit, the son of Droṇa shone like a second Rudra. His form blazed with radiance; his eyes burned like twin suns. About him moved unseen hordes—rākṣasas and spirits of night, guarding his path and howling their praise.

Thus filled with the essence of Mahādeva, the furious Aśvatthāma became irresistible, a living weapon of the Destroyer. Accompanied by Kr̥pa and Kr̥tavarmā, he turned toward the sleeping camp of the Pāñcālas. The earth seemed to tremble as he advanced, surrounded by shadowy hosts, bearing the will of Śiva in his heart and the fire of vengeance in his eyes.

Sañjaya said: When the son of Droṇa moved toward the sleeping host, Kṛpa and Kṛtavarmā did not turn back. They halted at the gate like paired watch-fires, awaiting his sign. Seeing them steadfast, Aśvatthāmā’s eyes flared with a grim delight. Leaning close, he whispered, “If you but strive, you can sweep away all kṣatriyas. What, then, of this remnant sunk in sleep? I go in by a place without a door and range like Yama. Let none slip by you alive.”

He slipped through the dark, guided by the little marks he knew, and came softly to Dṛṣṭadyumna’s pavilion. The Pañcālas, victorious and wearied, had cast off their armour and slept companionably, shoulder to shoulder. Within, on a silken sheet, the Pañcāla prince lay perfumed and garlanded, trusting the night. Aśvatthāmā woke him with a brutal kick. Recognising his foe as he lurched up from sleep, Dṛṣṭadyumna tried to rise; the son of Droṇa seized him by the hair and forced him down. Fear and drowsiness fettered his strength. Aśvatthāmā struck throat and breast with his heel, as a lion stamps the life from a maddened elephant. Clawing at his assailant, the Pañcāla gasped, “Preceptor’s son—slay me with a weapon. Do not tarry. Send me onward as a warrior goes.” But Aśvatthāmā hissed, “There is no realm for the slayer of his teacher. Weapons are not for you.” And with pitiless kicks upon the vital places he ended him.

At the prince’s strangled cries, guards and women woke. Seeing a shape in the gloom crushing their lord with more-than-human strength, they shrank back, thinking some spirit had descended, and for a moment dared not speak. When the deed was done, Aśvatthāmā strode out, mounted his car, and let his roar run to the edges of the camp. Then he went hunting.

The wail rose behind him. Women lamented; warriors, hastily roused, snatched for armour and ran to the pavilion. “Whether rakṣasa or man, we do not know,” the queens cried. “He has slain the Pañcāla king—pursue!” Swift-footed chiefs converged and ringed the doorway; Aśvatthāmā broke them with the Rudrāstra and passed on. He found Uttamaujā sleeping and crushed throat and chest beneath his heel. Yudhamanyu, rushing in and thinking a demon at work, smote Aśvatthāmā with a mace; seized and hurled down, he was slaughtered on the ground.

So moved the son of Droṇa through the lanes of tents—

a blade in night, a storm without a sky—

and men, like stalks of til, fell cleanly shorn;

the earth drank deep and answered not his tread.

With sword and shield he worked ruin through the gulmas—unarmed, exhausted sleepers hewed down like victims at an altar. Steeds and elephants hewed, trunks and arms and helmed heads lopped; blood glazed his limbs until he looked like Time’s own fire at the age’s end. Those who woke at the clamour stared into his terrible form and thought him a night-walker; they shut their eyes and stumbled. He came upon the sons of Draupadī and the last of the Somakas. Alarmed by the tumult and the news of Dṛṣṭadyumna’s end, the princes took up their bows and loosed, and the Prabhadrakas with Śikhaṇḍin at their front pressed him with a rain of arrows. Remembering his father’s fall, Aśvatthāmā leapt down from his car, raised his moon-sewn shield and sky-dark sword, and fell upon them.

Prativindhya he struck in the belly, and the youth dropped without a cry. Sutasoma’s lance bit him; with one blow he sheared the princely arm still clutching steel, and with another he felled him. Śatānīka snatched a car-wheel and hurled it; staggering from the cast, he fell—Aśvatthāmā swept off his head. Śrutakarma rushed with a spiked bludgeon and shattered it across the preceptor’s son’s brow; the answering stroke split his face, and he lay still. Śrutakīrti came on with arrows singing; the shield turned them, and his beautiful head, with its earrings, leapt free. Śikhaṇḍin and the Prabhadrakas closed from all sides; an arrow scored between Aśvatthāmā’s brows; he strode through and cleft Śikhaṇḍin in twain, then surged through Virāṭa’s remaining bands and Drupada’s house—sons, grandsons, sworn companions cut down one by one.

In the camp they saw Death-Night standing—black, with mouth of blood and eyes of blood, a single red cloth about her, a noose in her hand, chanting a low, dreadful note, gathering men and beasts and binding them in one rope. Many had seen her before in dreams, leading them away as the son of Droṇa struck from behind; now, afflicted by Destiny, they saw their dreams awake.

The awakened throng cried out, “What is this? Who is he? Where?” and in their confusion slew each other. Some could not find their armour; some ran with hair unbound; some fell back to earth, undone by sleep. Elephants and steeds broke their tethers and crashed through the lanes, trampling the cowering; dust rose and thickened the night until fathers knew not sons, nor brothers each other. Riderless beasts struck riderless beasts; men streamed over one another in blind flight and fell crushed. Fate-goaded, they called names, they called for kin, they laid themselves down in despair; and the Destroyer moved among them.

At the gates, those who fled found no passage. Kṛpa and Kṛtavarmā, standing in their cars, gave no quarter; the disarmed, the supplicants with hands joined, the trembling and unarmoured—they slew them, and to gladden the preceptor’s son they cast fire into the camp in three places. Flames took tent and rope, and the night gained a second sun. In that light Aśvatthāmā ranged more furiously, hewing men as til-stalks, until the ground was paved with the fallen—men and horses and elephants entangled, headless trunks swaying a moment before they toppled.

Rakṣasas and piśācas came to feast, with wives and whelps, bells jangling, hair flying, blue-throated and terrible, and other carrion-beasts in tens of thousands. They lapped the blood, tore fat and marrow, and danced in bands, crying, “Excellent! Pure! Sweet!” The living slew the living in terror, and the slain were sundered anew. Before half the night was spent, the Pandava host lay given to Yama.

When the morning’s grey prepared to touch the east, Aśvatthāmā came forth. He was bathed in human blood; the hilt had grown into his hand so that sword and palm were one. Having walked a path no good warrior treads, he shone like the age-ending flame. For a little while, the grief for his father was silent.

Outside, at the gate, he met Kṛpa and Kṛtavarmā. With fierce joy he told his work; they, devoted to his cause, told how they too had strewn the gates with Pañcālas and Śṛñjayas. Thus, heedless and deep in sleep, the Somakas were undone. Time moves on, O king, and none withstands its tread. Those who had exterminated us were themselves exterminated now.