Die to Live

महाभरत

Mahābharata

As retold by

Michael Dolan, B.V. Mahāyogi

 Die to Live

The Ten of Swords: Absolute Destruction. Die to Live.

We continue with our adaptation of Mahabharata. The scene changes. Before retiring from the field, Krishna and the Pandavas come upon the great hero Bhishma, impaled on thousands of arrows.

BHIṢMA IMPALED

And Kṛṣṇa, hearing these sweet words from the lady Kuntī, smiled. He led his chariot from the field of war to the place where the great grand-sire of the Kurus and Paṇḍavas, Bhiṣma lay impaled on the bed of arrows.

            The mighty Arjuna holds his Gandiva bow, his face grim and downcast. The sober Yudhiṣthira, his older brother, the King, says a solemn prayer in a dark whisper over the fallen soldier. Bhīma leans against his mace as it touches the ground. Nakula bows his mighty sword.  They stand with bloody hands over a ghastly figure. Pinned to the ground before them is an ancient warrior. The grass is red with blood about him. He is robust and strong.

He wears the chain mail and armor of a King. He is armed with dirk and sword, knife and dagger.  His bow lies on the ground next to him. His long white beard and leathery brow betrays his age. He looks hundreds of years old, but remains physically powerful. Most curious of all, he is suspended between earth and sky on a bed of thousands of arrows. Arrows pierce him completely from head to toe. Paralyzed, he cannot move. Yet still, he does not die.

            

This is the great general Bhiṣma, son of Shantanu, born of the Ganges , he of terrible vows, grandfather of the Kurus and the Paṇḍavas, leader of legions of warriors such as Droṇa, Kripa, Karna, and the legendary hundred sons of the blind king Dhṛtaraṣṭra. Cursed to live until he wishes his own death, he knows it is now his time. His will to live is broken. He waits for the sun to enter the northern portion of the sky as that is an auspicious time to die. His astonished eyes behold the abject destruction wrought by the Great War. A host of bodies mar the land.

             Bhiṣma beholds the slaughter, his deep blue eyes take in the wasteland of violence and crushed horses, broken bones, and craters where explosives have torn elephant’s limb from limb. Miles and miles and miles of battlefield. The green of the earth is stained red with blood. Black holes and craters. Trees broken like match-sticks. 

And so the Paṇḍavas and Kṛṣṇa gathered near the great hero, breathing his last as the sun moved into the northern portion of the sky, and drawing closer asked him to tell his tale. Seeing this God lying on the ground like a fallen angel, the noble King Yudhiṣthira bowed before him. Some forest sages, rishis and saints had also gathered there to offer water to the dying warrior.

The ancient warrior’s tongue is as black as the war plains that surround him. He is parched with thirst. “Water,” he whispers. The mighty Arjuna, taking compassion on this great soul, takes up his magic bow, and firing darts faster than the eye can see, constructs a pillow of arrows where the great hero can lay his head. With another arrow, he pierces the earth.

The sacred river Ganges, Bhiṣma’s mother appears in the form of a spring, and trickles forth a tiny fountain of precious water, wetting his mouth. Bhiṣma drinks.  Bhīma stares at his mace, and shakes his head. Unable to speak. The twin sons of Madri, Nakula and Sahadeva stand in silence with their brothers, their head bowed. At this time great sages like Parvata Muni, Narada, Dhaumya, Vyāsa, and other great saints and sages gathered there.

            And as the men stand silent, amazed at the destruction their rivalry has caused, a child appears amid the devastation of the battlefield. He can’t be any older than five or six years old. How did he survive the devastation?  Where is his mother? The child is dressed as the son of a brahmaṇa. He wears a clean white dhoti, a cloth wrapped around his waist, and a simple cloth embroidered with flowers adorns his shoulders. He walks toward the group.

            Is he a mystic yogi? Is this another one of Kṛṣṇa’s divine interventions? They let the boy come closer. Smiling, he approaches the old man lying on the bed of arrows and offers him a garland of jasmine flowers. He places the fragrant jasmine flowers on the old man’s aching brow smiles at the great grandfather of warriors and asks, “Please, O grandfather. Tell me. How did our family, the sons of Kuru and the sons of Paṇḍu come to this devastation? What were the true causes of this Great War?  I will tell your story that these things shall never again come to pass.”    

                  

             Bhiṣma, impaled on the bed of arrows, looks at the boy. He knows this brahmaṇa boy must be an agent, sent from above.  In his grief and sorrow, he grits his teeth, and smiles at the boy. It will be his last chance to tell his story before the sun moves to the north and he must die. And so, the grave warrior who had destroyed thousands of chariots speaks the story of his birth, how he was born as the son of Gangadevi, goddess of the Ganges, so long ago.