Chapter 30

"I cannot abandon my family."

“What can my sons do now? Who will protect them now that Bhishma is gone?”

The king’s sightless eyes searched the empty air ceaselessly. His gaunt face was marked by the salt trails of copious tears.

“It was in your power to prevent this, my lord,” said Sanjaya.

Dhritarashtra shook his head. He had eaten next to nothing since the war began and the shape of his skull was visible through the skin of his face.

“This is destiny,” he said. “I know it now. Fate rules all and men are powerless.”

“Not so, my lord,” said the suta. “You had the power to end this war before it began, but your delusional love for your jealous son destroyed your judgment.”

“Bhishma!” Dhritarashtra cried out, his voice cracking under the weight of grief. “I never knew this Earth without you! You were always here! What will my children do now that you have left them?”

The still air of the sabha did not reply.

The stones kept their silence.

“Sanjaya,” said the king, “what do you see out there? What do you hear?”

Sanjaya’s enchanted eyes reached out for the far field of Kurukshetra.

“The Sun is rising,” he said. “The armies on both sides prepare for battle. Your son’s men are worried. They fear the arrows of the Pandavas. Without Bhishma to lead them they anticipate a massacre. Their spears shake in their hands like barley in the wind.”

“How can they hope to prevail?”

“They cannot,” said Sanjaya. “Yudhisthira’s army has dharma on its side, and where there is dharma there is victory. Yet, knowing this, one is coming to rally your son’s doomed army. I see him now. He comes riding up out of the East, blazing like a second Sun. His armor is golden, his helmet shines, his chariot is replete with weapons. Sixteen quivers bristling with arrows are strapped to it, and diverse bows—short bows of horn, long bows of bamboo—and spears and heavy maces. He carries a conch adorned with gold filigree. His banner bears the emblem of an elephant-rope. The cloud-colored horses drawing his chariot, garlanded with fragrant blossoms, were bathed before dawn in water into which brahmanas whispered potent mantras.”

“Who is it?” asked Dhritarashtra.

“It is Karna, your son’s dearest friend. He comes to rescue your allies like a boat gathering drowning men.”

“What does he say? What does he do?”

“He has taken Bhishma’s blessing. It fills him with courage, though in his heart he knows he cannot prevail. Still, he thinks it better to face his foes and die on the field of battle. He tells his driver to guide his chariot down the line, past the foremost warriors of your son’s army. He looks each and every man he passes straight in the eye, from your own princely sons in their high chariots, to the driver’s holding the reins, to the standing foot soldiers of no family, to the strange-skinned barbarians from distant lands. Every man who meets that gaze of Karna feels courage filling him like the warmth of the Sun. A chant follows him down the lines. ‘Karna Radheya! Karna Radheya!’ they shout, beating their shields with their spears.

“Karna rides to your son, to Duryodhana.

“‘I am ready,” he says, loud enough for all the men nearby to hear his voice. ‘Bhishma has given me his blessing to fight! When I meet the Pandavas in battle I will slay them or follow Bhishma to Yama’s world.’

“‘I am glad to have you with us at last,’ says your son. ‘I need you now more than ever.’”

Again the tears sprang to Dhritarashtra’s eyes. He clutched the arms of his throne, his entire body tense with ardor and fear for his beloved child.

Gandhari sat beside him as still as one of the stone images of Kuru ancestors that lined the hall. Her veiled eyes shed no tears, but her mind was no less torn by anguish. Her son, her eldest son, who she had never laid eyes on, stood now with one foot in the world of the dead.

“What is Karna doing now?” asked the king.

“Your son has asked him who should command their armies now that Bhishma has fallen,” said Sanjaya. “He compares an army without a supreme commander to a chariot without a driver. An army without a leader is like a merchant lost in a foreign land who, ignorant of local customs, falls into all kinds of ill fortune. Your son wants a new commander for his forces, and he trusts Karna’s choice.”

“Who does he choose? Who will lead them?”

“Karna chooses wisely. Drona, guru of warriors, most skilled in secret weapons and battle tactics, teacher of your sons and your nephews, will be the supreme commander. No man will be ashamed to ride behind Drona.”

“Does Drona accept?” asked Dhritarashtra.

“At this very moment,” said Sanjaya, “they perform the ceremony of installation. His limbs and chariot wheels are daubed with sandal paste and vermillion. His shoulders bear heavy garlands of flowers. His chariot—dark as a Moonless night—is hung with protective amulets like a thousand stars.”

“Jaya!” cried the blind king. “Victory! Drona will lead my sons to victory.”

Sanjaya shook his head.

“Even here,” he said, “so far from the battlefield, the madness of war infects the air we breathe.”