I, Ashwatthama

A life both blessed and cursed—what an irony!

Born out of Bhagwan Mahadev’s blessing, with his qualities, and free from the human follies of hunger, thirst, and fatigue. Neither age nor disease affected me. Bearing a resplendent gem on my forehead, I was a sight worth beholding. My cry at birth was horse-like, unlike other children, and hence the name Ashwatthama.

And then cursed by Krishna to suffer a deathless life!

I, Ashwatthama, am one among the eight Chiranjeevis, the Immortals. Is immortality a blessing? Yes, for the seven others, but not for me, the eighth one. I am the one whose most prized possession, the Mani, was snatched away, leaving me looking grotesque and bleeding.

I do not claim to be one of the main characters of the Mahabharata, but in my own way, I stand distinct from all others who played their part and perished.

Perished! Now, that is a good starting point. All perished, but I did not. Thousands of human years have passed, and I live on, waiting for my redemption, preordained at the hands of Kalki, the tenth and last avatar of Maha Vishnu himself. How much more dramatic could any life be?

I rewind and relive my life in an attempt to unravel the mysteries.

My humble parents, Dronacharya and Kripi, were poor but highly respected. Wanting me to have a childhood without scarcity, my father took a step he would never take for himself or my mother, Kripi. His closest friend, Prince Drupad, had proclaimed during their time in the ashram of Rishi Bhardwaj that, upon becoming king, he would share half his kingdom with Drona, my father.

Recollecting the promise, my father, the great Guru Dronacharya, travelled to the kingdom of Panchal to meet his friend, now King Drupad and ruler of Panchal. He very lovingly addressed him, saying, "My dear friend, my Sakha Drupad, I feel proud to see you as the ruler of this great land. We are meeting after a long time, but it seems like yesterday that we were together."

Surprised by the look on the face of his friend, Dronacharya proceeded to introduce himself. “Drupad, I am Drona, your friend. Do you not recognize me? I have such fond memories of our time together in my father Rishi Bharadwaj’s ashram. What a deep friendship we formed then!” Looking down upon my father, King Drupad roared, “How dare you call me your friend? You, a lowly beggar, and me, a mighty king! A beggar cannot be friends with royalty. Just because I spent some time with you in the ashram, you dare to call me your friend and come to beg.” Shaken with disbelief, my father continued to implore, not sure whether his ears were actually hearing these words and more so whether his eyes were rightly seeing the disdain for him on his friend’s face. “Drupad, enough of this. I know you are upset because I came to meet you after a very long time. You are hurt I did not ask for your help earlier. I beg your forgiveness.” He proceeded to occupy a seat next to his friend. “Do not cross your limits, you beggar,” Drupad continued. “Take him away,” he ordered his soldiers, and they obeyed their master. A beggar! That’s what his closest friend thought of him. The love and affection they shared and the promise to remain lifelong friends, forgotten.

Humiliated as never before at the hands of his closest friend, King Drupad, solely on account of his poverty, this gentle wise man that my father was transformed into a vengeful human, living only to avenge the insult. Driven solely by anger, he lived to make his arrogant friend regret the day he took on the poor yet mighty Dronacharya. Having witnessed the shaming of my dear father I, Ashwatthama, wanted to be the arrowhead that would kill his friend-turned-foe King Drupad and quench his fury.

Then Destiny played its part. 

The royalty of Hastinapur was looking for a teacher to train the princes in the art of warfare, and they found a great fit in my father. With this, our lives got inexorably linked with the mighty Kuru dynasty.

Difficult are the choices one has to make, more difficult are the consequences thereof. 

The War of Mahabharata was one such consequence of the choices made by the powers that be. Starting from the obsession of King Shantanu with beautiful damsels Ganga and then Satyavati, leading to his son taking the oath of lifelong celibacy (famously known as  “Bheeshma pratigya), to the curse of Amba, the illnesses of the Kaurava princes Vichitravirya, Pandu, and Dhritarashtra, finally culminating with the blind love of King Dhritarashtra for his son, all or any of these factors, could have led to this war.

Where was I in all this?

My father and Guru, Dronacharya owed his loyalty to the throne of Hastinapur, and I owed my allegiance to Prince Duryodhana, who accepted me as a friend. Naturally, when war was declared, we were placed against the Pandavas, believed to be the righteous but the wronged cousins. Moreover, Krishna generously gave away his Narayani Sena to Duryodhana, but he himself stood with the Pandavas, vowing not to lift a weapon and only act as Arjuna’s charioteer. Anyone with foresight would have known that very day that the outcome of the war was already decided.

On the fifteenth day of this terrible war, when Senapati Dronacharya looked invincible after having killed his arch-enemy Drupad, and the Pandava side was reeling under his mighty onslaught, who else but Krishna, the all-knowing master of the Universe, pulled a trick from up his sleeve. The mighty Bheem brutally killed an elephant named Ashwatthama in their own army. Then, in a victory march, he went around the battlefield declaring to everyone that he had killed Ashwatthama. The plan was to break my father emotionally by conveying that it was I who was killed. My father, on hearing this, in utter disbelief, looked up to his ever-truthful disciple Yudhishthira to confirm whether I was killed. “Ashwatthama hatah, iti,” Yudhishthira replied. “Ashwatthama is dead, it is true,” and then, to absolve himself of lying, he completed his sentence by saying softly, “Naro va kunjaro va—either a man or an elephant.” Hearing this, my father believed I was dead and lay down his arms, totally vulnerable to the sword of Dhrushtadhyumna, who brutally beheaded him. That was the end of my father, my Guru, Maharathi Dronacharya, deceitfully killed by his own disciples, exploiting his human vulnerability.

The Pandavas lost their high moral ground because of their sinful actions. Yudhishthira faced the consequences too. His chariot, which was believed to defy gravity because of his commitment to truthfulness, dropped to the ground because of the ill intention behind his “truthful” statement. The shameful killing of my father led me to lose my sense of right and wrong and unleashed the animal in me. All hell broke loose, and overpowered by rage, I mercilessly killed the innocent children of the Pandavas in their sleep and directed the divine astras to the womb of Uttara to harm Arjuna’s unborn grandchild. In retrospect, I feel blessed that Krishna revived the unborn child and redeemed me from the unforgivable sin. Queen Draupadi magnanimously forgave me for killing her children, but Krishna did not.

The same Krishna who forgave Shishupala his 100 sins—could he not forgive one of mine? Just one? Especially when I was in a state of shock at my father’s beheading as he sat unarmed, head down, and totally shattered on the battlefield? The resplendent gem in my forehead, my identity, was mercilessly plucked out, leaving a never-healing gaping wound in its place. A curse was pronounced for me to live forever with blood and pus oozing out of the ghastly wound, never to heal.

Who knows what is just? Where and why did this start? Who did right and who did wrong?

Questions remain. Answers there are none.

Eternity stretches before me, and I have nothing to do except suffer the pain and wonder why things turned out the way they did. My prodding into the past gave rise to several questions and probable answers. If this intellectual exercise and some humor helps numb the pain and suffering, so why not indulge in it?

Interestingly, as a Chiranjeevi, I am in august company: Rishi Markandeya, Chakravarthi Bali, Mahabali Hanuman, Rishi Vyas, Vibhishana, Parshuram, and Rishi Kripacharya. Noble souls who attained immortality for the right reasons: wisdom, devotion, courage, valour, nobility, and surrender. I stand apart. I owe my immortality to allowing my rage and hatred to get the best of me, losing my last shred of humanity, and treacherously killing innocents who were nowhere on the battlefield. It pains me no end to see the consequences of my reckless actions. I live in shame and ignominy. Despite knowing this, the question runs in a loop as to why Krishna cursed me. Was that one action so heinous as to warrant this punishment? Aeons have passed, and now the question itself seems like the answer.

“The Universe can handle anarchy and chaos to a certain extent, but somewhere the cycle of vengeance must end” – Some voice within me said softly.

So Krishna did just that. Did he make an example of me? Yes. Was it just? No way, but why is it seeming so now?

With emotions under control and my mind centered, I am able to think rationally. Free of turbulence, uninvolved and unaffected, distinct from my body and thoughts, I witness the drama that plays out. I breathe free of anger, regret, and hatred.

A calm has come over me, and now I see things differently, beyond reward or punishment. I, Ashwatthama, am not a nobody. My presence is important, my existence relevant, to bring the universal prophecies to fruition. Clarity descends on me of my empowered role. In his eighth avatar as Krishna, He foresaw and provided for the support for his own tenth avatar as Kalki. We, the eight Chiranjeevis, exist to assist him in fulfilling his role in his war against evil and to uphold Dharma. We are to bring the Pralay, the decimation of the Universe, together. All of a sudden, the Truth dawns on me. The discrimination I felt was my imagination.

We, the Chiranjeevis, are all equal and united in our mission to identify and equip Kalki, the tenth avatar, to fulfill the promise:

“Paritraanaya sadhunam, vinashaya cha dushkrutaam,

Dharma sansthapanaarthaya, sambhavami yuge yuge.” 

I suddenly feel valued, blessed, and rewarded. Peace descends! After thousands of years of poring over innumerable questions, a simplistic answer comes to me. I, like all others, play my part in this universal drama called life. Resistance and reaction bring confusion and pain. Acceptance and surrender bring clarity and peace. My free will makes me choose the latter, and it dawns on me that Krishna has indeed packaged his blessing as a curse.

I surrender completely to his will.