Story of a contentious move which serves as the “tie-breaker” in the otherwise impossibly matched duel between the two brothers
By the time the eighteenth day of the war dawned, Duryodhana was a broken man. He had lost ninety-nine of his brothers- all killed by Bhima; he had lost his friend Karna, who was dear as a brother to him, and also his beloved uncle Shakuni. His own body was injured in many places. And so, he went into a lake to recover and rejuvenate himself, not bothering to show up on the battlefield.
The Pandavas hunted him down and challenged him to fight them because the war was not over as long as he lived. “Come out and fight, you despicable coward,” said Yudhisthira, eldest of the Pandavas.
The insult hurt more than anything else. Duryodhana leapt out of the lake, his mountainous body reflecting the bright morning sunlight from a thousand water droplets clinging to it. He looked fierce and despite his wet body, his eyes burned with rage and hatred. “Are all you jackals going to kill me in a pack?” he snarled, looking at the five cousins despisingly.
Yudhisthira said, “You pick any of us for single combat, with a weapon of your choice. And I promise you that if you win this one combat, I shall concede defeat for the whole war.”
Duryodhana scoffed and snorted in derision. “I wish to kill each one of you,” he said. “But I choose to begin with the buffoon Bhima. Bring me my gadaa!”
His huge and heavy club was brought and Bhima, hefting his own, faced him ready to strike. The two gigantic warriors circled each other and then pounced on one another striking with their clubs. The blows from either could have levelled a mountain and their combat continued, with neither gaining any distinct advantage. Where Bhima was strong, Duryodhana was agile; where Duryodhana was skilful, Bhima was wild.
As the four Pandava brothers stood watching with bated breath, Krishna had a cunning idea which grew evident when he cheered with increasing enthusiasm, clapping his thighs so vociferously that even Bhima, in the thick of combat, took note and frowned.
Soon, understanding the signal, Bhima extricated himself from the position of locked clubs and in one fluid motion, swung his gadaa high and brought it crashing down on Duryodhana’s thighs, thus simultaneously violating the cardinal rule of close-range mace combat against striking below the belt, and dealing Duryodhana a near-fatal blow that crippled the eldest Kaurava.
Duryodhana fell, clutching his shattered groin, and roared in pain. Bhima leapt into the air, throwing his arms up, and roared in exultation. The contrast was disturbing, even to the other Pandavas: their villainous cousin having fought like a hero, lay defeated and broken while their righteous brother danced about like a demon after having dealt him a forbidden blow.
At that moment, Balarama, the guru of both, appeared on the battlefield. He looked at Duryodhana lying there, screaming in pain and crying foul play. His eyes welled up with tears, then gave way to infinite fury as he faced Bhima with his raised weapon, a plough, intending to kill him. He said, “You cheated to gain an advantage and brought disgrace to me with this lowly and despicable act of Adharma.” Bhima, who had abandoned his vulgar celebration by then, stood submissively with his head bowed, ready to accept his guru’s punishment.
Krishna intervened and placed himself before the teacher and pupil. “And what of the several acts of adharma committed by your favourite Duryodhana?” he asked. His voice was neither loud nor was his tone forceful. It was simply compelling. Balarama faltered, and Krishna pressed his advantage. “Why did you not raise your plough and come rushing to uphold dharma all those times?”
“What are you talking about?” Balarama asked, his weapon still raised.
“If Bhima’s conduct has transgressed the dharma of combat, what about Duryodhana’s many transgressions against the Pandavas? Did he not try to kill them first by poison and then burning them alive? Did he not deprive them of their right by deceit? Where was your plough all those times?” Krishna demanded.
Duryodhana cried out. “All of what you say led to this war, which my side would have won had combat been fair.”
Balarama said, “He is right. You and the Pandavas have been about nothing but subterfuge in this war. I know exactly how you deceived Bhishma; about how you lied to kill Drona; how Arjuna from atop his chariot shot down an unarmed Karna and this dastardly deed of Bhima’s is the most abominable of all these. Stand aside, while I close this chapter of deceit and disgrace.”
“Bhima’s blow was indeed wrong,” said Krishna.
“But is that all there is to it? This thigh that lies broken is the same that Duryodhana flashed before Draupadi obscenely, as she was dragged into the hall full of onlookers. Bhima only did now what he swore to do on that disgraceful occasion- he broke that thigh. Would you call that adharma? Remember the young Abhimanyu who was slain when he was alone and unarmed, all at the command of this Duryodhana, the very personification of entitlement, who lies here demanding fair combat?
“When rules are invoked to defend the acts of those who destroy the very fabric of dharma at every chance, rules should be disregarded,” said Krishna.
Balarama lowered his plough but still glowered at Bhima and Krishna, ashamed and disgusted at his pupil.
“If there is an absolute right or wrong, then I am the Absolute and I have chosen,” said Krishna.
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