Krishna and Bhishma - On the Bed of Arrows

The bed of arrows held Bhishma suspended between life and death. The sun had not yet reached Uttarayana—the northern solstice—and so the soul that could leave at will chose to wait, enduring agony for the sake of auspicious timing.

Krishna came alone, after the daily visits of kings and warriors had ended.

Bhishma: "So, The charioteer visits the fallen commander."

Krishna: "The friend visits the grandfather."

Bhishma: "We were never friends, Krishna. We were... what? Opponents playing the same game?"

Krishna: "Something like that. How is the pain?"

Bhishma: "Constant. But pain is just sensation. I've had eighty years of sensations. This is one more. I have questions."

Krishna: "I know. That's why I came."

Bhishma: "Why did I fight on the wrong side? I knew it was wrong. From the dice game—no, from before the dice game—I knew Duryodhana would destroy everything. And I fought for him anyway. Why?"

Krishna: "Do you truly not know?"

Bhishma: "I tell myself it was my vow. That I was bound to serve whoever sat on the throne of Hastinapura. But oaths can be broken. Greater men than me have broken oaths for dharma."

Krishna: "You didn't fight for the oath. You fought for the identity it gave you."

Bhishma was quiet.

Krishna: "For sixty years, you were Bhishma—the man who kept his word. The pillar of Hastinapura. The unshakeable. If you had broken your oath, who would you have been? Just another old warrior whose promises meant nothing."

Bhishma: "So I destroyed dharma to preserve my reputation?"

Krishna: "You preserved your story. The story you told yourself about who Bhishma was. That story became more important than dharma, more important than family, more important than truth. It's not unusual. Most people serve their story rather than reality."

Bhishma: "You're not sparing my feelings."

Krishna: "You're dying. What would you do with spared feelings? You wanted truth. Here it is: you were the most powerful man on the field, and you used that power to protect injustice because injustice had become part of your identity."

Bhishma closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were wet.

Bhishma: "I had so many chances. When Duryodhana poisoned Bhima. When he burned the house of lac. When he cheated at dice. When he... when he violated Draupadi. I could have stopped any of it. One word from me and the army would have switched sides. But I said nothing. I did nothing."

Krishna: "Why?"

Bhishma: "Because saying something would have meant admitting I had been silent too long. Each new evil was easier to ignore because I had already ignored so many. The cost of speaking grew with each silence."

Krishna: "The compound interest of cowardice."

Bhishma: "Yes. That's exactly what it was. And now my entire life—all the battles I won, all the powers I accumulated, all the respect I earned—means nothing. I will be remembered as the man who let evil thrive because fighting it would have been inconvenient."

Krishna: "Is that all you'll be remembered as?"

Bhishma: "Isn't it enough?"

Krishna: "You're also the man who told Yudhishthira how to defeat you. The man who, at the end, chose dharma. The man who is now teaching more from this bed of arrows than you ever taught in the court."

Bhishma: "Teaching what? How to fail?"

Krishna: "How to recognize failure. How to name it honestly. How to warn the next generation. Bhishma, in a few days, Yudhishthira will come to you for instruction. He will ask you about dharma, about kingship, about duty. And you—the man who got it all wrong—will teach him how to get it right. Because who understands error better than one who has lived it?"

Bhishma: "That's a strange kind of redemption."

Krishna: "It's the only kind available to most of us. We cannot undo what we've done. We can only ensure others don't repeat it."

Bhishma reached out—painfully, arrows shifting in his flesh—and touched Krishna's hand.

Bhishma: "I should have served you. From the beginning."

Krishna: "You did serve me. Just not in the way you intended. Every mistake you made, every silence, every failure—they all led to this moment. To this bed. To these teachings that will outlast both of us."

Bhishma: "That's a cold comfort."

Krishna: "It's the only comfort the universe offers. Our actions ripple outward forever. Even the wrong ones. Especially the wrong ones, sometimes."

Bhishma smiled—the first smile since the arrows struck.

Krishna: "Stay with me a while longer. The nights are very long on this bed."

Bhishma: "I'll stay until dawn. And I'll come back every night until Uttarayana."

Krishna: "Why?"

Bhishma: "Because even fallen grandfathers deserve company. And because I want to hear the teachings. Even the Lord of the Universe can learn from a dying man."

Bhishma laughed—a sound that cost him, arrows shifting, blood flowing—but he laughed anyway.

Krishna: "You always did have a sense of humor, Krishna."

Bhishma: "Someone has to. The universe is too serious otherwise."