novelraw Arc 11 - Part 2 - Haranaharana - Chapter 2 - Abhimanyu and the Sons of Pandavas
Arc 11 - Part 2 - Haranaharana - Chapter 2 - Abhimanyu and the Sons of Pandavas
Vaiśampāyana said:
When the warriors of the Vrishni clan continued their clamorous wrath, rising like a storm around the name of Arjuna, Kṛṣṇa, son of Devakī and guide of dharma, rose and spoke.
His voice was calm, yet it bore the weight of worlds—each syllable a jewel strung on the thread of morality.
“O lions of the Yādava race,” he said,
“Let not haste obscure what wisdom bred.
Guḍākeśa—the conqueror of sleep—has not brought disgrace.
He has, in truth, uplifted our race.”
Then, turning to them with unblinking gaze, Kṛṣṇa offered the truth as pure as clarified butter poured into fire.
“Arjuna knows our lineage—noble and free,
Not one that sells daughters like beasts at a fee.
Nor did he come to barter or beg—
For such a bond wears a broken leg.
The ways of svayaṁvara, though ancient and known,
Are strewn with doubt where hearts have flown.
Shall a maiden be risked for uncertain fame?
Partha took the straightest path without shame.
Think not it was theft, but the binding of fate—
For what match is better, O chiefs of the state?
She is famed, and so is he—
A union as bright as a sun-tide sea.
And who, in all these three worlds wide,
Can force him back or turn his stride?
Save Śiva alone, the three-eyed Lord,
None can best Arjuna, bow or sword.”
With words like cooling rain upon the fire of fury, Kṛṣṇa continued:
“He rides my chariot, yoked with steeds
That have known both war and noble deeds.
His hands are swift, his fame is known—
Let us win him back before honor is flown.
Better conciliation than pride-fueled war—
Let us call him home, and close this scar.”
So spoke Kṛṣṇa, Janārdana, the lotus-eyed, and his words entered the hearts of the assembly like truth itself descending from the heavens. The warriors of Vrishni, Andhaka, and Bhoja, hearing him, cast down their arms, and their anger dissolved like mist in morning sun.
Thus, messengers were sent, and Arjuna, greeted with honor, returned to Dvārakā, where he was formally wed to Subhadrā, under celestial rites and joyous acclaim.
Garlanded in laughter, wreathed in song,
They wed where gods might linger long.
And for a year did Arjuna stay—
In Kṛṣṇa’s home, in love’s array.
Afterwards, the last year of his exile he spent at Puṣkara, dwelling among sages and sanctified groves. And when the twelve years had passed, he returned to Khaṇḍavaprastha, where he first bowed before Yudhiṣṭhira, then worshipped the Brāhmaṇas, and at last approached Draupadī.
But the fire-born queen, her pride wounded, spoke with the sting of jealousy:
“Why linger here, O son of fame?
Go to the girl who shares thy name.
A second flame dims the first—
So fades the fire when split and cursed.”
Arjuna, stricken by her words, humbly sought her pardon. Again and again he pacified her with gentle voice and bowed head. Then he returned to Subhadrā.
But when he brought her to Khaṇḍavaprastha, he did not robe her as a queen. Instead, she wore the simple garb of a cowherd woman, humble and unadorned. Yet in that simplicity, her beauty shone even brighter.
With unpainted eyes and hands ungemmed,
She walked like Lakṣmī uncondemned.
Her grace was moonlight in the shade—
And every glance a vow she made.
First she came to Kuntī, who embraced her like a daughter, smelling her head with tears of joy, and showering her with blessings.
Then she went to Draupadī, folded her hands, and bowed low.
“I am thy maid,” she said with grace,
Though royal born, she took her place.
And Kṛṣṇā, moved by her sisterhood,
Embraced her close and said:
“Let thy husband be ever free from foes!”
Subhadrā, heart overflowing, answered:
“So be it.”
And from that time onward, harmony bloomed in the Pāṇḍava household.
Kuntī rejoiced, Draupadī smiled,
The brothers laughed, the gods beguiled.
In peace and strength the days unfurled—
As dharma reigned in their growing world.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When Keśava, the slayer of foes, whose soul was stainless and whose eyes shone like lotus-petals at dawn, heard that Arjuna had returned to Indraprastha, his heart filled with joy like the monsoon-cloud swelling with rain. Wishing to honor the union of love and dharma, Kṛṣṇa set forth with a shining retinue.
From the golden halls of Dvārakā,
Came Keśava, bright as dawn's first ray.
Not alone did he tread that path—
But with a host of heroes blazing wrath.
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He was accompanied by Rāma, the plough-bearing elder of limitless strength, and a great multitude of the Vṛṣṇis, Andhakas, and Bhojas—each a warrior, each a flame in dharma’s fire. Sons, brothers, captains, and kings marched with him, bearing gifts and banners, a wedding caravan as glorious as a celestial procession.
With drums and conches, jewels and silk,
They came like gods from meru’s milk.
Each step they took lit up the land—
For Dharma walked with that noble band.
Among them were:
Akrūra, general of the Vrishni host, famed for generosity and wisdom;
Anādhrṣṭi, a blazing warrior;
Uddhava, disciple of Bṛhaspati, wise and pure-hearted;
Sātyaki, Śālaka, Kṛtavarman, Sātwata, Pradyumna, Sāmba, Niśatha, Śaṅku, Cārudeṣṇa, Jhilli, Vipṛthu, Śāraṇa, and Gadā—a constellation of valor, each bearing nuptial offerings of immense wealth and honor.
When King Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Dharma, heard of their arrival, he sent the twin brothers Nakula and Sahadeva to receive them with all royal dignity. The avenues of Khaṇḍavaprastha, anticipating the footfall of divinity, had already been adorned in preparation.
Banners flew and garlands hung,
The air with sandal scents was stung.
Streets were swept and waters sprayed,
With aloe smoke the skies were grayed.
The city, pulsing with joy and music, bloomed like Amarāvatī—the heavens on earth. Merchants and citizens, garlanded and bright, stood along the roads with palms joined in reverence.
Into this festive splendor rode Kṛṣṇa, Rāma, and the heroes of Dvārakā, showered with flowers by Brāhmaṇas and citizens, their arrival hailed like the descent of the Aśvinī twins.
At last, Hrṣīkeśa, the soul of the universe, entered the palace of Yudhiṣṭhira, radiant like Indra’s sabhā in Svarga. Rāma was received with all royal honors, and Yudhiṣṭhira rose from his throne to embrace Kṛṣṇa, first smelling his head as a sign of deep love and respect, and then clasping him in arms.
Yudhiṣṭhira bowed with folded hands,
But Kṛṣṇa bowed with deeper strands.
Though born of gods, he touched the feet—
For love knows no pride when hearts do meet.
Kṛṣṇa also paid homage to Bhīma, the iron-limbed lion, and the other Pāṇḍavas as befitted their age and worth. Yudhiṣṭhira in turn honored every guest—those older with reverence, those equal with affection, and the younger with warmth and welcome.
Some bowed before him; others he bowed to. The air was charged with joy, humility, and greatness in equal measure.
Then, after all rituals were observed, Hrṣīkeśa, ever liberal, presented abundant gifts to the bridegroom’s party—gold, gems, chariots, garments, and sacred ornaments, a treasure fit for Indra’s own wedding.
Thus was the union sealed in light,
With joy, with dharma, and love’s rite.
The Vṛṣṇis and the Pāṇḍavas stood as one—
Beneath the sky, beneath the sun.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then Kṛṣṇa, the lord of Dvārakā and ocean-hearted Keśava, gave unto Subhadrā, his beloved sister, the wealth that her kin had bestowed at her departure. And with hands full of treasure and heart full of joy, Janārdana offered lavish nuptial gifts to the sons of Pāṇḍu, crowning the bond with generosity divine.
He gave a thousand chariots bright,
Gilded, roaring like clouds of might.
Each yoked to steeds, swift as flame,
With drivers trained to war and fame.
And from the pastures of Mathurā, ten thousand milk-rich cows—pure of breed and flawless in hue—were gifted into the Pāṇḍava fold. Their udders overflowed with abundance, as if Earth herself gave milk in tribute.
Then came white mares like moonlight spun,
With golden harness, they leapt and run.
A thousand more, as swift as wind,
With manes of black and coats well-skinned.
He gave also a thousand mules—fleet of foot, snow-hued, with manes dark as nightfall, each trained for terrain and tempest, a treasure for travel and war alike.
Then Kṛṣṇa, of lotus gaze, gave to his sister's new household a host of maidens—young, graceful, unblemished:
A thousand girls, in beauty prime,
Unmarried yet, untouched by time.
Their bodies decked with gold in thread,
With a hundred coins upon each head.
They were skilled in personal service, in bathing and in arranging perfumes, well-versed in the arts of the inner chambers.
From the distant realm of the Bālhikas, hundreds of thousands of draft horses arrived—strong-limbed and fine-nosed, their hooves thundered like rainclouds over fields. These were Subhadrā's dower, her royal right and radiant dowry.
And for her personal wealth, ten carrier-loads of gold, blazing like fire—some refined, some in ore—were given to her as peculium, her private treasury of the purest metal.
Then rose Rāma, wielder of the plough and mighty elder of the Yādavas. Out of love for valor and his new brother-in-law, he gifted:
A thousand elephants, huge and grand,
With golden bells and thrones on hand.
Their temples wet, their cries profound,
Like thunder rolling over ground.
Each beast streamed ichor from three sacred spots—temple, ear, and flank—showing their virility and battle-readiness. Covered in gold and caparisoned in silks, they were moving mountains offered in joy.
The gems they brought were waves of flame,
The horses their foam, the elephants the game.
The wealth from Yadu swelled like sea—
Into Kuru’s tide of dynasty.
Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Dharma, accepted all with humility. He worshipped the Yādava guests, paying each according to age, rank, and kinship, his heart full of gratitude and joy.
For days they stayed, in games and cheer,
Where laughter rang like drums of war.
The sons of Kuru and Yadu met,
In sport and dance, their fates reset.
Eventually, after many days of festive delight, the heroes of Dvārakā—Vrishnis, Andhakas, and Bhojas—prepared to return. Rāma led them forth, carrying with them rare gems gifted by the Pāṇḍavas, their hearts and hands full.
The city wept as they turned away,
Like twilight after a golden day.
But Keśava stayed, with Partha bound—
For friendship’s fire is deeper than crown.
Kṛṣṇa remained with Arjuna in the gardens of Indraprastha. They roamed the banks of Yamunā, hunting together—bow to bow—striking deer and wild boar, their laughter echoing through the forests.
In sport and trust they passed their days,
Like Nara and Nārāyaṇa of ancient praise.
And then—in time ordained—Subhadrā, sister of Keśava and jewel of the Vrishni line, brought forth a son:
A child of might, with limbs like flame,
Born of love and warrior’s name.
As Śacī bore Jayanta in heaven’s hall,
So Subhadrā bore one to rise and call.
Thus was born the lion-hearted Abhimanyu, glowing with the luster of moon and fire, destined to carry forward the fire of two lineages—Kuru and Yadu—into the tempest of destiny.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then in the blessed city of Indraprastha, beneath the gaze of kings and gods, Subhadrā, sister of Keśava and jewel of the Vrishni line, gave birth to a son—a lion among men, radiant with marks of destiny.
His arms were long, his chest broad as a war-drum,
His eyes vast and still as a rain-fed cloud—
Eyes like the bull’s, watchful and calm,
But flaring with fire when stirred to wrath.
He was born of Dhananjaya, and from the daughter of the Sātvata race, like Agni kindled by araṇi sticks in a yajña—pure, sudden, blazing with force from sacred friction.
And thus he was named—Abhimanyu:
Because he knew no fear, and burned in anger
Like the sun that shatters mist.
Because he moved through battle-lines
As a tiger through a forest of reeds.
At his birth, Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Dharma, overjoyed and reverent, performed acts of great charity. He gave unto the Brāhmaṇas ten thousand cows, each adorned with gold-tipped horns and clothed in silken covers, and showered them with coins of gold—dakṣiṇā in rivers.
The city echoed with mantras and song,
The fire altars flamed from dusk to dawn.
In joy and order, rites were done—
For a hero was born, a nation’s son.
The child, from the moment his gaze opened to the world, became the beloved of Kṛṣṇa, who performed for him the sacred rites of infancy—jātakarma and nāmakaraṇa—with care and celestial benedictions. And so Abhimanyu grew like the waxing moon in bright fortnight, each phase increasing in splendor.
The child’s touch softened sorrow’s line,
His laughter filled the halls with shine.
To father, uncle, and Vasudeva too—
He was the lotus in morning’s dew.
In time, under Arjuna’s vigilant guidance, Abhimanyu mastered the Vedas and all sacred sciences. And more—he was trained in āstra-vidyā, the knowledge of weapons both mortal and divine.
Four were the branches of his lore,
And ten the streams of war he bore:
Missiles, blades, clubs, and bows—
Earthly strikes and heavenly throws.
The secrets of the celestial weapons, the incantations and invocations—brahmāstra, nārāyaṇa, vāruṇa, and āgneyā—were passed into his mind like sacred fire entering a vessel of gold.
Thus, Abhimanyu, son of Partha, grandson of Kuntī and Devakī’s line, grew up like Kārtikeya in a mortal form—fated for glory, shadowed by time, and bound to the wheel of war and destiny.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Endowed with great strength, and gifted with insight beyond his years, Abhimanyu, son of Arjuna and Subhadrā, swiftly mastered the arts of war. Not only did he learn the divine and human weapons from his father, but he also became skilled in their counter-movements, the pratyāstra-vidyā, which guards a warrior against destruction.
With arms as swift as lightning’s dart,
He wheeled and danced like flame in art.
Forward, back, to either side—
His motion flowed like ocean’s tide.
He had learned the wheel-formation, the eagle advance, the vyuha of confusion and clarity, and the great art of entering a battle array without faltering. Light on foot and swift in hand, his prowess gladdened the heart of Dhanañjaya, who, upon watching him practice, felt joy bloom like a lotus under sunlight.
As Maghavan beheld Arjuna once,
So Arjuna now saw his son advance—
And smiled, for destiny had returned
In Abhimanyu’s gaze, so brightly burned.
Abhimanyu bore all auspicious marks:
Broad-shouldered like the bull,
A face like the cobra’s hood,
A voice like thunderclouds or war-drums,
A bow as large as Garuḍa’s wing,
And valor like that of Keśava himself.
Proud as lion, firm as peak,
Beauty bold and battle-sleek—
The son of Partha stood divine,
As if Skanda walked Kuru’s line.
But Abhimanyu was not the only jewel in the house of the Pāṇḍavas.
Pañcālī, born of fire, bore to her five husbands five heroic sons, known as the Upapāṇḍavas—mighty, loyal, and immovable in battle like mountains anchored to earth.
From Yudhiṣṭhira, came Prativindhya,
From Bhīmasena, mighty Sutasoma,
From Arjuna, famed Śrutakarman,
From Nakula, the noble Śatānīka,
And from Sahadeva, Śrutasena, sharp as Skanda.
Each bore his name from the signs of his birth:
Prativindhya: so named because the Brāhmaṇas foresaw him to be one who would bear the weapons of foes like the Vindhya mountains.
Sutasoma: born after Bhīma completed a thousand Soma yajñas.
Śrutakarman: born upon Arjuna’s return from exile, his ears filled with the glories of his father’s deeds (śruta meaning ‘heard’).
Śatānīka: named after the royal sage in the Kuru race, a name of martial prestige.
Śrutasena: born under the constellation Kṛttikā, he was named after Kārtikeya, general of the celestial armies.
One by one, in five bright years,
These sons were born, their cries like spears.
Bound by blood and love’s deep thread,
They grew together, nobly bred.
The sacraments of their childhood—Chūḍākaraṇa (the first haircut) and Upanayana (initiation with the sacred thread)—were all performed by Dhaumya, priest and guide, according to Vedic ordinance.
They were taught the Vedas, the sciences, and later, like Abhimanyu, mastered weapons celestial and mortal, all under Arjuna’s tutelage, who taught them the secrets of battle in the way Bhīṣma once taught him.
So rose the house of Pāṇḍu, crowned with sons—
Like Aditi's children, shining ones.
Broad-chested all, their fame would spread—
As fate drew near, with lotus tread.
And thus the Pāṇḍavas rejoiced, having begotten sons fit to inherit dharma and war, born of noble blood and divine blessing, destined to bear the weight of the world’s fate.