novelraw Arc 12 - Khandava-Dahan - Chapter 2 - Celestial Weapons and The Slaughter at Khandava
Arc 12 - Khandava-Dahan - Chapter 2 - Celestial Weapons and The Slaughter at Khandava
Vaiśampāyana said:
Such was the life of that noble monarch, the royal ṛṣi Śvetaki—peerless in sacrifice, unwavering in resolve. When his time upon earth drew to its close, he ascended to heaven, bearing the renown of his deeds and accompanied by the ṛtviks and sadasyas who had served him in life. Their souls, like sacrificial smoke, rose together—wreathed in merit, drawn by the winds of dharma.
To heaven he rose on chariots bright,
His fame unblemished, his deeds alight.
The priests who aided in his vow
Walked with him through the shining bough.
But hear now, O Janamejaya, what strange fruit was borne from the fire he fed.
At Śvetaki’s vast and prolonged yajña, Agni—the devourer of ghee, the eternal mouth of the gods—had drunk clarified butter for twelve continuous years. Day after day, libations poured without end, and Agni, who is nourished by havis, became satiated beyond measure.
That stream, once sacred, became excess.
Twelve years of ghee had dimmed his flame,
What once gave life now dulled his name.
His fire grew pale, his tongue grew weak,
And light no longer did he speak.
Agni lost his colour, his appetite waned, and his radiant energy diminished. Weighed down by surfeit, he became afflicted with a strange malaise, and his divine body, once blazing with celestial heat, now bore the signs of fatigue.
Knowing that his strength was ebbing, the fire-god turned his thoughts to the source of all balance.
He rose and made his way to Brahmaloka—the resplendent realm of Brahmā, the Creator, the Self-born, the One seated upon the lotus that rises from Nārāyaṇa’s navel. Worshipped by gods and sages alike, Brahmā dwelt there amidst the celestial elements, attended by Vedas incarnate.
Agni bowed before the Lotus-born and said:
“O Lord of beings, all-knowing, all-wise,
Hear me now, for my flame subsides.
From the hand of Śvetaki I have drunk
A flood of ghee—twelve years sunk.
My tongue is dulled, my body dim,
No more I shine on altar’s rim.
My strength departs, my heat declines—
Restore me, Brahmā, to my ancient signs.”
Thus did Agni, voice trembling with exhaustion, seek refuge in the Creator's grace—desiring to reclaim his true form and the blazing essence with which he once lit the heavens.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Hearing the plea of Agni—the ever-burning, now dimmed by excess—the Lotus-born Creator, Brahmā, smiled gently and replied in his deep, all-pervading voice:
“O Hutavāha, O flame divine,
Thy ailment stems from sacred wine—
But not of grapes, of clarified ghee,
Poured without pause into thee.
Twelve years of butter—unbroken stream—
Have dulled thy fire, dimmed thy gleam.
Yet grieve not, for thy cure is nigh—
Thy flame shall once again touch sky.”
He paused and then revealed the path of restoration:
“O Agni, do you recall the dreadful Khaṇḍava forest? In ancient days, at the gods’ command, you once reduced it to ash. That forest, once purged, now thrives again. It has become a haven for those who are enemies of the devas—serpents, asuras, and creatures immune to divine law.
Go now, O purifier! Burn that forest once more, devour its teeming life. In their fat and marrow your strength shall be restored, your brilliance revived.”
At these words of the Supreme Deity, Agni bowed and departed with haste. Swift as thought, he reached the Khaṇḍava forest, vast and wild, teeming with life under canopies of ancient trees.
And there, moved by divine command and the memory of his former glory, Agni flared up in wrath. Vāyu, the wind-god, joined him—fanning the flames with furious breath.
Flames leapt high like serpent tongues,
The forest roared with burning songs.
But fate had not yet cleared the way—
For fire met rain on that very day.
Beholding their home ablaze, the creatures of the forest rose in a desperate resistance. Elephants by the thousands, maddened by fear and fury, charged toward rivers and returned with trunks full of water, dousing the flames in great torrents.
Serpents with hoods like umbrellas of kings
Sprang to the skies on glistening wings,
And from their crests poured water wild
To shield their kin, each beast and child.
Birds flew with leaves to beat down the sparks, deer stamped out embers, and yakṣas used mystic waters. Even the trees themselves seemed to sweat with dew to quench the rising fire.
Seven times Agni blazed forth, O King—seven times he kindled the flames with divine anger. And seven times, the fire was drowned by the efforts of the denizens of that forest—creatures bound by fate and protected by Indra’s unseen shield.
Thus, Agni’s fire could not prevail, though he burned with heaven’s command. The forest of Khaṇḍava stood unscathed, wrapped in the protection of its elemental guardians.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then Havyavāhana, the fire-god—his hunger unfulfilled, his flames beaten back, and his strength not yet restored—returned once more to the Grandsire, Brahmā, his heart heavy with failure.
With bowed flame and flickering tongue, he spoke:
“O Lord of beings, I have done thy bidding.
Seven times I rose with fury and flame,
And seven times the forest resisted.
My ailment remains—my brilliance wanes.”
Hearing these words, the Self-born Brahmā reflected for a moment, his gaze turning inward, his vision embracing past, present, and future. Then, smiling with certainty, he spoke to the fire-god:
“O sinless one, the time is ripe.
A path now opens, clear and bright.
Know this, O Agni—Nara and Nārāyaṇa,
Those ancient gods of infinite might,
Have now taken human birth for the sake of the gods’ design. On earth they are known as Arjuna and Kṛṣṇa—sons of Dharma and Devakī’s womb. Even now they dwell near the very forest you seek to consume.”
This text was taken from NovelBin. Help the author by reading the original version there.
The Creator continued:
“O Agni, approach them. They shall aid you. With their arms and divine weapons, they will prevent even Indra from pouring his rains, and none who dwell within Khaṇḍava shall escape their power. With their help, you shall devour that forest, even if guarded by the celestials.”
Hearing the word of Brahmā, Agni hastened through the skies and descended in splendor to where Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna sat in tranquil glory. O King, I have already recounted to you how he came to them in the guise of a Brāhmaṇa, how he revealed his true nature, and his hunger for the burning of Khaṇḍava.
Now hear what Vibhatsu, son of Pāṇḍu, said to him in response—words fitting the hour of war and fate.
“O Fire divine, I hold no fear
Of thunderbolt or god-sent spear.
My hands know arms of heavenly fire—
Yet I lack what the task requires.
I possess countless celestial weapons—āstras born of gods and sages. With these I could face even the wielder of the thunderbolt. Yet my strength requires a bow that no earthly craftsman has forged—a weapon equal to my arms, capable of channeling the force I must summon.
Also, I need arrows that never run dry—swift as thought, endless in number. For what use is skill when the quiver fails?
My chariot too is humble. It cannot bear the weight of divine warfare. I ask for steeds—pure white and swift as the wind—and a car whose wheels thunder like clouds, blazing like the midday sun.
And Kṛṣṇa, my friend, my soul’s twin flame—
He too requires a weapon worthy of his name.
No common blade or earthly might
Can match the power of Mādhava’s light.
Therefore, O Pavaka, giver of heat, if you seek our aid, then bless us first with the divine instruments of war. Grant us the arms and steeds, the bow and the blazing car. We are ready to stand against Indra and his rains. But success in this deed must be armed with grace.”
So spoke Arjuna, with boldness and humility, standing upon the edge of destiny. And beside him stood Kṛṣṇa, the Lord of Yoga, whose smile concealed the workings of time.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus addressed by Arjuna, the fire-god Havyavāhana—his flames still dimmed but his heart now kindled with hope—turned his mind toward the western quarter, and the god who ruled it.
He remembered Varuṇa, son of Aditi, guardian of the ocean and keeper of the sacred waters. That Lokapāla, who governs the tides and guards the aquatic realm, knew at once that he was being invoked by Pavaka, the smoke-bannered one.
In an instant, O King, Varuṇa appeared—resplendent and calm, his form adorned with pearls and serpents, his eyes deep as ocean caves.
Agni greeted him with reverence and spoke:
“O Varuṇa, lord of tides and law,
Thou art the keeper of celestial awe.
I seek the gifts that once were thine—
A car, a bow, of form divine.
That bow, born of Soma’s grace,
That quiver vast as time and space—
And the chariot marked with monkey’s sign,
Give these now to serve the line
Of heroes earth-born yet heaven-sent—
For Arjuna and Kṛṣṇa must break Indra’s tent.”
Hearing this request, Varuṇa, the guardian of waters and master of restraint, nodded in assent. “So be it,” he said, and at once summoned the divine implements prepared in ages past.
First he brought forth the great bow—Gāṇḍīva—unrivalled in creation.
It glowed with light, yet bore no flame,
Its power vast, beyond all name.
Stronger than a hundred thousand bows,
It crushed the hosts of countless foes.
None could break it, none could bend it—save he who was chosen by fate. Forged by gods, worshipped by Gandharvas and Devas, it bore no scar, no flaw, no aging mark. Its limbs were painted in hues of fire and twilight, its string taut with thunder.
Along with it, Varuṇa gave two inexhaustible quivers—each filled with arrows that would multiply by will, never empty, never broken.
Then came the chariot—crafted by Viśvakarman, the celestial architect, after deep tapas, forged not in fire but in thought, vision, and light.
Its wheels sang like clouds in war,
Its yoke was lined with star on star.
Drawn by steeds of silver white,
Born of Gandharva’s wind-swift flight.
Golden was their harness, and their hooves barely kissed the earth. They could outpace the storm, or even the mind in motion.
Upon its banner waved a mighty ape—the emblem of Hanumān, son of the wind, roaring with silent thunder as if declaring war on fate itself.
That car, bright as a midday sun,
Dazzled the eyes of everyone.
Its blaze could blind, its sound inspire,
A moving altar crowned with fire.
It was equipped with celestial arms—maces, javelins, swords, and spears, hidden within yet ready at command. No being—deva or asura—could hope to withstand it.
Agni beheld these gifts, and the flames upon his face flickered in joy. The moment had arrived. The warriors were ready. The world would burn again—but this time, with purpose divine.
Vaiśampāyana said:
That chariot—glorious beyond compare—was the very car from which Lord Soma once vanquished the Dānavas in ancient times. Crafted by the gods and sanctified through battle, it now blazed once more upon the earth, awaiting its destined rider.
It shone like a rain-swollen evening cloud,
Lit by the red sun’s dying fire.
With golden flagstaff and heavenly hue,
It gleamed with wrath and sacred ire.
Upon that staff was perched a wondrous form—a great vānara, a celestial ape fierce in visage, with the face of a lion and the roar of a storm. Flames seemed to dance in his eyes, and his gaze scorched the heavens. Wherever he turned, it seemed that war would follow.
And on other banners fluttered enormous creatures—celestial beasts and roaring spirits—whose cries and howls struck terror into the hearts of all who heard them. Their voices were not of this world.
Then Arjuna, son of Pāṇḍu, armoured in gleaming mail, with sword at side and fingers sheathed in leather, circumambulated the chariot in reverent homage. Bowing to the gods, the firm-hearted hero ascended that divine vehicle, as a virtuous soul ascends to heaven borne by the merit of his deeds.
He climbed the car, his heart ablaze,
As devas watched from astral ways.
Upon the chariot of gods he stood—
A mortal crowned in warriorhood.
There, Agni placed in Arjuna’s hands the sacred bow—Gāṇḍīva, wrought by Brahmā in ancient times.
It was the bow that shattered pride,
The breaker of armies, storm and tide.
Bright with colours, fierce with flame,
It bore no rival, bowed to no name.
As Arjuna took the bow, joy surged through his limbs. Bowing once more to Havyavāhana, the son of Kuntī stretched the bowstring with force. The sound it made was like thunder crashing through the skies—those who heard it shivered with fear, sensing that destiny itself had been strung.
Armed now with Gāṇḍīva, two inexhaustible quivers, and the celestial car, Arjuna stood ready for the task—his mind clear, his soul steady.
Then Agni turned to Kṛṣṇa and offered him a weapon born of fire itself—a discus, bright as the sun, edged with irresistible force. Fixed through its center was a slender iron rod. It blazed like a star fallen to earth.
“This shall be thy chosen blade,” said Agni,
“O Mādhava, O slayer of Madhu.
With this, strike down gods or asuras,
Rākṣasas, piśācas, daityas, nāgas.
What it strikes, it destroys. What it leaves, no foe survives. Hurled in battle, it shall return to thy hand, like fate drawn back to its master.”
So Kṛṣṇa accepted the discus—Sudarśana, the wheel of cosmic law.
Then Varuṇa himself stepped forward and gave to Kṛṣṇa the mace Kaumodakī, massive and terrible, forged for the slaying of daityas.
When hurled, it roared like thunder’s cry,
And made the demons quake and die.
In Kṛṣṇa’s grasp it shone with pride—
A weapon fit for gods to guide.
Thus were the heroes armed—one with bow and chariot of heaven, the other with discus and mace of cosmic fire.
The sky trembled, the forest waited, and fate, like a wheel, had begun to turn.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then Arjuna and Acyuta, their hearts exultant, their spirits alight with divine armament, turned to the flame-god Agni, and spoke in one voice, rich with the resonance of fate.
Arjuna said:
“O Pavaka, we are now prepared.
With weapons given, with strength declared.
Our chariots bear the signs of kings,
Our hands are armed with heaven’s strings.
Even the lord of thunder, bearing the vajra, may come in fury to protect his friend Takṣaka—but we shall not falter.”
And Kṛṣṇa, smiling like the sun behind stormclouds, stood beside his friend, radiant with the fire of yogamāyā. Arjuna continued:
“Behold! While Hṛṣīkeśa moves across the field,
With discus whirling, fate is sealed.
Nothing in the threefold world
Can stand when that great wheel is hurled.
And I, with Gāṇḍīva strung and quivers unspent,
Am ready to shake the firmament.
Let the forest burn—surround it well.
We shall not let a creature quell.”
Encouraged by their vow, Agni, the devourer of oblations, assumed his most terrible form. Blazing with power, he rose like the fire at the end of a yuga, when all things return to ash. His body split into seven tongues of flame, each vast and hungry, each born of sacrifice and time.
One roared like thunder, one hissed like stars,
One crackled like dried bark torn in wars.
One danced in blue, one swirled in red—
Two moved like serpents newly fed.
Encircling the forest of Khaṇḍava from all directions, he advanced. The sky itself darkened with smoke and fury. Trees groaned. Beasts shrieked. The air smelled of burning fate.
The forest shook with dread and fear,
As Agni’s tongues drew ever near.
The rivers hissed, the mountains sighed—
As life within prepared to hide.
The flames clutched at tree and beast, dry grass and serpent’s den. From every corner of that vast woodland, fire leapt like a dancer in a fevered trance. The creatures of Khaṇḍava, once secure under Indra’s unseen shield, now found the sky itself hostile.
O King, in that moment, the forest of Khaṇḍava looked like the golden peak of Mount Meru—bathed in solar fire at day’s end—blazing, resplendent, and terrible to behold.
Thus did the pact begin—man, god, and weapon united. The wind roared. The earth trembled. And the battle between fire and storm was about to unfold.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Hearing the cries of the gods and witnessing for himself the inferno below, Indra—the slayer of Vṛtra, wielder of the thunderbolt—rose in wrath. His heart stirred with loyalty to Takṣaka, his friend and ally who dwelt within that very forest, and to the many beings he had sworn to protect.
Mounting his celestial chariot, shining like a second sun, he ascended the firmament.
His banner flew with thunder’s might,
His arms were robed in storm and light.
The clouds obeyed his fierce command—
The sky turned black at his raised hand.
Then did the king of the celestials summon the clouds—countless in form, heavy with water, deep as the oceans. They gathered like mountains in the sky, darkening the heavens, and at Indra’s command, poured torrents upon the blazing forest of Khaṇḍava.
Rain fell in sheets, thick as chariot poles, striking downward with the force of war. But to the astonishment of all—
The rain dissolved in searing air,
Long before it touched earth’s flare.
Such was the heat that Agni made—
The sky itself began to fade.
The fire, fed by sacrifice and protected by divine allies, blazed fiercer still. The water turned to mist mid-descent, hissing as it vanished into the furnace of Agni’s fury.
Then Indra, seeing his rains defeated, grew angrier still. His brows furrowed like thunderclouds. With great force he gathered mightier clouds—dense and wild—and hurled them into formation.
From these there fell a torrential flood,
Heavy as grief, and thick as blood.
Lightning cracked, and thunder moaned—
As gods and fire together groaned.
The heavens raged. The earth smoked. The flames and rain clashed like armies in the sky. All around, the forest became a realm of chaos—blackened smoke, glowing embers, and flashes of lightning tearing through vapor.
The forest of Khaṇḍava, suspended between fire and storm, now looked not of this world but of the end of worlds—a vision of pralaya, when time collapses, and gods remember fear.
Clouds howled, flames danced,
Rain struck with iron hands.
Yet Agni stood, a golden tower,
His seven tongues licking Indra’s power.
Thus was the sky filled with war—between the fire god who must consume, and the storm god who must protect.
And the heroes—Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna—stood at the heart of that storm, guardians of flame, unshaken by thunder or rain.