novelraw Arc 2 – Rajasuyarambha and Jarasandha Parva - Chapter 1 - Kṛṣṇa’s Advice
Arc 2 – Rajasuyarambha and Jarasandha Parva - Chapter 1 - Kṛṣṇa’s Advice
Thus addressed by Yudhiṣṭhira, who stood firm in dharma and longing for righteous sovereignty, Kṛṣṇa of the Vrishni race, eternal and wise, spoke with gentle gravity, his words bearing the weight of cosmic balance:
“O mighty king, O scion of Bharata,
Worthy art thou in every way
To perform that sovereign sacrifice
Which crowns the emperor’s sacred sway.
Though thy knowledge is vast and clear,
Hear yet what I now must say:
The earth has seen a brighter age—
And dimmer ones in disarray.”
“O son of Dharma, those who bear the name of Kṣatriya in this present age are but shadows of the mighty race that once walked the earth—those noble warriors whom Paraśurāma, son of Jamadagni, swept away in his fury. Know, O lion among kings, that the ancient order of Kṣatriyas upheld a rule born not of tyranny but of duty, sustained by lineage and sacred law. The standards by which they governed were passed down through the sacred thread of generations.”
He continued, his voice calm yet charged with insight:
“The earth holds many royal lines—
The house of Aila, the line of Ikṣvāku.
Each bears a hundred clans or more,
Each blazing once like Agni’s hue.
From Yayāti sprang the Bhoja kings,
Wide-scattered now across the land.
These lords once shone like sacred fires,
But Jarāsandha breaks their band.”
“O Yudhiṣṭhira, behold now how this Jarāsandha of Magadha has bound them all beneath his yoke. He stands today as the overlord of the central lands—Mathurā and beyond. By sheer force and ruthlessness, he has subdued the pride of princes and risen above the rest. He seeks to sow discord among us, using fear and force as his means.”
“He that truly bears the name of Emperor,
Must command with Dharma and with might.
When all kings bow with willing hearts,
He earns the world’s imperial right.”
Kṛṣṇa's gaze grew grave as he named the allies of Jarāsandha, invoking their power and threat:
“The wrathful Śiśupāla, fierce in feud,
Has sworn allegiance to this lord.
Vaka of Karūṣa, steeped in guile,
Waits upon him, illusion stored.
Hansa and Dimvaka stand in line,
Mighty in soul, and cruel in deed.
Dantavakra, Karavā, Meghavāhana too—
All upon his call take heed.”
“There is one more,” said Kṛṣṇa, pausing as if the name itself weighed heavy. “Bhagadatta, sovereign of the western seas, who rules like Varuṇa and has subdued the dreadful Muru and Naraka. Upon his brow rests the shining jewel—rarest of all—and though he once held ties of friendship with thy noble father, even he bows now before Jarāsandha. Not in word alone, but by offering his arms in service and alliance.”
“Such is the world that now you face,
Where Dharma wanes, and fear holds place.
Yet light remains where courage stands—
And kings may rise with righteous hands.”
Then the wielder of the discus, Kṛṣṇa, continued to speak, his words heavy with truth and laced with warning. Raising his voice with measured calm, he revealed the plight of the earth under the shadow of Jarāsandha’s ambition.
“O king,” he said, “only one among the monarchs of the earth bears allegiance to thee from the depth of true affection—not out of fear, nor gain, but born of kinship and trust. It is thy maternal uncle, Purujit, lord of the western and southern lands. Brave and just, that scion of the Kunti race, that slayer of enemies, still holds thee dear as a father holds his son.”
“Where others bend for fear alone,
Or covet gifts or lands to own—
He stands, O king, with heart sincere,
With sword in hand and soul austere.”
“But many others,” Kṛṣṇa went on, “have turned their backs on dharma and joined the camp of Jarāsandha. One such is the king of Vanga, Pundra, and the Kirātas—he who dares to call himself Vasudeva, though no divinity courses through his veins. That fool Pauṇḍraka, bearing my marks and name by falsehood, walks the earth in arrogance, and has aligned himself with Magadha’s tyrant.”
“There is also Bhīṣmaka, mighty king of the Bhojas, friend of Indra and conqueror of the southern kings. He, too, has fallen under Jarāsandha’s influence, though we, the Vrishṇis, are his kin and ever seek to please him.”
“Alas, when bonds of blood are scorned,
And kings forget their sacred line,
They choose the shelter of a storm—
Seduced by fame's illusive shine.”
Kṛṣṇa paused, his voice now shadowed with concern.
“Driven by fear of Jarāsandha’s sword, eighteen tribes of the Bhojas have fled westward. The Surasenas, the Bhadrakas, the Vodhas, the Śālvas, the Pāṭaccabhas, the Susthalas, the Mukuttas, and the Kulindas—all have abandoned their homelands. Even the southern Pañcālas, the Kosalas of the east, and the Matsyas have sought refuge in distant quarters, forsaking their thrones and proud traditions. The very fabric of Kṣatriya order trembles.”
“No longer do they hold their ground—
The kings once fierce, now lost, confound.
From north to south, they flee in fear,
Their crowns cast off, their hands unsteered.”
“Even the noble Pañcālas,” said Kṛṣṇa, “once proud, now scattered. Such is the shadow cast by Magadha’s lord.”
He turned then to the root of this upheaval:
“The fool Kamsa, of cursed fame,
Once sought our kin to bring us shame.
He, in folly and wicked pride,
Gave Jarāsandha daughters as brides.”
And Kṛṣṇa, the lion of the Yādavas, recounted to Yudhiṣṭhira the tangled web of alliances and grief that bound the kingdoms to Jarāsandha, the tyrant of Magadha.
“Know this, O son of Dharma,” said Kṛṣṇa, “Kañsa, in his quest for dominion and fearsome alliance, gave in marriage his two sisters—Asti and Prāpti—to the mighty king of Magadha. These daughters of Sahadeva became the roots of a destructive union.”
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“Thus bound by marriage, veiled in pride,
The fool rose up with kin beside.
He crushed his own, made terror grow,
And earned but hate from friend and foe.”
“When Kañsa turned upon his elders and began harassing the aged Bhoja kings, they came to us—weak in arms, but firm in hope—seeking sanctuary from their tormentor. To shield our kin, I gave the fair daughter of Ahuka to Akrūra, and, joined by mighty Balarāma, we rose in arms.”
“In that battle,” continued Vāsudeva, “Sunāman fell, and Kañsa—whose pride had darkened reason—was slain by my hand.”
“Thus did the thunder fall at last,
The tyrant slain, the storm held fast.
But Magadha stirred like fire anew,
For vengeance burned where hatred grew.”
“For no sooner had Kañsa fallen than his father-in-law Jarāsandha took up arms in fury. Eighteen branches of the Yādava race, after deep counsel, concluded thus: ‘Even if we struck him daily with the deadliest weapons, it would take three centuries to break his might.’”
“He is shielded not by sword or spell,
But by two warriors fierce and fell.
Hamsa and Dimvaka, fierce as gods,
Whose strength defies all earthly odds.”
“These two, O king, were deemed invincible, immune to death by arms. Their valor and alliance with Jarāsandha made the king of Magadha seem invincible even to the three worlds.”
“Now hear of the strange fate that befell them,” said Kṛṣṇa. “There was once a mighty prince—Hamsa—slain after an eighteen-day war by Rāma, son of Rohiṇī. But false rumor spread that he had fallen. His brother Dimvaka, grieving for his kin, leapt into the Yamunā and gave up his life.”
“And grief, like fire, consumes the wise—
When brothers fall, even valor dies.
Hamsa returned, but found him gone,
And drowned himself in grief alone.”
“Thus perished both, not in war, but in sorrow’s dark embrace. When Jarāsandha heard this, he returned to his kingdom, his heart hollowed by loss. For a time, we dwelt in peace at Mathurā, thinking the clouds had passed.”
“But fate is never still. The widow of Hamsa, daughter of Jarāsandha, consumed by wrath and despair, returned to her father’s court. With eyes aflame and voice choked with grief, she cried:”
“‘O Father! Slay him who took my lord!
O King of Kings, draw forth thy sword!
Let vengeance fall on him who slew—
The light of life I once did knew!’”
“Thus was the tyrant stirred again. And recalling our old decision, we were troubled. Fearing the wrath of Magadha’s king, we abandoned our beloved city. Breaking up our vast treasury into many portions so it might be easily carried, we fled—relatives and warriors together.”
“From golden halls to forest shade,
With kin in tow, our path we made.
Not for fear of death or shame,
But for the world’s and Dharma’s name.”
Reflecting on all these misfortunes and the terror wrought by Jarāsandha, said Kṛṣṇa, we fled westward to preserve the remnant of our strength. There, beyond the Raivata mountains, stood the old city of Kuśasthalī, long abandoned but still noble in form, like a lion fallen into sleep.
“Upon the slopes of Raivata bright,
We found a city crowned in light.
Kuśasthalī, of ancient frame,
We made her strong in deed and name.”
In that sacred land, graced by the breath of sea and mountain wind, we built again the walls and gates of the city, rendering it so impregnable that even the celestials might be resisted by our womenfolk, should danger ever breach its bounds. Thus was born Dvārakā, the city of gates—our refuge and our bastion.
“Where ocean sings and salt winds sigh,
We raised our halls beneath the sky.
And every stone and wall and street
Now echoes with the Yādava beat.”
There, in the shadow of the Gomanta range—measuring three yojanas in length—we arrayed our defenses. Within each yojana, twenty-one strongholds were placed, and at every interval a hundred gates, each guarded by heroes born of the Vrishni blood.
Our people, the younger branches of the Yādava race—eighteen clans in strength—took refuge there, and in them fire still burned.
“O Yudhiṣṭhira,” said Kṛṣṇa, “in our race alone are found eighteen thousand brothers and cousins, each skilled in arms. Ahuka has a hundred sons, each a warrior near to godhood. Among them are:
Myself—Kṛṣṇa Vāsudeva,
Balarāma, son of Rohiṇī,
Charudeṣṇa and his brother Chakradeva,
Sātyaki of the unerring spear,
My son Sāmba, fierce in battle as I.”
“These seven, O King, are Atirathas,
Matchless wielders of death-born paths.
Not gods nor demons dare contest
When they rise up in armor dressed.”
And beyond them, other Mahārathas walk the earth—Kṛtavarman, Ānadr̥ṣṭi, Śāmika, Samitiñjaya, Kaṅka, Śaṅku, and Kunti. All these, like bolts of Indra, are living fires in war.
There are also two sons of Andhakabhoja and the ancient king himself—all mighty, resolute, and formidable. These valiant Yādavas now dwell in Dvārakā, guarding the sacred causeway between heaven and earth.
“O son of Dharma, thou alone
Art fit to mount the empire's throne.
But know, no rite nor royal fame
Can flourish while Jarāsandha’s name
Casts its dark and dreadful shade
Across the lands his arms invade.”
Know this truth, O Bharata: the Rājasūya cannot be accomplished while that lord of Magadha lives. His evil is vast. Within his mountain fortress he has imprisoned many kings—warriors as fierce as lions, now shackled like beasts in caves.
“In Girivraja’s stony womb,
Lie kings consigned to living tomb.
Like tusked elephants bound in pain,
Their glory crushed, their strength in chain.”
Jarasandha, longing to fulfill a terrible vow, seeks to offer a hundred kings as human sacrifices to Śiva, the god of destruction. Through penance and power, he has overthrown the world’s sovereigns and caged them for this unholy rite.
Even we—strong in will, shielded by dharma—were once forced to abandon Mathurā, our ancient city, and flee to Dvārakā. And now, O tiger among men, if it is thy will to perform the Rājasūya, thou must first shatter the mountain yoke and free the captive kings. Jarāsandha must fall.
“Without his fall, the fire won’t rise;
The sacred smoke won’t touch the skies.
No king shall pour the Soma’s stream
While shackled souls still wail and dream.”
This, O son of Kuntī, is my judgment. Do as thou deemest right, but ponder well: without his death, this noble undertaking will fail before it even begins.
Thus spoke Kṛṣṇa, the knower of past and future, the wheel-born one who turns the fates of kings.
And Vaiśampāyana said to Janamejaya:
“O great monarch, hearing these words of Kṛṣṇa—fierce, wise, and full of dharma—Yudhiṣṭhira sat silent for a moment, weighing the burden of destiny.”
Then the son of Dharma, righteous Yudhiṣṭhira, sat with folded hands and replied unto Kṛṣṇa, whose counsel was like fire kindled at the altar of wisdom.
“O Govinda,” he said, “none but thee could speak as thou hast spoken. You are the settler of all doubts, the remover of all thorns from the path of Dharma. Thy words flow like a sacred river, cleansing confusion from the minds of men.”
“There are kings in every province,
Pursuing wealth and sovereign sense,
But none among them, lord or peer,
Hath won the title emperor here.”
The son of Kuntī paused and gazed at Kṛṣṇa, his eyes heavy with thought. “That title, O Kṛṣṇa, is not one to be claimed by birth or wish. It must be earned by conquering the pride of others, and bearing the weight of their resistance with grace and strength. He alone is worthy of praise who, when tested by the spears of foes, remains steadfast like the Himālaya.”
“O Kṛṣṇa, the earth is decked with gems—
Desires, ambitions, gilded stems.
But like a forest wide and vast,
They tempt the mind, then burn it fast.”
“Experience,” said Yudhiṣṭhira, “does not arise from ease, nor from sitting in one’s own land. It is born of hardship, of journeys beyond the familiar. And even so, salvation—the true aim of life—is not found in fleeting pleasures or vain conquests. It is attained by following lofty principles, rare and radiant as the stars.”
“Peace of mind, not power or gold,
Is the highest aim, the virtue bold.
For from peace springs righteous gain,
And in its light all fears are slain.”
The king lowered his voice, humbled by his own doubt. “I see within our race the hope that one among us might one day rise to supreme sovereignty among Kṣatriyas. But even we, O Kṛṣṇa, once trembled before the power of Jarāsandha. What then can I hope for, who was shaken as a leaf by the winds of his name?”
He looked again to the face of Kṛṣṇa, the lotus-eyed guide, and spoke from the burden of his heart.
“When thou, O Kesava, who standest tall,
Didst tremble once at Magadha’s call,
Then who am I, a mortal man,
To dream I can achieve this plan?”
“O thou of the Vrishni race,” he said gently, “my soul clings to thy strength like a child to the sheltering arms of his father. Yet again and again I ask myself—can even thou, or Rama, or Bhīma, or Arjuna conquer the invincible Jarāsandha? My mind is torn by this doubt.”
But even amidst that doubt, Yudhiṣṭhira bowed low, placing his trust at the feet of Govinda.
“Though doubt surrounds like rising tide,
I look to thee, O friend and guide.
For what thou sayest, that shall be—
My path is lit by none but thee.”
And thus the king, though sovereign of men, surrendered his will unto Kṛṣṇa, knowing well that only through Him could the sacrifice find its rightful flame.
Then Bhīmasena, the iron-limbed one, who stood like a blazing fire beside Yudhiṣṭhira, spoke with firm voice and keen counsel. His arms, mighty as the trunks of elephants, lay folded across his chest, but his words surged like thunderclouds over a parched plain.
“O King,” said Bhīma, “hear now the rule of strength. A ruler who lacks effort, or who, being weak, dares challenge a stronger foe without prudence or means—such a man is doomed to fall, like an ant-hill crushed beneath the heel.”
“Yet often do the weak prevail,
When wisdom sharpens strength’s avail.
The eye of policy, ever bright,
Can bring the strongest down in fight.”
He turned to Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna seated nearby, their glances steady as still waters.
“In Kṛṣṇa,” said Bhīma, “resides all policy and vision. In myself, brute force and furious might. In Arjuna—triumph flows like fire through his bow. Together we are like the sacred fires—gārhapatya, āhavanīya, and dakṣiṇa—that accomplish the sacred rite. With such triple flame, we shall consume the evil Jarāsandha.”
Hearing Bhīma’s speech, Vāsudeva, the wise Kṛṣṇa of eternal insight, smiled faintly and replied in a voice as calm as moonlight yet edged with steel.
“A man of shallow thought seeks the fruit of desire without weighing the burden it carries. Fools rush to gain advantage, never seeing the long shadow of consequence.”
“No man forgives the fool who schemes,
For selfish gain and fleeting dreams.
Though immature, his acts remain—
And breed in others righteous disdain.”
He then recounted, for the sake of all gathered, the qualities that once made kings emperors—kings of the kṛta age, paragons of virtue and dominion.
“Yauvanāśva, who freed his lands from tax;
Bhagīratha, who bore no cruel yoke;
Kārtavīrya, glowing with ascetic fire;
Bharata, strong in warlike stroke;
Marutta, lord of wealth and fame—
These five once earned the emperor’s name.”
“Yudhiṣṭhira,” Kṛṣṇa said, turning to the eldest son of Dharma, “you possess not one—but all the virtues these kings bore. In you reside victory, protection, virtue, prosperity, and wise counsel. You are worthy indeed of the imperial dignity.”
But he added, with gravity, “So too is Jarāsandha a contender. Born of Vṛhadratha, fierce from birth, he has crushed a hundred dynasties beneath his iron heel. No jewel-bearing king can deny him tribute. No ruler dares resist his power. For he takes by force what others offer in reverence.”
“He bears no peace, seeks no accord—
His ways are fire, his speech a sword.
With crowned kings bound in Shiva’s name,
He seeks a hundred for his flame.”
“Eighty-six he has already seized,” said Kṛṣṇa, eyes darkening with memory. “Only fourteen remain to complete his ghastly vow. Once done, he shall offer them as beasts to the god Śiva in a bloody rite. Who among us shall stand idle and watch this horror unfold?”
“Let him who dares break Jarāsandha’s chain,
Earn dharma’s crown and glory’s gain.
Let him who stops this monstrous deed,
Be known as hero, true in creed.”
He paused, then added, “That man will rise above all Kṣatriyas, crowned by his own merit. And the earth shall know him as Emperor—Chakravartin—not by birth, but by conquest of adharma.”
Thus did Govinda declare the stakes, as silence fell among the assembled kings, and the fire of destiny flared brighter in their hearts.