novelraw Arc 3 - Dijvijaya and Rājasūya Parva - Chapter 5 - Śiśupāla’s Folly
Arc 3 - Dijvijaya and Rājasūya Parva - Chapter 5 - Śiśupāla’s Folly
Vaiśampāyana said:
Beholding that vast assembly of kings, stirred by wrath like the churning ocean at the world's end, Yudhiṣṭhira, the son of Dharma, turned toward Bhīṣma, the grandsire, seated like a fire banked but glowing. With hands folded and voice firm, he said:
“This ocean of kings is troubled with storm,
Their pride, like wind, makes tempests form.
Tell me, O sage, by dharma's way—
What should I speak, what should I stay?”
And Bhīṣma, ever resolute, replied:
“O son of Kuntī, cast off fear.
The lion sleeps though jackals sneer.
These monarchs rage, but powerless they—
Mere sparks before the godly flame.”
Then in measured words he added:
“Fear not, O tiger of the Kurus. Can a jackal bring death to the lion? I have already discerned a path both righteous and safe. These kings, proud in their own lands, now bark like dogs before the sleeping lion of the Vrishni race. Know, O child, that Kṛṣṇa has chosen to remain still—but when He rises, even the bravest among them shall fall like dry leaves in a storm.”
“Achyuta sleeps, His wrath contained,
But fate has bound what must be chained.
Śiśupāla seeks his destined end—
And Kṛṣṇa waits, the silent friend.”
“The soul of the universe now prepares to reclaim the fragment of Himself that burns within the heart of Chedi’s king. O son of Dharma, the mind of Śiśupāla and of those he misleads is already corrupted—destiny pulls them toward their doom. For that which Kṛṣṇa calls back into Himself cannot be spared by mortal counsel.”
“The fourfold race—the born of egg,
Of womb, of sweat, and buried leg—
All rise and fall within His will,
The timeless one, forever still.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Having heard Bhīṣma’s declaration, the king of Chedi rose in fury. His words came swift and sharp, like arrows from a burning chariot, directed at the grandsire of the Kurus...
“Old and infamous wretch of thy race!” he cried. “Art thou not ashamed, O Bhīṣma, to frighten these mighty monarchs with empty terrors and lofty illusions? Thou art called the wisest among the Kurus, and yet, living in thy third stage of life—celibacy—it seems thy judgment has been consumed by delusion. Like a blind man leading the blind, so are the Kurus with thee as their guide.”
With venom in his voice, he turned to Krishna.
“Once again thou woundest our hearts by chanting the tales of this cowherd—this dark wanderer—this slayer of women and beasts! Is thy tongue so fearless that it dares not split into a hundred shards for uttering such praise of one so low?”
“A babe he was when he slew a bird—
Is that a marvel, is that a word?
He kicked a cart, a wooden frame—
And thus ye chant his infant fame!”
“Thou callest it great that he held aloft the Govardhana hill for seven days. But what is that but a hollow tale to feed the fancies of children and simpletons?”
“He ate with greed, he fought with might,
He played with milkmaids in the night.
He killed his host, his mother’s kin—
What virtue lies in such a sin?”
“O Bhīṣma,” he continued, voice rising, “thou who knowest the ancient laws—hast thou never heard that one must not raise arms against women, against kine, against Brahmins, nor against those whose food or shelter one has accepted? Hast thou cast all dharma to the wind merely to glorify the Satvata youth?”
He turned once more to the kings present.
“Ye all listen to him with reverence, but know this—his knowledge is but a shell, and his virtue hollow.”
“If Putanā’s death be praised as just,
And slaying of kine seen free from rust,
Then dharma’s path hath lost its light—
And thou, O Bhīṣma, speakest night.”
“And now,” said Sisupāla, with a cruel smile, “thou crown him lord of all beings, the cause of creation, the axis of dissolution! Fie upon such speech! Such titles only feed his pride.”
“He is no god, no lord of flame,
But born of flesh, of mortal frame.
A flute he plays, the cow he tends—
And fools alone call such 'World’s End.'”
“Thou art childless, O Bhīṣma, and old. And thou preachest morality to others! But what morality didst thou uphold when thou abducted the maiden Amvā who had already given her heart elsewhere? Thy brother, Vichitravīrya, acted righteously by not accepting her, yet thou—so proud of thy vow—brought disgrace upon her and thyself.”
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“Celibate thou art, or so thou claimest—
Yet in thy house, no child remainest.
What worth is fast or fire or fame,
When none shall carry forth thy name?”
He glared at the son of Śāntanu, voice trembling now with fury and scorn.
“Is this thy dharma? Is this thy wisdom? Thou who wouldst have us worship a cowherd as the eternal cause? Nay—thou art deluded. And like the swan in the tale who perished by trusting false waters, so too shalt thou meet thy end at the hands of thine own kin.”
“False teacher of the righteous path,
Thy tongue shall burn with dharma’s wrath.
The swan that sipped from poisoned spring
Returns not to the skies on wing.”
“Now hear, O Bhīṣma,” he concluded, “the ancient words of wisdom spoken by those who truly knew the worth of virtue. I shall recite them in thy hearing.”
Śiśupāla spoke further, his tone thick with sarcasm and scorn. “Hear now, O Bhīṣma, the tale told by the wise of old—a tale of a swan, white in feather but dark in deed. Like thee, he spoke of dharma while feasting on adharma.”
“There lived upon the ocean shore
A swan grown old in years and lore.
With lofty speech he charmed the skies,
Yet truth was far from what he plies.”
This swan, he said, made his home upon the sea-coast, instructing all other birds in matters of virtue. “Practise dharma, renounce sin,” he would declare with a voice so sonorous that even the winds seemed to carry his counsel. So revered was he among the feathery tribes that birds from far and wide brought him food in reverence. Trusting his words, they laid their eggs near his shelter and dived into the waters, believing their offspring safe.
But the old swan, driven by selfish hunger, devoured the eggs laid in trust.
“He spoke of truth but lived in lies,
A thief beneath a saintly guise.
With beak he broke what trust had spun,
Devouring life, one egg by one.”
In time, suspicion stirred. One wise bird observed the swan’s treachery, and in sorrow, he revealed the truth to the others. The birds, aghast and grief-stricken, gathered in righteous wrath. They approached the deceiver, and seeing with their own eyes his vile act, they tore him asunder.
“No sword they drew, no fire they bore—
Their wings alone became the war.
For what is trust, when broken so,
But fire concealed beneath the snow?”
Turning his gaze back upon Bhīṣma, Śiśupāla continued, voice thick with contempt. “Such is thy conduct, O Kuru elder—wise in speech but deceitful in truth. Like that swan, thou speakest of dharma and yet twist its roots to worship this cowherd. Beware, lest these lords of the earth—righteous and mighty—turn upon thee as the birds turned upon their betrayer.”
He sneered as he concluded, citing the proverbial moral:
“Though thou dost preach with beak so fair,
Thy heart is chained to dark despair.
The eggs thou eat—thy trust betrayed—
Thy words are dust, thy vows decayed.”
Śiśupāla, still unrelenting in his slander, turned his speech toward the death of Jarāsandha, mocking Krishna and the Pāṇḍavas in front of the gathered kings. “That mighty ruler of Magadha, the valiant Jarāsandha, who refused to fight Krishna because he called him a slave, was far more worthy of my esteem than these pretenders to dharma. What glory lies in Krishna’s deceitful act? He entered the city by stealth, not as a warrior but cloaked in a Brāhmaṇa’s guise—was that heroism?”
He raised his voice, addressing Bhīṣma with cutting scorn. “This so-called lord of the universe, what honor did he show? When Jarāsandha offered him water for his feet in the manner of a guest, he cast off the Brāhmaṇa mask. When food was brought, he refused it in feigned virtue. Why, O Bhīṣma, if he is indeed Nārāyaṇa incarnate, did he not hold to the conduct of a Brāhmaṇa as he pretended?”
“With guile he passed the city’s gate,
Concealed in robes of holy state.
A king he slew by cunning plan—
Say, is this the act of a noble man?”
Then Śiśupāla turned his gaze to the sons of Pāṇḍu. “It shames me not that you Pandavas, still young and untested, are misled by this aged Kuru who clings to dharma in speech but falters in sense. Perhaps it is no surprise—those led by the old and the feeble are bound to wander blind.”
The venom of these words pierced through the hearts of all present. At once, Bhīmasena’s body quivered with fury. His eyes, already large and dark, flared red like burnished copper, expanding like the lotus under a noonday sun. Three deep furrows formed on his brow—like the triple flow of Gaṅgā over the triple-peaked Himālaya, sign of his wrath’s rising tide.
“His teeth he ground, his breath was flame,
His limbs all shook, his rage became
A tempest bound in mortal frame—
The face of Death, in battle’s name.”
Bhīma rose like a lion stirred from sleep, but even before he could leap forward, Bhīṣma, swift and steady, laid his hand upon him. Like Maheśvara restraining Kārtikeya, the grandsire of the Kurus halted Bhīma’s charge. And though his soul blazed like a forest fire, Bhīma yielded, for the will of Bhīṣma was like the law of the oceans—never to be crossed.
“Though mountains fall and tempests swell,
The sea its bounds will not dispel.
So Bhīma stood, though anger roared—
Held back by Bhīṣma’s word, adored.”
But Śiśupāla, unshaken, laughed aloud. The sound was sharp, like iron on stone. He turned to Bhīṣma and mocked him further. “Let him go, O wise Kuru. Let this lion of the Pāṇḍavas leap! Let all these kings see him scorched by my fire, like an insect that rushes into the flame!”
“I fear him not, this roaring bull,
His limbs are strong, his heart is full.
But even iron melts in flame—
And so shall he, in battle’s name!”
The fire had been kindled. Bhīṣma, steady as ever, now turned to speak to Bhīma in measured tones, seeking once more to preserve the balance of the sacrifice and restrain the storm of violence gathering in the hall.
Bhīṣma turned to Bhīma and the assembly, his voice steady, bearing the weight of age and truth. “Know, O Bhīma, this king of Chedi, whose tongue spits venom even in the midst of sacrifice, was not born as other men are. At the hour of his birth, he emerged from the womb with three glaring eyes and four unnatural arms. As he screamed, his cries resembled the bray of an ass—a sound of ill omen that shook the hearts of his parents and their gathered kin with dread.”
Struck with horror by these signs, the king and queen of Chedi considered abandoning the child. But then, from the unseen heavens, a divine voice without form rang through the palace chambers. Its echo calmed the fear yet deepened the mystery.
“This child, though strange in form and cry,
Shall not by fate untimely die.
Fortunate shall his future be—
His death is marked by destiny.
The one who slays him lives today,
Let time reveal its secret way.”
Moved by maternal anguish, the queen bowed with folded hands toward the unseen speaker. “O voice divine, I implore thee—grant me a sign. Tell me: who shall be the slayer of my son?”
To this, the ethereal voice answered again, with words carved into fate:
“When on a mortal’s lap he lies,
His limbs shall lose their marks unwise—
His third eye gone, his arms made two—
That man shall be his slayer true.”
The prophecy spread across the world. From every kingdom came kings and warriors, eager to behold the monstrous child and test the omen. The ruler of Chedi welcomed each sovereign with honor and offered the child into their laps. But nothing occurred. The boy remained unchanged, his limbs still unnatural, his third eye unblinking. A thousand kings came and went—yet the signs did not appear.
In time, word reached Dvārakā. The mighty heroes of the Yādava race—Balarāma and Janārdana—came to the Chedi court, for the queen was their own father’s sister. Greeting their kin with courtesy and warmth, they sat as honored guests, as all others did before them.
Then, with joy and reverence, the queen placed the child into Kṛṣṇa’s lap. And instantly—at that sacred touch—the marvel foretold came to pass.
“His arms, like serpents, slipped away,
His third eye vanished into day.
The marks of fate dissolved like mist—
The slayer’s lap had been kissed.”
Seeing this, the queen’s joy turned swiftly into dread. Trembling, she turned to Kṛṣṇa and pleaded with him in alarm, “O Mādhava, I am a mother. Fear coils around my heart like a serpent. You are the protector of the afflicted, the slayer of fear—grant me a boon!”
And Kṛṣṇa, ever gentle, ever resolute, replied, “Fear not, O revered one. I do not bear ill toward your son. What would you have of me? Whether possible or difficult, I shall grant it.”
With joined palms and anxious eyes, the queen made her request: “O Govinda, O soul of compassion, if ever he sins against you, forgive him—for my sake.”
Then the dark-hued Kṛṣṇa, in tones as calm as the ocean deep, declared:
“A hundred faults shall I forgive,
Though he in hate may speak or live.
For your sake, aunt, this vow I make—
My justice shall his insults take.”
Bhīṣma concluded with gravity, turning back to Bhīma and the kings, “Thus, O Bhīma, was this wretch born with dark omens, spared only by the boon of Kṛṣṇa. And now, emboldened by that promise, he dares defile dharma and summon you to battle.”