novelraw Arc 2 – Arjunabhigamana Parva - Chapter 3 - Krishna vs Śālva’s
Arc 2 – Arjunabhigamana Parva - Chapter 3 - Krishna vs Śālva’s
Vāsudeva said:
“When Śālva had fled from the city of the Ānarttas, I returned there, O king, at the close of thy great Rājasūya sacrifice. But what I found filled my heart with disquiet—Dvārakā stood stripped of her splendour. There was no sound of Vedic recitation, no sacrificial smoke curling to the heavens. The maidens of the Yādava race wore no ornaments, the gardens had lost their bloom, and the people’s faces were pale with grief.
Amazed and troubled, I asked Kṛtavarman, son of Hṛdika: ‘Why are the men and women of the Vr̥ṣṇi city so stricken in spirit, O tiger among men?’ Then he told me in full of Śālva’s invasion and departure.
Even as I listened, my resolve was set—to slay Śālva. Comforting the citizens and addressing King Āhuka, Ānakdundubhi, and the foremost heroes of the Vr̥ṣṇis, I said:
‘Stay here, O bulls among the Yādavas, guarding the city well.
I shall not return until I have struck down Śālva,
And broken his car of costly metals.
Let the dundubhi drums sound in their sharp, middle, and deep tones—
Let our enemies hear the voice of their doom!’
Blessed by my kinsmen and cheered with auspicious words from brāhmaṇas, I bowed to the regenerate ones and to Maheśvara himself. Then, mounting my chariot drawn by the steeds Śaivya and Sugrīva, I filled the quarters with the thunder of wheels and the deep voice of the Pāñcajanya.
With my army of fourfold force I marched, passing over mountains crowned with trees, bright rivers, and fertile lands, until I came to Mātrikāvarta. There I learned that Śālva roamed the ocean in his sky-car. Pursuing, I found him amid the billows, and from afar he challenged me to battle.
My arrows, keen enough to pierce to the quick, could not reach his lofty car, and wrath stirred within me. Then that sinful son of a Dānava rained upon my soldiers, steeds, and charioteer a torrent of shafts. My vision was darkened; I could see neither Daruka, nor my car, nor my horses—only the cloud of weapons falling. But I too, skilled in arms and mantras, loosed tens of thousands of arrows in answer.
Śālva’s car hovered two miles above; my troops could not strike it, and so they stood below like spectators at a contest, their shouts and clapping rising like a lion’s roar to hearten me. My shafts, loosed from the fore-hand grip, struck home among the Dānavas, and their cries mingled with the splash of bodies falling into the sea. Some, necks and arms hewn away, fell in the form of headless trunks, and were devoured by the ocean’s beasts.
Then I blew the Pāñcajanya—white as milk, as the kunda flower, as moonlight, and shaped like the lotus-stalk—so that the waves themselves trembled.
Śālva, seeing his warriors slain, took refuge in the sorcery of the Asuras. Maces, ploughshares, javelins, blazing darts, battle-axes, swords, thunderbolts, nooses, rockets—all these he hurled at me in a ceaseless storm.
Like black clouds in a tempest sky,
His weapons rushed with a howling cry;
Yet each I shattered with counter-art,
Till his illusion fell apart.
Then he flung mountain-peaks; day turned to darkness, then back to light, then to gloom again, now hot, now cold. There came showers of coals and ashes, a rain of weapons, and the sky was filled with confusion. I broke his sorcery with my own, and in turn loosed arrows to the four quarters.
The heavens blazed with the light of a hundred suns and moons, and with thousands upon thousands of stars. No man could tell day from night, nor know east from west. I, bewildered yet unshaken, set upon my bowstring the Prājñāstra. It flew like clouds of cotton swept by the wind, and in its wake the darkness fled.
Thus light returned, and I renewed the battle against him.”
Vāsudeva said:
“O tiger among men, my great foe Śālva, thus met in battle, rose again into the sky. Desiring victory, that wicked one hurled down upon me sataghnīs, maces, flaming lances, heavy clubs—
but every weapon that fell from the heavens I cut to splinters in mid-air with my swift arrows. The welkin roared with the clash of steel and shaft.
Then Śālva, in his fury, covered Daruka, my steeds, and my car with hundreds of straight-flying shafts. My charioteer, weary and bleeding, spoke in faltering tones: ‘Pierced by Śālva’s arrows, I stand in the field only because it is my duty; yet my strength fails me.’ I looked upon him—there was no space on his breast, head, arms, or body unmarked by wounds. Blood flowed from him in streams, so that he seemed a hill of red ochre after rain. Seeing him thus, reins in hand yet steadfast, I sought to rally his spirit.
At that moment, a man of Dvārakā, a follower of Āhuka, came swiftly to my chariot. Bowing low, his voice choked with grief, he spoke:
‘O Keśava, hear the words of Āhuka, thy father’s friend:
In thy absence, Śālva has forced his way into Dvārakā
And slain Vasudeva.
Cease this battle—return!
Guard thy city; this is thy foremost duty!’
Hearing this, my heart grew heavy as stone. My thoughts turned at once upon Sātyaki, upon Baladeva, upon mighty Pradyumna, and Charudeṣṇa, and Śāmba—those to whom I had entrusted the guarding of Dvārakā and my father. Could even the wielder of the thunderbolt prevail against Vasudeva while these still lived?
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Yet the message seemed plain: Vasudeva was fallen, and with him surely those others had perished too. Grief overcame me. Still in that grief I turned again to meet Śālva.
Then I beheld—O king—Vasudeva himself, falling from Śālva’s sky-car.
Loose streamed his crown and tangled hair,
His robes in ruin, his face stripped bare;
Down he sank through the darkened air,
Like Yayāti cast from heaven’s stair.
At the sight, the bow Śārṅga slipped from my hand; my body failed me and I sank senseless upon the chariot seat. My host cried aloud in dismay. Before my dimmed eyes, my father’s form, arms and legs outstretched like a wounded bird, was struck again and again by the foe’s warriors with lances and axes. My heart quivered; I strove to rise.
Then suddenly, the car of precious metals was gone. Śālva was gone. My father’s form was gone.
I knew it then for what it was—illusion. And gathering my senses, I took up my bow again and loosed arrows by the hundred into the fray.”
Vāsudeva continued:
“O foremost of the Bharatas, seizing my bow Śārṅga, I sent a storm of arrows into the ranks of the enemies of the gods, striking from that aerial car of costly metals. Shafts shaped like serpents, bright with deadly light, sped upward into the sky, but then—through illusion—the car itself vanished from sight. I stood, marveling, the field ringing with the howls of the Dānavas.
Then I strung a weapon whose arrows strike by sound alone, unseen and inescapable. At once their cries were silenced—those whose voices had risen in mockery were pierced where they stood, slain by shafts blazing like the sun’s own fire. Yet from another quarter rose fresh roars. Thither too I sent my arrows, and so in all ten quarters above and across I hunted the unseen, my missiles guided by voice and breath. None escaped—whether flying in the skies or hidden from the eye—for I used weapons of manifold forms, each blessed with celestial mantras.
Suddenly, the car of precious metals appeared once more at Pragjyotiṣa, and with it the Dānavas rained down from above a torrent of jagged rocks. They buried me—chariot, horses, standard, and driver—until I seemed a hill of shattered stone. My army wavered, struck with panic; the air, the earth, and heaven resounded with cries of ‘Oh!’ and ‘Alas!’ as my friends wept and the foe exulted.
But I, seizing the thunderbolt-weapon dear to Indra, shattered the mountain-mass into dust. My friends rejoiced as the sun breaks through after a storm, yet my horses trembled on the edge of death, crushed beneath the stones. Then Daruka spoke, voice sharp with urgency:
‘O Vṛṣṇi hero, see! Śālva sits yonder—heed him not lightly.
Put aside gentleness; this foe is no friend.
Even the fallen must not be spared—what then of one
Who dares lay waste to Dvārakā?
Strike now, and strike to kill.’
Knowing his words to be truth, I turned my mind wholly to Śālva’s destruction. “Hold, Daruka,” I said, and set upon my bow the weapon of fire—celestial, irresistible, fierce with radiant heat. Then I called upon the Sudarśana, my discus of a thousand suns, destroyer of Yakṣas, Rākṣasas, Dānavas, and impure kings—sharp as the razor, flawless as the wheel of Time, the doom of the foe.
It rose into the sky, a second sun blazing at the Yuga’s end, and sped toward the city of Saubha. Through palaces and towers it passed, dividing the fortress as a saw fells a great tree. Cleft in two by its force, Saubha fell like the triple city of the Asuras struck down by Maheśvara’s arrows.
The discus, returning to my hand, I hurled again, crying, “Go to Śālva!” It struck him as he raised a mighty mace, cleaving him in twain and setting his body aflame. His Dānava women fled in terror, their wails scattering on the wind.
Placing my chariot before the ruined gates, I blew the Pāñcajanya, filling my friends with joy. The Dānavas, seeing their lofty city ablaze and broken, fled in all directions. Thus I destroyed Saubha and slew Śālva, and returning to the Anarttas, brought delight to my people.
It was for this, O king, that I could not come to Hastināpura at the time of the dice-game. Had I come, Suyodhana would not now be alive, nor would that match have been played. But what is broken cannot be bound again—when the dam is shattered, who can hold back the flood?”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Having spoken thus to the Kauravas, the foremost of men, the mighty-armed slayer of Madhu—graceful in every motion—turned to the sons of Pāṇḍu. Bowing to Yudhiṣṭhira the just, he received in return the king’s respectful blessing; Bhīma, with brotherly affection, bent to inhale the scent of his crown; Arjuna clasped him in a warrior’s embrace; the twins, Nakula and Sahadeva, saluted him with joined palms. Dhaumya honoured him with the rites due to a guest of the highest order, and Draupadī, her eyes brimming, worshipped him in silence, tears falling upon her hands.
Then Vāsudeva lifted Subhadrā and young Abhimanyu onto the golden chariot, and himself mounted it—resplendent as the midday sun, drawn by the noble steeds Saivya and Sugrīva. He consoled Yudhiṣṭhira with gentle words, then turned the reins toward Dvārakā, the conch’s deep note echoing behind him.
After the scion of the Daśārhas had departed, Dhṛṣṭadyumna, son of Pṛṣata, took leave as well, returning to his city with Draupadī’s sons under his protection. Dṛṣṭaketu, lord of the Cedis, bade farewell and departed to his bright city of Śuktimatī, his sister by his side. The Kākeyas too, with the blessing of Kuntī’s mighty son, bowed to the Pāṇḍavas and set forth to their own realm.
Yet the Brāhmaṇas, the Vaiśyas, and many of Yudhiṣṭhira’s subjects would not leave, though the king himself entreated them. They remained, drawn by love and loyalty, encircling the exiled princes like a living wall.
And so it was, O bull of the Bharata line, that the forest of Kāmyaka seemed transformed into a vast encampment of the noble and learned, gathered about those high-souled lords. In due course, honouring each Brāhmaṇa with gifts and words of respect, Yudhiṣṭhira spoke to his men in measured tones:
“Make ready the chariot.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
When the chief of the Daśārhas had gone, Yudhiṣṭhira the just, Bhīma, Arjuna, and the twin sons of Madri—each resplendent like Rudra in might—together with their priest, mounted chariots adorned with gold, drawn by steeds of finest breed.
Before setting forth into the forest’s depths, they bestowed gifts upon the learned—niṣkas of gold, fine garments, and herds of kine—unto Brāhmaṇas skilled in śikṣā, versed in sacred syllables, and masters of mantras.
Twenty armed attendants followed them, bearing bows and bowstrings, glittering weapons, full quivers, and engines of war. Indrasena, guardian of the royal equipage, came swiftly behind, bearing the princess’s garments and ornaments, with nurses and maid-servants in his train.
Then the high-minded citizens of Kurujāṅgala approached their king. They walked reverently around him, the foremost Brāhmaṇas saluting with joy touched by sorrow. Yudhiṣṭhira, with his brothers, returned their greetings with equal warmth.
For a while the king lingered, gazing upon the gathered multitude—his heart moved as a father’s for his children, and theirs for him as sons for a sire. They stood encircling him, overcome with bashfulness and tears, exclaiming:
"Alas, O Lord! O Dharma incarnate!
Thou art chief of the Kurus, king of thy people—
Why dost thou go, leaving us behind,
As a father abandons his sons?"
Their lament rose bitter:
"Fie upon the cruel son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra!
Fie upon the evil-minded son of Śakuni!*
Fie upon Karṇa, ever plotting thy harm!
O peerless monarch, thou who founded Indraprastha—
city of splendour like Kailāsa itself—
Why dost thou leave it, and the palace of Māya,
shining like the homes of the celestials?
Why depart from halls guarded by gods themselves—
a wonder, a vision made real?"
Hearing their grief, Vibhatsu, who knew the paths of dharma, artha, and kāma, raised his voice:
"The king will dwell in the forest,
And thereby win a fame that will darken his foes.
You, with the Brāhmaṇas at your head,
Go to the forest hermitages—
Win the favour of the ascetics,
And tell them of our cause, that they may bless our path."
At these words, the Brāhmaṇas and all the citizens, bowing with devotion, walked around the Pandavas in reverence. Then, bidding farewell to the sons of Pṛthā, to Vṛkodara, to Dhanañjaya, to Yājñasenī, and to the twins, they departed as commanded by Yudhiṣṭhira—returning to their homes with hearts heavy as stone.