novelraw Arc 2 - Go-Harana Parva Chapter 3 - Arjuna Reveals Himself to the Prince
Arc 2 - Go-Harana Parva Chapter 3 - Arjuna Reveals Himself to the Prince
Vaisampayana said:
Having reached the great Śamī tree, dense with foliage and sacred in its silence, Arjuna—still in the guise of Vrihannalā—considered well the tender nature and inexperience of the prince who stood beside him. Then Partha spoke gently, yet with the firmness of one accustomed to command:
“O Uttara, enjoined by me, climb swiftly into this tree. The bows you carry cannot endure my strength—the crushing of elephants and horses beneath my shafts, nor the strain of my arms when I resolve to humble the foe. Upon this tree hang weapons of another kind—those belonging to Yudhiṣṭhira, Bhīma, myself, and the twins, bound here on the day we entered Virata’s city to live unknown.
“There rests the bow Gāṇḍīva—mighty, unfailing, radiant—equal to thousands of other bows, broad and smooth as a palmyra trunk, adorned with gold, flawless as a single beam of light. It can bear the heaviest of draws and widen the very limits of a kingdom. Alongside it lie the bows of my brothers—each one potent, each one worthy of heroes.”
But Uttara, trembling with doubt, replied:
“We have heard from the people that a corpse is tied in this tree. How can I, a prince, a Kṣatriya, one born to mantras and vows, touch such a thing? O Vrihannalā, would you make me unclean, a bearer of bodies, defiled by contact with death?”
Arjuna smiled gently beneath his disguise.
“Fear not, O prince of the Matsyas,
no corpse is hidden here;
only the bows of heroes rest,
like serpents coiled in air.
Clean shalt thou remain this day,
untouched by stain or blame;
no deed unworthy of thy birth
shall mar thy royal name.”
Vaisampayana continued:
Thus reassured by Partha, Virata’s son—adorned with earrings and trembling still—descended from the chariot and climbed the Śamī tree, albeit with reluctance. Dhananjaya remained standing upon the car, urging him onward:
“Bring the bows down swiftly, O child of a great king! Cut first the wrappings, then the ropes which hold them fast.”
Uttara obeyed, and as the bindings fell away one by one, he beheld the Gāṇḍīva and the four other bows resting together. Their splendour broke forth like sunlight freed from cloud, gleaming with the brilliance of rising planets.
And seeing them—shining, serpent-like, powerful—fear seized the prince. The hairs on his body stood on end, for the bows seemed alive, sighing as though with the breath of coiled nāgas. Touching their polished surfaces, awed and trembling, the son of Virata spoke to Arjuna, his voice shaken by wonder.
Obeying Partha’s command, the prince Uttara—though his heart beat like a trapped bird—clambered up the gnarled śāmi. The branches sighed beneath his feet; his palms found knot and fissure; the tree’s leaves whispered like old men speaking of fate. There, bound in secrecy and rain-proof fastenings, hung the arms and harness of those that had gone into concealment: bows heavy as justice, quivers that trembled with remembered thunder, helmets and corselets that had drunk the winds of many fields.
Uttara’s fingers closed upon wood and cord; he loosed one parcel, then another. Bows and quivers came down to the ground with a muffled sound, as if the forest itself exhaled. He set aside the weaker implements, yet there remained one armament, great beyond measure—the bow whose fame had filled the world, the Gandīva itself. Its limb gleamed with cold fire; its string seemed to hum with withheld storms.
He drew it down—the bow of fate,
A planet's weight, a warrior's gait.
Silence crouched where the arrow slept,
And even the winds forgot to weep.
Seeing the Gandīva, Uttara’s courage left him like a tide withdrawing from the shore. He trembled and would have fled but for the steady calm beside him — that still, strange calm which had abode in Vrihannala and had steadied many hearts. Then, with voice like a nearer thunder, the son of Pritha spoke.
“O prince,” Arjuna said, “let not fear undo thee. Lift thou this mighty bow and give it to me. True strength is not in timber or gold but in the hand that knows how to wield them. If it be mine, the kine shall not perish this day.”
Uttara, cowed by the sight and yet held by duty, lifted. Gandīva lay in his arms like a living thing; it answered a touch as a steed answers the rein. Arjuna—who till now had worn the guise of the neuter and the softness of song—took the bow with a motion that made the air start. He placed an arrow to the string. The string sang a note so deep that the very earth seemed to stand attentive.
Uttara gazed upon the weapons laid before him, his breath catching as if in the presence of long-slumbering fire.
He said, in a voice trembling with awe:
“Tell me, O Vrihannala,
to what renowned warrior belongs this peerless bow,
studded with a hundred bosses of shining gold
and ending in tips that glow like tongues of flame?
Whose is this bow, smooth in its grasp and flawless in its curve,
upon whose staff gleam golden elephants
as radiant as cloud-borne lightning?
And this other—
adorned with three scores of Indragopa jewels,
each placed upon the back of the bow-staff
at the perfect measure—
who is its master?”
His wonder only deepened. He moved from weapon to weapon, as if wandering through a gallery of gods.
“Whose is this bow furnished with three golden suns,
burning with a brilliance
that seems to draw the very eye of heaven?
Whose is this fair and mighty bow, variegated with gold and gems,
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its golden insects set with stones
that shimmer like living embers?”
Uttara bent to the arrows lying beside them.
“Whose are these thousand arrows,
feathered round, tipped with gold,
sleeping within quivers wrought of gold?
And these large, iron shafts—
thick, sharp-edged, winged with the plumage of vultures,
yellow-hued and stone-whetted for death—
to what warrior do they belong?
Whose is this sable quiver
bearing the five fierce forms of tigers,
holding a mix of boar-eared shafts,
ten in all?
And here—seven hundred arrows,
long, thick, and curved like the crescent moon,
drinkers of blood—
whose are these?”
He touched another cluster, fingers trembling.
“Whose are these gold-crested arrows,
their steel heads honed on stone,
the lower halves winged in the colour of parrots’ plumes,
the upper halves shining with tempered iron?”
His eyes then fell upon the array of swords.
“Tell me truly, O Vrihannala:
Whose is this irresistible blade,
terrible to foes,
bearing the mark of the toad upon its hilt
and pointed like a toad’s head?
Cased in a sheath of tiger-skin, variegated like flame,
whose is this long, gold-ornamented sword
whose bells give forth a low, warning music?
Whose is this polished scimitar with a golden hilt,
fashioned by the Nishadas—
unbreakable, relentless—
resting in a scabbard of cow-hide?
Whose is this dark, sky-hued sword,
its length like a falling beam of night,
mounted with bright gold
and housed within soft goat-skin?
And this great sword, heavy and broad,
just longer than thirty fingers laid in breadth,
its iron edge polished by the endless clash of battle,
its golden case shining like fire—
who is its rightful owner?
And lastly, whose is this sable-bladed scimitar,
its surface studded with golden bosses,
a weapon that cuts through mortal bodies
as a serpent’s venom cuts through life,
irresistible, terrible,
the very touch of it a doom?
“I ask you, Vrihannala,” he said at last, overwhelmed by the splendour gathered before him,“answer me truly.For my heart is filled with wonder at these unmatched arms.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Hearing Uttara’s words, trembling with both fear and wonder at the sight of those unmatched weapons, the mighty son of Pṛthā smiled gently. Long had the bows and swords of the Pāṇḍavas lain hidden in silence, as if asleep in the shadow of the śāmi tree. Now, gazed upon by a prince untried in war, they shone like stars revealed at twilight.
Then Arjuna, still veiled in the form of Vrihannalā, spoke softly, his voice mingling truth with concealment, so that the vow of secrecy might yet remain guarded:
Arjuna said:
“These, O prince, are not the arms of men lightly born.
They are the treasures of heroes, won through sacrifice and trial.
Each mark and carving, each crest of gold,
speaks of the lineage of kings and of battles of old.
The bow with radiant ends, decked with golden bosses—
that is no common weapon; it has known the strength of a lion’s arms.
The shafts with vulturine wings and iron heads,
they are not for play but for bringing down mountains of foes.
The quiver marked with tigers, the arrows that gleam like crescent moons,
the scimitars forged in wild Nishāda forges,
the blades sable as night and polished by endless war—
all these belong to warriors of a higher destiny.
Ask me not their names, O Uttara,
for these weapons burn to be grasped again by their masters.
But know this much—no foe can withstand their stroke,
and no kṣatriya bearing them shall fall unremembered.”
Thus speaking, Arjuna’s eyes lingered upon the Gandīva—
the bow that was his very breath and destiny.
Its golden suns blazed as if eager for the coming battle,
its string quivered like thunder leashed.
And Uttara, though still doubting, felt awe arise in him like a tide. For he knew in his heart that no ordinary minstrel or dancer could so describe and regard these weapons of heaven-born radiance.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then Vṛhannalā, still veiled in the garb of the third sex but now speaking with the weight of a master of arms, revealed to Uttara the lineage of those mighty weapons. Each bow and sword shone with its own tale, each quiver bore the memory of conquests, and the trembling prince listened as though to a hymn sung of gods.
Vṛhannalā spoke:
“This first, of which thou didst ask, is the Gāṇḍīva,
bow of world-wide renown,
largest of all weapons, a thunderbolt among bows,
equal alone unto a hundred thousand arms.
It blazes with gold, smooth as truth, flawless as Dharma,
a bow of high celestial birth, ever adored by gods and men.
Śiva bore it for a thousand years,
then Prajāpati, then Indra, then Soma, then Varuṇa—
each in turn its guardian, each in turn its wielder.
And at last, Swetavāhana, son of Pṛthā,
known to the world as Arjuna,
received it from Varuṇa’s hands.
With this he vanquisheth in battle both men and celestials,
with this he stretches the borders of kingdoms,
with this he protects Dharma upon earth.
Behold also this other bow, adorned with golden bosses—
that is Bhīma’s,
with which the wolf-bellied hero swept through the East,
subduing all monarchs by the strength of his arms.
This bow marked with Indragopakas of purest gold,
gentle to hold yet mighty in wrath,
belongeth to king Yudhiṣṭhira, the just,
in whom truth itself finds a dwelling.
This radiant bow, blazing with golden suns,
belongeth to Nakula,
whose beauty is rivalled only by his prowess.
And this one, adorned with golden insects and set with many gems,
shining like a starry sky,
is the weapon of Sahadeva,
firm in wisdom and steady in battle.
Behold, too, these arrows—
a thousand in number, feathered like vultures’ wings,
sharp as razors, inexhaustible as the sea.
These belong to Arjuna,
and when he lets them fly they blaze like fire
and drink the life of his foes.
Those thick shafts, crescent-tipped and keen-edged,
belong to Bhīma,
who with them scatters armies like the wind scatters clouds.
That quiver marked with five tigers,
stuffed with yellow shafts hard as stone,
is Nakula’s, with which he conquered the West.
And these shafts, painted like the sun with many hues,
that strike down thousands,
belong to Sahadeva,
the youngest but not least among heroes.
These shorter arrows, golden-headed, three-knotted,
firm and weighty,
are Yudhiṣṭhira’s,
fitting for a king who strikes only when justice demands.
As for the swords—
this long blade carved with the image of the toad,
its hilt strong, its bite irresistible—
that is Arjuna’s.
This tiger-sheathed blade, massive and terrible,
belongs to Bhīma,
as dreadful as the mountain-splitter’s mace.
This bright sword with golden hilt,
in a sheath well-painted,
belongeth to Yudhiṣṭhira,
whose hand wields it in the service of truth.
This goat-skin scabbard holds the fine blade of Nakula,
sharp, graceful, yet strong as the sun’s ray.
And this vast scimitar, cased in cow-hide,
black as night, heavy and unyielding,
is Sahadeva’s weapon,
meant for many modes of battle and irresistible in stroke.”
Hearing this long catalogue of weapons, Uttara marvelled, his heart both trembling with fear and swelling with awe. He gazed at Vṛhannalā with eyes widened, for in that eunuch’s voice and bearing there was the hidden thunder of a lion—something greater than the halls of Matsya had ever known.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then the veil of disguise was torn away, and the prince of Matsya beheld in truth the lion of the Bharatas. With calm voice and steady eyes, Arjuna declared his own identity, naming each of his brothers and Draupadī, the cause of Kīcaka’s fall. The boy-prince trembled, yet demanded proof, and Partha, smiling, gave it with the roll of his sacred names.
Arjuna spoke:
“They call me Dhanañjaya, winner of treasure,
for I subdued the quarters and brought home wealth of kings.
They name me Vijaya, ever victorious,
for never have I returned from battle without conquest.
They style me Śvetavāhana,
for white steeds, shining like the moon, bear my car,
their golden trappings blazing like fire.
I am Phālguna,
for beneath the Uttara Phālguni star I was born,
on the breast of Himavat, when fortune smiled on Pṛthā.
I am Kirīṭin,
for Indra himself set a diadem upon my brow
when I stood unshaken against the hosts of Dānavas.
Among gods and men they call me Vibhatsu,
for on the field I commit no base or detestable act,
my hand is lifted only for the law of Dharma.
I am Savyasāchin,
for both my arms draw the Gāṇḍīva with equal might,
the left hand is as the right, the right as the left.
They call me Arjuna,
for rare is my hue on earth, pale as lightning’s flash,
and pure are my deeds, unstained like white crystal.
I am Jiṣṇu, unconquered, untamable,
foe-tamer, the son of Indra, the slayer of Pāka,
ever victorious in the strife of arms.
And Kṛṣṇa is the name my father gave me,
for out of love he called his dark-hued son
pure of heart and steadfast as truth.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Hearing these words, the young prince Uttara, son of Virāṭa, cast aside doubt. His heart melted with awe and joy, and approaching nearer he bent low before Pārtha.
And with hands joined he said:
“My name is Bhūmiñjaya, though men also call me Uttara.
Blessed am I, O Partha, that my eyes behold thee!
Thou art welcome, O Dhanañjaya—
red-eyed, lion-armed, each limb like the trunk of an elephant.
Pardon, I pray thee, the words I uttered in ignorance.
As thy deeds of old were wondrous and hard to achieve,
so now my fear is dispelled,
and the love I bear for thee is boundless.”