Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 2 - Go-Harana Parva Chapter 4 - Arjuna takes to the Battlefield

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then spoke Uttara, the youthful prince, to the mighty-armed Arjuna who still bore the guise of Bṛhannalā:

“O hero, mount this great car, and I shall hold the reins. Tell me, which division of the hostile army shall we pierce? Command me, and I shall drive thee thither.”

Arjuna, smiling with calm confidence, replied:

“O tiger among men, I am pleased with thy courage. Cast away thy fear, for I shall rout thy foes in battle. Be at ease, O prince of the Matsyas. Great and terrible feats shall I accomplish, and the kine shall be restored to thy father. Tie swiftly all those quivers to my car, and bring forth the golden-hilted sword that gleams with polished blade.”

Hearing these words, Uttara leapt down from the tree where the weapons were hidden and brought them before the son of Pāṇḍu. Arjuna received them with reverence and said:

“Yes, I shall fight with the Kurus and recover the stolen kine. Protected by me, this car shall be as thy citadel. Its alleys and passages shall be its streets, its ramparts these my arms, its gateways my shoulders. This treble pole and my quiver shall be its unbreachable walls. This single banner shall stand like the tower of thy city. The bowstring shall thunder as the catapults and engines of war, hurling death upon the besiegers. My wrath shall guard these battlements, and the clatter of wheels shall resound like kettle-drums of Matsya’s capital. Ridden by myself, wielding this bow, no host can overthrow it. O son of Virāṭa, let thy fear vanish.”

Thus reassured, Uttara’s heart grew bold, yet wonder clouded his mind. He gazed upon Arjuna’s radiant form and said:

“O lion among men,

thine arms are like Indra’s thunder.

How could such a one be neuter-born?

Surely thou art Rudra in disguise,

or the lord of the Gandharvas wandering in secret form.”

Arjuna then revealed the truth with gentle voice:

“I speak truly, O prince. I am no eunuch in nature, but for a year I bore this vow at my elder brother’s command, seeking dharma and religious merit. That vow is now complete, and I resume my warrior’s path.”

Hearing this, Uttara bowed with joy and answered:

“O best of men, my suspicion was not in vain. Thou art no ordinary mortal. With thee as ally, I could face the celestials themselves! My fears are dispelled—command me now. Skilled am I in charioteering, trained by a master. I shall guide these steeds as Daruka guides Vāsudeva’s car, or as Mātali serves Śakra.

See these four steeds:

The right-hand charger runs swift as Sugrīva,

the left-hand horse is the equal of Meghapuṣpa.

The third, mail-clad in gold, is mighty Śibya,

and the fourth excels even Valāhaka in speed and strength.

This car is worthy of thee, O Partha,

and thou art worthy of this car.”

Then Arjuna, the son of Indra, made ready for battle. He stripped the bracelets from his arms and donned golden-embroidered gloves. His curling locks he bound with a white cloth. Facing the east, he sat upon the car, purifying himself in body and mind, and summoned the divine weapons by remembrance.

And lo, they appeared, radiant and resplendent,

bowing before him, saying, “We are here, O son of Indra.

We are thy servants. Command us.”

Arjuna received them with reverence,

and dismissed them again into his memory.

Then, seizing his mighty bow, he strung the Gāṇḍīva with a swift motion. The twang resounded like the clash of two bulls, shaking earth and heaven. Meteors fell, the winds blew fierce, the skies grew dark, and birds tottered in flight. The Kurus, hearing that dread sound, knew it was Arjuna’s hand that had awakened the string of his immortal bow.

Uttara, beholding the vast host of Bhīṣma, Droṇa, Karṇa, and the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, quailed again and said:

“O son of Kuntī, thou art but one against many. How canst thou alone face these lords of men, each skilled in every weapon? The Kauravas are countless, and thou art solitary. For this, O mighty-armed, I remain beside thee, my heart struck with fear.”

At this Arjuna laughed aloud, his voice ringing like thunder:

“Child, be not afraid. Alone I fought the Gandharvas at the Ghoṣayātra.

Alone I stood in battle at Khāṇḍava against celestials and Dānavas.

Alone I faced the Nivātakavacas and the Paulomas for the lord of heaven.

Alone I triumphed at Draupadī’s svayaṃvara against kings without number.

Trained by Droṇa, by Indra, by Kubera, Yama, Varuṇa, Agni,

by Kṛipa and Kṛṣṇa, and even by Śiva, wielder of the Pināka—

why should I fear these Kauravas? Drive on, O prince!

Let thy trembling heart be stilled.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then the son of Pāṇḍu, making Uttara his charioteer, circumambulated the sacred Śamī tree, taking with him all his celestial weapons. He placed at the tree’s foot the banner of Virāṭa bearing the lion, and instead hoisted his own golden flag, the ape-banner with lion’s tail—an illusion wrought by Viśvakarman at the bidding of Agni, when the hero had once received his fiery gift. For upon Arjuna’s thought, those superhuman beings who dwelt upon the standard took their place upon the banner, crying aloud in unearthly voices. From the heavens itself fell the flagstaff, radiant with gold and fitted with quivers, blazing with divine beauty.

Beholding this wondrous ensign, Arjuna circumambulated it in reverence. And thus it was that the ape-bannered Vibhatsu, called also Śvetavāhana, seated himself upon the car with fingers cased in iguana-skin gloves, bow in hand, arrows at the ready, setting out northwards like a storm-cloud loosed upon the world.

Then the son of Kuntī blew his mighty conch, whose voice rolled like thunder.

Its blast made the steeds kneel trembling,

the car quaked upon the earth.

Uttara, struck with terror,

sank down pale upon the seat.

Arjuna took the reins himself, raised the steeds, and gently embraced the prince, saying:

“O foremost of princes, fear not. Thou art a Kṣatriya, born to battle. Why sink thy heart at the roar of conchs and the trumpeting of elephants? Hast thou not heard such sounds before? Why dost thou tremble now, as if thou wert no warrior but an ordinary man?”

Uttara, bewildered, answered:

“Many conchs have I heard, many trumpets and the roars of elephants. But never have I heard such a sound as this—nor beheld a banner like thine, nor heard the bowstring twang like thunder. The cries of the superhuman beings upon this standard deafen me. The firmament seems covered by the ape-banner; directions are lost to my sight. My heart aches, my ears are stunned—the twang of the Gāṇḍīva overwhelms me!”

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Arjuna laughed softly and said:

“Stand firm upon the car. Plant thy feet well and hold the bridles tightly. For I shall blow the conch again.”

So saying, he raised again that dreadful shell.

Its voice split mountain and cave,

rolled through heaven and earth.

It gladdened the hearts of friends,

it struck despair in foes.

The earth trembled, meteors blazed, the wheels rattled like thunder, the bowstring sang again, and Uttara clung to the car in terror.

Then the wise preceptor Droṇa, beholding these portents, spoke to the Kuru chiefs:

“From the rattle of this car, from the trembling earth, from the darkness of cloud and omen, this warrior can be none other than Savyasācin, Arjuna himself. See how our weapons lose their luster, our steeds are dispirited, our sacred fires do not blaze though fed. The beasts cry in terror, jackals wail unstruck, crows perch upon our banners, vultures circle above. Meteors blaze in the sky, our warriors grow pale, their hair standing on end. All this foretells destruction. Surely Partha has come, and already the fall of Kṣatriyas is written.”

“The kine we seized, let them be driven forth.

Stand firm in battle array, O kings.

Yet know that ruin hovers near—

for Arjuna, son of Indra, draws his bow.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then unto Bhīṣma, unto Droṇa, and unto Kr̥pa—the foremost of car-warriors—spake Duryodhana upon the field, his voice deep with resolve and anxiety. He reminded them of the compact that bound the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra and the sons of Pāṇḍu: that the latter, if defeated at dice, should dwell unknown for twelve years in forests and countries, and that a thirteenth year of concealment—unknown to men—was to follow. That thirteenth year, he declared, had not yet expired. Now, he said, Vibhatsu—who has lived undiscovered—has appeared among them, and if the exile be held to its letter, the Pandavas must endure another twelve years in the woods. Whether through forgetfulness born of desire or through error on either side, it behooved the elders to weigh the length and the terms of the promised period.

Duryodhana spoke plainly: they had come to this place to strike on behalf of the Trigartas, to seize the Matsya kine as agreed. If indeed it were Arjuna who had come before the appointed time, what blame could fall upon the Kauravas? They were carrying out their pledge to aid allies who had been oppressed by Matsya. It might be that the Trigartas were drawing off the kine, or that the king of Matsya himself had come forth with his host; whether it be a strong leader advancing alone or the Matsya king in person, the duty remained the same: fight. If the enemy were indeed Vibhatsu—or even Yama or Indra—so be it; they must face him for the sake of the kine and for their pledge. Retreat would bring ruin: pierced by shafts, foot-soldiers fleeing to the forest would perish; even cavalry might find no escape. Therefore he bade all make ready for battle, to stand and fight rather than yield to fear.

“We pledged to aid the Trigartas;

We vowed to seize the herds at dawn.

If gods or kings oppose our vow,

Our sword must answer, not our shame.”

Thus Duryodhana urged firmness and action, invoking the compact and the perils of flight.

Then Karṇa, hearing Duryodhana’s plea to disregard alarm, answered sharply. In a measured tone, he rebuked the council’s reliance upon omens and praised the need for steadiness in the field.

“Let not a preceptor’s fear undo the host,

Nor neighing steeds compel the soul to flee.

Counsel of learned men is fit for courts and halls,

But in the heat of forest battle, steel must rule.”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Karna thus warned that learned men, though wise in the arts of ritual and in speech, are oft misplaced amid the peril of sudden war in an alien wood. He charged that Droṇa’s admiration for the Pandavas—his former pupils—betrayed partiality and stirred confusion among the ranks. Horses neigh and conches blare at many times; winds blow and clouds thunder; such signs alone do not make victory. It were a mistake to surrender the field because omens blanched the faces of men and beasts. Better it was, Karṇa taught, to bind the kine securely, to array the troops in order, to place guards at proper points, and to steady hearts for battle. Let the learned man give counsel in assemblies, in sacrificial halls, and in the planning of gates and stables; but when the trumpet sounds for combat, it is the sword and the steadiness of the warrior that must decide the day.

“Dispel the panic—set the ranks aright;

Let not awe at signs unman the brave.

In forests hot and strange, men of learning speak,

Yet swords must answer where the foe draws near.”

Thus spoke Karṇa’s reproach and counsel—harsh, practical, and aimed to steady wavering chiefs. The council of Kuru elders, troubled by portents and alarmed by the terrible awe that accompanied Arjuna’s signs, now faced a choice: to be guided by the learned preceptors’ fear, or by the resolute will of captains who would bind the kine, form the lines, and meet the foe.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then Karṇa, the son of Rādha, seeing the Kuru chiefs confounded and their faces pale, rose up in wrath and pride, and addressed them with swelling words. His voice rang like a war-drum across the host, declaring his own prowess and his resolve to strike down Arjuna.

Karna said:

“Why sit ye silent, shaken with fear,

while I stand firm as the ocean’s shore?

Be it Matsya’s king or Vibhatsu himself,

I shall resist him as banks resist the tide.

Swift as serpents my arrows fly,

golden-winged, sure in their aim.

Like locusts darkening a tree,

they shall shroud Partha in ceaseless storm.

The bowstring’s song, pressed hard by hand,

shall thunder as twin kettle-drums.

What though he has lived in penance long?

Mild shall his hand strike,

but mine shall rain a thousand shafts.

He is famed through the triple worlds,

yet I am no whit less than he.

Today the sky shall swarm with fireflies,

golden shafts glimmering on every side.

Slaying him, I repay my debt

long vowed to Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s son.

What god, what Asura, what mortal man

can stand against my flying steel?

Though he be diamond-hard like Indra’s bolt,

though he blaze with the energy of the gods,

I shall grind him as fire burns the elephant’s hide,

I shall seize him as Garuḍa seizes the snake.

The Pandava’s fire, fed by weapons,

I shall quench with arrowy rain—

thundered by my hosts of cars,

hurled onward by my coursing steeds.

Like serpents piercing an anthill’s core,

my shafts shall pierce his flesh.

Decked he shall be with golden wounds,

like a mountain clothed in karnikāra bloom.

Armed with Jamadagni’s son’s dread gifts,

I would fight even the immortals.

Struck by my javelin, his ape-banner shall fall,

its cries filling the heavens with terror.

*I shall uproot the dart in Duryodhana’s heart,

casting Partha broken upon the ground.

Behold him with shattered car, slain steeds,

his pride undone, sighing like a stricken serpent.

Let the Kurus take their kine away,

or stay to watch my single combat.

For this day shall I lay low Arjuna,

the fire of the Pāṇḍavas, quenched by my hand.”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Thus Karṇa spoke, his words rising like a storm, exalting his own strength and vowing the fall of Partha. He likened his arrows to serpents and fireflies, his bow to thunder, his chariot-host to the roar of storm clouds. To Duryodhana he pledged fulfilment of an old debt: the overthrow of Arjuna in battle. His boasts struck terror in some and kindled false hope in others, but the wise beheld only the swelling of pride before its ruin.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then Kr̥pa the victorious, skilled in counsel and grave of speech, looked upon Radheya and answered him with calm rebuke and grave admonition. Seeing Karṇa’s hot words and seeing the chiefs worked up with fear and with ardour, the preceptor chid him for haste and for counting little the after-consequences of rash deeds. He reminded the council that the learned know many expedients, and that of these the learned have ever reckoned battle, when wrongly timed, to be the most sinful. Success, he declared, follows the conjunction of act and circumstance; time and place must favour the undertaking. War, therefore, is not a thing for sudden passion or for a charioteer’s whim, but for measured counsel and proper season. To rush upon Partha now, when omens and the hour are dark, would be to invite ruin rather than glory.

Kr̥pa then spoke thus in few high sayings — each a knot of counsel — and the narrator sets each maxim in verse, followed by its plain explanation in the voice of a sage, that the listener may keep the teaching clear.

“Not every hour is fit for war;

When moon and field are wrong, beware.

A hero’s blade in season shines—

Out of due time it burns the hand.”

Vaiśampāyana explained:

Kr̥pa counseled that warfare is an art regulated by circumstances. Learned men who study the past know that victory depends upon favorable timing and place. To strike when the hour is unpropitious brings sin and loss; what is noble in its season becomes folly elsewhere. Thus a general must weigh augury and ground before giving battle.

“Alone he stands who saved the Kurus,

Alone he quenched the hunger of the flame.

Who among men is fit to meet that hand?

Even Indra would find him stern to face.”

Vaiśampāyana explained:

Kr̥pa reminded them of Partha’s single deeds: how alone Arjuna has delivered the Kurus from the Gandharvas, has fed Agni, has practiced austere Brahmacharya on Himavat’s breast, and has learned under Indra. These recollections were not boast but sober fact; they proved Arjuna’s singular prowess. Kr̥pa’s point: do not underrate the foe; recognize his solitary achievements before leaping to meet him.

“To fling one’s hand against the venom’s fang,

To ride the wild beast with wrists unbound—

Such is the madness of rash courage;

Skill and strength must marry the deed.”

Vaiśampāyana explained:

With sharp imagery Kr̥pa compared rash valor to those who would remove a snake’s fangs with bare fingers, or ride an enraged elephant without control. Bravado without skill and strength is mere self-destruction. The preceptor therefore urged restraint: if any desire single combat, let it be matched by skill; better yet, do not expose oneself singly to a foe such as Arjuna.

“Let not one alone against the thunder go;

Let six stout bows together meet the blast.

In union lies the strength that tramples fate—

Array the host; stand mail-clad, side by side.”

Vaiśampāyana explained:

Kr̥pa’s counsel concluded with a practical plan. He forbade Karṇa to act as if alone against Partha’s thunderbolts. Rather, he urged that the chiefs—Bhīṣma, Droṇa, Duryodhana, Karṇa, Kr̥pa, and others—should unite their prowess and, with their troops formed in mail and arrayed in ranks, confront Arjuna together. In the forest and under hot skies, learned speech has its place, but in the clash of arms cohesion, steadiness, and combined force must prevail.

Thus spoke Kr̥pa—stern, measured, and full of practical wisdom—warning against single-minded bravado and bidding the chiefs to marshal their strength into a common front. His words, plain as a preceptor’s staff, sought to bind heat to reason and to temper the warrior’s fury with prudent counsel.