Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 2 - Go-Harana Parva Chapter 7 - Arjuna Fights the Kuru Army III

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then, O monarch, while havoc yet raged among the Kurus, the grandsire of the Bharatas, the mighty Bhīṣma, son of Śāntanu and Gaṅgā, advanced against Arjuna. He grasped an excellent bow decked with gold, and many shafts keen-tipped, winged to pierce even the vitals of foes. A white umbrella was held above his head, and beneath its shade he shone like a golden hill at sunrise, radiant and terrible.

The son of Gaṅgā blew his conch, its sound rising high like the voice of the roaring ocean, and with that blast he rallied the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra. Wheeling his car to the right, he came swiftly upon Vibhatsu, barring his way. Arjuna beheld him, and his heart leapt up with joy, even as parched earth welcomes the rain-charged cloud.

Bhīṣma pierced the flag of Pārtha’s car with eight sharp arrows; the blazing ape-banner quivered, and the celestial beings dwelling in its form trembled at the strike. But Arjuna, with a sharp javelin, cut clean the grandsire’s white umbrella, and it fell to the ground like the moon shot from heaven. Then with showers of shafts he smote Bhīṣma’s steeds, his flagstaff, and the guards that flanked him.

Unable to bear it, Bhīṣma invoked a celestial weapon and shrouded Dhanañjaya in a storm of arrows; but Arjuna hurled back a weapon of equal power, receiving Bhīṣma’s onslaught as a mountain receives the swelling clouds.

The encounter of those two—disciple and grandsire—was fierce. Shafts clashed with shafts and shone in mid-air like fireflies in the rainy season. And so swiftly did Arjuna draw Gandīva with both hands that the bow seemed a circle of fire blazing in the sky.

Like the monsoon cloud hides the mountain’s face,

So Pārtha’s shafts descended in ceaseless rain;

But Bhīṣma stood firm as the bank against the sea,

Repelling wave with wave in noble play.

The two bulls of the Bharata race, both radiant with might, fought on like Rudra and Indra, filling all quarters with their weapons. From Gandharvas, Yakṣas, and gods above, cries of wonder rang out as they beheld this duel, rare among men.

Arjuna then cut Bhīṣma’s gold-decked bow with a single razor-edged shaft. In the twinkling of an eye, the son of Śāntanu took up another and rained arrows thick as monsoon showers. Dhanañjaya answered with a flood of his own, so swift and close that the sky was darkened, no light between them.

The field shook with the crash of falling warriors as Pārtha’s shafts struck true. Corpses of heroes lay about the grandsire’s car, while Gandīva’s arrows, feathered and golden, streamed forth like flocks of white swans across the sky.

Even Indra, gazing from heaven, marveled. Chitrasena the Gandharva said to him:

"Behold, O Lord of Śacī, this line of arrows unbroken,

coursing through the sky like a single thread of light.

No man of earth could summon such a weapon.

This is Arjuna’s art divine—

and who but Bhīṣma can withstand it?"

At these words, the celestials showered flowers, honoring both grandsire and grandson, each peerless in prowess.

Then, Bhīṣma, enraged, struck Arjuna’s left side with a storm of shafts. But Vibhatsu laughed aloud, and with a keen, vulturine-feathered arrow he cut Bhīṣma’s bow again. Straight thereafter he pierced him in the breast with ten straight-flying shafts.

The son of Gaṅgā, stricken and faint, leaned upon the pole of his car, his mighty frame reeling like a great banyan shaken by the tempest. His charioteer, recalling the ancient rule of protecting warriors struck senseless, swiftly wheeled away the grandsire from the field, bearing him out of peril.

This moment, O king, filled all beings with awe—for never had earth or heaven witnessed a combat more radiant than that between Arjuna and Bhīṣma, grandsire and grandson, each a lion among men, each holding back his might with restraint born of love.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then Duryodhana, foremost of the Kauravas, with banner high and bow drawn to the ear, charged upon Arjuna and set up a great roar. From his strung bow he sent a spear-headed shaft that found the forehead of the terrible bowman—Dhanañjaya—piercing it true. The bright blood gushed forth, and upon the breast and robe of Arjuna it shone like a garland of gold. Struck thus in the head, the swift-handed Partha flamed up in wrath. Taking shafts winged with venom and fire, he returned the blow upon Duryodhana. So clashed they, scion of Dhṛtarāṣṭra and scion of Kuntī—two bulls of the Ājamīḍa line—each smiting the other with terrible intent.

“Why turn thy back, O son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra?

Thy boast made halls ring loud with lies;

Now taste the harvest of the wrongs you reaped—

the forest’s sons shall have their due.”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Then Vikarna, mounted on an elephant vast as a hill and supported by four cars, rushed in to aid the king. The beast, terrible and trumpeting, thundered forward like a mountain of wrath. But Arjuna, keen-eyed and swift, fitted an iron-headed arrow to his string and smote the proud beast between the temples. The shaft—winged like a vulture—pierced deep, and the great elephant, as if struck by Indra’s thunderbolt, staggered and fell, roaring his last.

The elephant toppled—peak rent by storm—

its lord leapt loose in terror eight hundred paces,

and mounting Vivingsati’s car, fled away;

the field grew thin with those who dared oppose the son of Prithā.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Seized by that blow, Arjuna smote Duryodhana once more—an arrow of thunder that struck the king in the breast and sent him reeling. Warriors, pierced by Gandīva’s rain, fled in consternation; the host shook as a dry reed at the gust. Seeing his elephant slain and the array dissolving, Duryodhana turned and fled along a path where the son of Kuntī was not. Blood foamed from his mouth; his fame and blazoned courage seemed to slip like sand from a shaken palm.

Then Kiritin, the ape-bannered archer, his eyes aflame, called out in scorn as the king fled:

“Shame to thee, O Duryodhana!

Thou who taught men to call thy name with fear—

Why dost thou now flee, leaving trumpets dumb?

Is this the king whose courage we acclaimed?”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

“Where now are thy body-guards?” cried Kiritin. “Before, behind, none stand—only the track of thy flight remains. Turn back, show thy face, O son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra; be mindful of the bearing of kings.” Yet Duryodhana, struck and gored, still fled, seeking the shelter of the many cars and the places where Pandu’s son was not. The field rang with the cries of routed warriors, and Arjuna’s glory swelled like the midday sun upon a world made red by battle.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Thus summoned in wrathful words by Pārtha, Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s son turned back upon his car. The sting of reproach was as a hook to an elephant’s hide, driving him into fury. Like a trampled serpent coiling back, Duryodhana wheeled once more, blood upon his breast, eyes blazing with defiance.

Karna, decked in his golden torque, beheld the king and soothed him with words, taking the northern path with his chariot to face Arjuna. Bhīṣma also, son of Gaṅgā, wheeled his tawny steeds, bow in hand, rushing to shield the Kuru prince. Drona, Kṛpa, Vivingsati, Duḥśāsana—all turned back in unison, their bows drawn, their arrows nocked, surging like the breakers of a stormy sea.

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And Arjuna, seeing the vast tide of heroes surging upon him, rushed like a crane against thunderclouds, Gandīva singing in his hand. From every side poured down their shafts, a deluge of iron, like rain from laden clouds upon the breast of mountains. But the son of Pṛthā, calm and unshaken, raised another of Indra’s gifts—the Sanmohana astra, weapon of stupefaction.

He loosed his shafts, feathered with gold,

till the sky was veiled, the quarters choked,

the earth and heaven rang with Gandīva’s song—

and the senses of men sank into darkness.

The twang of his bow became thunder, the blast of his conch Devadatta rolled across the worlds, filling air and earth with its cry. Then the foremost of the Kurus, pierced by sound and spell, lost all awareness. Their bows slipped from nerveless fingers, their eyes grew vacant, and they stood motionless like trees blasted by wind.

Only Bhīṣma, master of celestial lore, stood firm, knowing how to counteract the weapon. Then Arjuna spoke to Uttara, remembering the prince’s request:

“Go swiftly now, while the Kurus are bewildered. Bring me the white robes of Droṇa and Kṛpa, the yellow garments of Karṇa, the blue of the king, and those of Droṇa’s son. But pass by Bhīṣma on the left, for he alone is awake, and the awakened must not be crossed.”

Hearing these words, Uttara leapt from the car. Moving among insensible warriors, he gathered the silken robes and returned, mounting again beside Pārtha. Then, urged by the prince, the white steeds, golden-harnessed, bore Arjuna beyond the ranks of footmen and their standards.

But Bhīṣma, seeing him pass, loosed arrows in pursuit. Arjuna replied in kind, slaying Bhīṣma’s steeds and piercing the grandsire with ten keen shafts. Having slain his charioteer as well, Arjuna broke from the mass of cars like the sun bursting through clouds, radiant and unopposed.

Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s son, recovering from stupor, beheld Arjuna standing alone in glory, like Indra himself upon his car. Ashamed and shaken, he cried to Bhīṣma:

“How hath this one escaped thee? Strike him down, grandsire, that he may not flee unscathed!”

But Bhīṣma smiled and answered gently:

“Where was thy prowess, O son, when thou lay insensible, thy bow fallen from thy hand? Vibhatsu does not act unrighteously—he strikes not the fallen, nor sins for victory, though he could have slain us all. Bound by dharma, he spares even foes. Therefore go back, O king of the Kurus. Let Pārtha return, kine in hand, and let not thy folly destroy thy welfare. Prosperity lies in wisdom, not in wrath.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

Hearing the grandsire’s words, Duryodhana sighed deeply. His anger fell, and he remained silent, reflecting that Bhīṣma’s counsel was for his own good. The other warriors also, beholding the Pāṇḍava waxing in strength, resolved to withdraw and protect the king.

And as the Kuru lords turned back toward their city, Dhanañjaya followed a while, his heart softened. Worshipfully he saluted Bhīṣma, the grandsire, and Droṇa, his teacher. With barbed arrows he paid homage to Aśvatthāman, to Kṛpa, and the elders of the Kuru line. Then with a sharp shaft he split the gemmed crown of Duryodhana, humbling the king’s pride.

Raising Gandīva, he filled the worlds with its resounding twang, and blew Devadatta once more. Its roar pierced the hearts of foes like a thunderclap at world’s end. Radiant upon his car with banner and ape, he shone like the sun emerging at dawn.

Turning then to Uttara, Kiritin said with cheerful voice:

“Turn back thy steeds, O prince. The kine are recovered, the foe withdraws. Return now to thy city with gladness in thy heart.”

And the celestials, having witnessed that wondrous encounter of Pārtha with the Kurus, showered blossoms upon the earth, praising his deeds, and departed to their heavenly abodes, marvelling at Arjuna’s might.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Having utterly vanquished the Kurus, that bull-eyed son of Pṛthā returned, driving before him the rescued herds of Matsya like a victorious elephant leading his train. Routed and dejected, the Dhārtarāṣṭras fled toward Hastināpura. Yet as Arjuna advanced, a remnant of warriors, straggling from the forest with dishevelled hair and trembling hearts, stood before him with joined palms. Hungry, weary, bereft of courage, they bowed to him and said:

“We are thy slaves, O Pārtha,

be pleased to spare us, mighty one!”

And Arjuna, whose wrath blazed in battle but whose heart was tender in victory, replied:

“Blessed be ye; go unharmed.

I strike not the afflicted,

nor slay the helpless.

Depart in peace,

for ye are safe beneath my word.”

Hearing this, the scattered warriors showered benedictions on him, praising his glory and wishing him long life. None dared withstand him as, radiant with victory, he bore the cattle back toward Virāṭa’s city, his chariot thundering like a storm-cloud rent with lightning.

And Pārtha, turning to the prince of Matsya, spoke with gentle prudence:

“Child, it is known to thee alone that the sons of Pṛthā dwell within thy father’s halls. Yet proclaim not our secret. When we re-enter the city, let the tale be thine: ‘By me hath the Kuru host been scattered, and by me were the kine recovered!’ For if thy father should hear otherwise, fear may seize his heart.”

But Uttara, his body still aching from wounds and his spirit humbled, answered:

“O Savyasācin, what thou hast wrought is far beyond my strength. Yet as long as thou commandest, I shall not reveal thy name.”

Thus speaking, they came again to the great Śamī tree. There, with his body torn by arrows, Arjuna descended. The mighty monkey, blazing like fire, vanished into the sky, and the celestial illusion wrought by Viśvakarman melted away. Uttara’s own lion-banner rose again upon the car. Gandīva, quivers, and celestial shafts were restored to their place, and Pārtha bound his hair into the braid of the eunuch once more. Taking the reins from Uttara, he resumed his guise as Vṛhannalā.

So it was that the slayer of foes, having shaken the Kurus like a tempest scatters clouds, entered Virāṭa’s city—not as Pārtha the conqueror, but as the dancer and charioteer of the Matsya prince.

And as they neared the gates, Arjuna said to Uttara:

“O hero of Matsya, the kine march before us with their herdsmen. Send messengers ahead to proclaim thy triumph: ‘The foe is routed, the kine are restored!’ So shall thy father’s heart be gladdened.”

Uttara, obedient to those words, dispatched heralds who hastened to the city, crying: “Victory! Victory! The Kurus are vanquished! The herds return!”

Then the two princes, the son of Matsya and the son of Pṛthā, halted again at the Śamī tree, donning their ornaments and garments once laid aside. And with Vṛhannalā as charioteer, Uttara returned to Virāṭa’s city in glory, credited with a victory that was Arjuna’s, while the Pandava’s secret yet remained veiled.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Having swiftly recovered his herds, Virāṭa, lord of the Matsyas, returned to his city with a heart uplifted, surrounded by his army and the four sons of Pṛthā. Victorious over the Trigartas, resplendent in majesty, he entered his capital like the sun returning to the west after dispelling the clouds.

Seated on his throne, the king was honored by priests, citizens, and elders. Dismissing them with cheerful words, he turned anxiously to his counselors, asking after his son:

“Where is Uttara, my brave child? Why has he not returned?”

The women of the palace, radiant with joy, answered:

“The Kurus seized our kine, O king.

Inflamed with valor, Bhūminjaya set forth,

with only Vrihannalā as his driver,

to confront Bhīṣma, Droṇa, Karṇa, Duryodhana,

Kṛpa, and Aśvatthāman—

the six mightiest of the Kuru host.”

Hearing this, Virāṭa’s heart sank. Distraught, he spoke to his ministers:

“Alas! With but one chariot and Vrihannalā to guide it, my son must surely be lost. Yet send forth at once all who remain uninjured, with elephants, steeds, and footmen! If the Kurus press upon him, he cannot endure their might.”

But Yudhiṣṭhira, smiling gently, said to him:

“O king, if Vrihannalā holds the reins, fear not for thy son. Protected by that charioteer, he shall rout the Kurus, aye, even if the gods and Asuras were joined against him.”

Meanwhile, the swift-footed messengers of Uttara arrived, proclaiming glad tidings: the kine restored, the Kurus defeated, Uttara safe with his driver. Overjoyed, Virāṭa ordered the highways decked with banners, the shrines adorned with flowers, and the city filled with music. Minstrels, courtesans, and maidens went forth to welcome his son with cymbals, conches, and sacred hymns.

In his delight, the king called for play:

“O Sairindhrī, bring the dice. O Kanka, let us cast them together.”

But Yudhiṣṭhira replied softly:

“One intoxicated with joy should not gamble with a cunning player. Still, if it pleases thee, I shall play, though I counsel against it—for gambling breeds ruin. Hast thou not heard how Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Pāṇḍu, lost kingdom, wealth, and brothers at the dice?”

Even as the play commenced, Virāṭa boasted:

“The Kurus have been vanquished by my son alone!”

The son of Dharma answered calmly:

“Why should he not triumph, who has Vrihannalā for his charioteer?”

But these words stung the king. Angered, he cried:

“Wretched Brahmana! Dost thou dare compare my son to one of the neuter sex? I pardon thee for friendship’s sake, but speak not thus again if thou lovest life!”

Yet Yudhiṣṭhira, unmoved, declared:

“Where Bhīṣma, Droṇa, Karṇa, Kṛpa, Aśvatthāman, and Duryodhana gather—aye, where even Indra sits amidst the Maruts—none but Vrihannalā rejoices to contend. None hath equaled, none shall equal, that one in strength of arms. Who but Vrihannalā could withstand the lords of heaven, earth, and nether worlds combined?”

Enraged, Virāṭa seized a die and struck Yudhiṣṭhira upon the face. Blood flowed from his nose, but the son of Dharma caught it in his hands before it touched the earth. At his glance, Draupadī, ever obedient, silently brought a golden vessel filled with water and held it to receive his blood.

At that moment, Uttara returned in triumph, perfumed and garlanded, received with hymns and music by the citizens. He stood at the palace gate with Vrihannalā beside him.

The porter hastened to the king and said:

“Thy son waits at the gate, accompanied by Vrihannalā.”

Hearing this, Yudhiṣṭhira, mindful of Arjuna’s vow, whispered to the warder:

“Let Uttara enter alone. Vrihannalā must not come within. For he has sworn that whosoever sheds my blood outside the field of battle shall not live. If he sees me thus wounded, his wrath will consume Virāṭa with all his court.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then Bhūminjaya, eldest son of Virāṭa, entered the hall. Bowing first at his father’s feet, he turned towards Kanka. There he beheld the Brahmana-courtier seated upon the ground, his face stained with blood, Draupadī at his side tending him with a golden vessel in hand.

Startled, the prince exclaimed with urgency:

“By whom, O father, was this deed done?

Who has dared to raise his hand

against one so harmless and restrained?

This is a sinful act!”

Virāṭa, still flushed with anger, replied:

“This crooked Brahmana was struck by me. He deserves more still! For when I praised thy valor, he praised instead that one of the third sex.”

But Uttara, son of youthful fire, rebuked his father gently yet firmly:

“Thou hast committed a wrongful act, O king.

The strike of a Brahmana is no light thing.

Propitiate him quickly, before the venom

of his curse consumes thee and thy house to the roots!”