Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 1 - Saṃjaya-yāna Parava Chapter 2 - Śalya’s Unwitting Oath

Vaiśampāyana said:

When the wise priest of Drupada had been despatched toward the city of Hastināpura, the sons of Pāṇḍu turned their minds to the gathering of allies. Swift messengers sped to every quarter of the earth, bearing letters and words of friendship from the sons of Dharma. And at that time, the mighty Dhanañjaya, the invincible son of Kuntī, resolved to go himself to Dvārakā, the shining city of the Yādavas, to seek Kṛṣṇa’s counsel.

Like a falcon that wings through clear skies, Arjuna set forth, his chariot’s wheels flashing like fire on the road to the western sea. The sons of Madhu, Kṛṣṇa and Balarāma, had already returned thither, followed by the Vrishnis, Andhakas, and Bhojas by the hundred.

But the keen-eyed Duryodhana, who never slept upon his schemes, had sent spies who shadowed every movement of the sons of Pāṇḍu. When he learned that Kṛṣṇa himself was about to be approached, the prince of the Kurus, eager to secure that divine strength for his cause, hastened to Dvārakā as well. Riding horses swift as the wind, and attended by a small retinue, he reached the city on the same day as Arjuna.

They entered together the mansion of the Yādava prince, fragrant with sandal and resplendent with jewels. There, upon a couch of gold, Kṛṣṇa, the Lord of the Three Worlds, lay in sleep, his face serene as a lotus closed at dusk.

Duryodhana, proud and confident, entered first. He took his seat upon a fine stool near the head of the bed, deeming proximity to signify precedence. A moment later came Arjuna—humble, reverent, with palms joined and head bowed. He stood at the foot of the couch, silent as devotion itself.

When Kṛṣṇa awoke, his first gaze fell upon Arjuna, standing in reverence before him. Smiling gently, the Lord of Dvārakā greeted both princes, asking of their welfare and the reason for their coming.

Then Duryodhana, ever smooth in speech, addressed him first.

“O Kṛṣṇa, slayer of Madhu, lend me thy strength in the coming war.

Arjuna and I are both thy kin and equal in friendship.

Yet I have come first to thee, and ancient law declares—

the first who seeks, receives the favour.

Thou art the highest among the righteous;

therefore, bestow thy help on me, for I am the first at thy gate.”

“O son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra,” said Kṛṣṇa, smiling mildly,

“Indeed thou hast come first, but Arjuna I beheld first when I awoke.

Thus, both of you have claim upon me—

one by precedence, one by sight.

And since both are dear, I shall divide my help between you.

On one side stands my vast host—the Nārāyaṇī army—

ten crores of warriors, terrible and unconquerable.

On the other side stand I, alone, unarmed, resolved not to fight.

Let Arjuna, the younger in years, choose first between the two.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then the son of Kuntī bowed low and said in a clear voice:

“I choose thee, O Kṛṣṇa—

unarmed, yet greater than all hosts.

For victory follows thee as light follows the sun.

The army may serve another;

but I shall have thee beside me on the field.”

And Duryodhana, his heart swelling with pride, exclaimed:

“Then I accept thy host, O Kṛṣṇa—

those mighty Nārāyaṇas who rival even the gods!”

Thus, the choice was made. Duryodhana gained the army of countless warriors, but Arjuna gained the soul of destiny.

Then Duryodhana went to Balarāma, the wielder of the plough, and said respectfully:

“O son of Rohiṇī, I have chosen thy brother’s host;

be thou also my ally, for the bond between us is equal.”

But the white-robed elder smiled gravely and replied:

“O son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, remember what I said at Virāṭa’s court.

I spoke then for thee, even against Kṛṣṇa’s mind.

Yet my heart cannot turn from him.

Therefore, I shall not fight for either side.

Do thou act as becomes the heir of Bharata.”

Having embraced Balarāma and secured the vast Nārāyaṇī army, Duryodhana departed, deeming Arjuna already undone. He rejoiced as though victory were in his grasp.

But Arjuna, having chosen the Lord Himself, returned to his brothers with Kṛṣṇa beside him—bright as the sun returning with the dawn.

And Kṛṣṇa said, smiling gently,

“O son of Pāṇḍu, why hast thou chosen me who will not lift a weapon?”

To which Arjuna replied:

“O Kṛṣṇa, I doubt not thy power to destroy them all,

nor my own might to match theirs in war.

Yet it is glory I seek—to have Thee as my charioteer.

For Thy presence itself is victory;

let my fame be joined to Thine.”

Then the Lord of Dvārakā answered:

“So be it, O son of Pāṇḍu.

I shall hold thy reins and guide thy steeds.

Thou shalt fight, and I shall behold;

thy wish is granted.”

Vaiśampāyana concluded:

Thus did the two great kinsmen of the Kuru race depart from Dvārakā— one rejoicing in numbers, the other rejoicing in divinity.

And as they returned to their camps,

the world itself seemed to hold its breath—

for now, destiny had chosen its side.

One gained the strength of mortals,

the other the strength beyond the sky;

and the Earth, trembling beneath their tread,

awaited the thunder of their war cry.

Vaiśampāyana said:

O King, when the mighty ruler of the Madras, Śalya, heard the call of friendship from the sons of Pāṇḍu, he rose with the splendour of a mountain in motion. With chariots like rolling clouds and elephants like living hills, he set forth toward the camp of Yudhiṣṭhira, bringing with him his sons—heroes of tireless strength—and an Akṣauhiṇī host. The earth trembled beneath his march; forests shook, and the sky grew dim with dust.

But when word of his coming reached Duryodhana, the Kaurava prince, that cunning son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra hastened forth to intercept him. With secret art and costly display, he ordered pavilions to be built at every halting-place—filled with cool water, garlands, food, wine, and music, all fit for the gods.

Wherever Śalya’s troops stopped to rest, there servants of Duryodhana waited upon them with reverence and honour.

The king of Madra beheld the splendour spread,

The banners streaming, the couches laid;

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from NovelBin. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

He deemed those mansions raised by Pāṇḍu’s sons,

And blessed them with a grateful heart.

Pleased beyond measure, the king said to the attendants, “Bring before me those noble men of Yudhiṣṭhira who have shown me such honour! I would reward them with gifts of gold and steeds.”

The servants, marvelling at his mistake, went swiftly to Duryodhana. And the prince, rejoicing at the snare’s success, appeared before his unsuspecting uncle.

Seeing him, Śalya understood all—and yet, being a man of truth, he embraced Duryodhana warmly and said,

“Ask of me any boon, dear child, and it shall be granted.”

Then Duryodhana bowed and said with folded palms,

“O king of Madra, be thou my general—

the leader of my host upon the field of war.”

Bound by his royal word, Śalya replied,

“Be it so.”

And he repeated the vow thrice, that it might not fail in honour.

After granting the boon, Śalya said with gentle courtesy,

“O son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, return now to thy city.

I will proceed to the sons of Pāṇḍu;

they are my kin and must be greeted before battle.

When I have seen them, I shall come again.”

And Duryodhana, pleased yet wary, replied:

“Remember thy promise, O king of kings!

Upon thee rest my hopes.”

Then they embraced and parted—Duryodhana to Hastināpura, and Śalya to Upaplavya, where Yudhiṣṭhira dwelt.

When the monarch of Madra entered the Pāṇḍava camp, drums and conches sounded in welcome. He was received with full honours—water for his feet, garlands, and the gift of a cow.

He embraced Yudhiṣṭhira and his brothers—the mighty Bhīma, radiant Arjuna, and his own sister’s sons, Nakula and Sahadeva. With kind eyes and trembling voice he said:

“O Yudhiṣṭhira, tiger among kings,

thou hast endured what few can bear.

Through forest exile and concealment’s pain,

thou hast walked the path of righteousness without falter.

For the wrongs of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s son,

destiny shall soon repay thee in joy.

Hold firm to virtue, O lord of men,

for in thee mercy, truth, and liberality abide.”

Vaiśampāyana explained:

Thus Śalya, moved by affection, praised Yudhiṣṭhira’s steadfastness in dharma, extolling him as a treasure-house of righteousness and compassion.

When they had spoken long of old hardships and the coming war, Yudhiṣṭhira said softly:

“O king of Madra, thou hast done well to honour thy word to Duryodhana,

for truth is the highest virtue of kings.

Yet hear my prayer—

when the great duel comes between Arjuna and Karṇa,

it is thou who wilt hold the reins of the Sūta’s son.

If then thou wouldst show thy love for me,

dishearten him with words that cloud his pride,

and bring victory to our cause.”

Śalya bowed his head and answered:

“Good betide thee, O son of Dharma.

Thou hast spoken rightly, and I shall do as thou desirest.

When Karṇa stands eager for battle,

I shall utter words that pierce his spirit,

making his heart grow faint and his strength decline.

This I vow for thy sake.”

He placed his hand upon Yudhiṣṭhira’s, sealing the pledge of kinship.

“All the sorrows thou and Draupadī have endured—

the insults at dice, the cruelties of the Sūta’s son,

the torment of Kīcaka and the dark night of exile—

all shall end in joy.

For destiny, though veiled in pain,

leads the righteous to their due reward.

Even the gods, O son of Kuntī, have known misfortune—

remember Indra himself, who once suffered hardship beside his queen.”

Vaiśampāyana concluded:

Thus spoke the king of the Madras—wise, valiant, and loyal. His heart was with the Pāṇḍavas though his promise bound him to their foes. Like a flame hidden within a crystal lamp, his friendship burned unseen, awaiting its destined hour upon the field.

Bound by truth, yet moved by love,

he walked between two fires.

And fate, that weaves through honour’s threads,

prepared his soul for higher trials yet to come.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Hearing Yudhiṣṭhira’s question, Śalya, wise in ancient tales, spoke of the time when even the king of gods tasted grief, and Śacī herself walked in fear. Thus he narrated the story of Tvaṣṭṛ’s wrath and the birth of Vṛtra.

From fire of vow the craftsman-lord

Tvaṣṭṛ shaped a son of triple face—

One drank the soma’s sacred draught,

One sipped of wine, one scanned all space.

This ascetic, radiant and severe, studied the Veda with one mouth, drank with another, and with the third looked out as if to drink the quarters dry. His austerities deepened like a moonless night. Seeing his truth, courage, and relentless tapas, Indra grew anxious lest that mighty one should claim the thunder-seat.

“If passion binds his heart to sense,

His vow will blunt, his strength will wane.

Go, nymphs,” thought Indra, “snare his will—

Lure him with beauty’s woven chain.”

Sent by the thousand-eyed lord, the celestial women came—anklets chiming, hips swaying, clad in the softness of spring. They danced and glanced and smiled, but the triple-faced one, ocean-calm and full, beheld and did not stir. Their arts fell away like arrows on a mountain.

They returned, palms joined: “Unassailable.” Then Indra, weighing law and policy, chose the iron path.

Lightning leapt from heaven’s hand,

The triple brow like a summit broke;

The great form fell, yet blazed in death—

As hilltops burn through storm and smoke.

The lord of gods stood troubled; for though slain, the severed heads shone as if alive. At that moment a carpenter, axe on shoulder, wandered there by chance. Indra hailed him: “Do my bidding—hewn away, these heads.”

The craftsman hesitated: “Broad are his shoulders, and this deed offends the righteous.” Indra said, “My word shall make thy axe a thunderbolt; and in the rites of men thy share shall be the beast’s head.” Asking who spoke so fearfully, he learned it was Indra himself. Still he reproached the god for slaying a saint’s son; but Indra vowed to cleanse the sin by later rite and urged him on.

The axe came down; from severed mouths

Winged flocks in sudden torrents flew—

Partridges from the soma-lip,

From the gazing mouth the quail-cloud grew;

From the wine-stained beak sprang sparrows swift,

And hawks wheeled bright against the blue.

Relieved, the thunder-wielder returned to heaven; the woodworker went his way. But the tale reached Tvaṣṭṛ, and his eyes grew red with righteous ire.

He rinsed his lips, he fed the fire,

He spoke the word the mantras hold:

“For this unmerited, ruthless strike

Let Indra face a foe foretold.”

From sacrifice and wrath combined he fashioned Vṛtra—vast as a stormfront, glowing like the son of Fire. “Grow from my tapas; rise and slay,” he charged. Vṛtra rose like doomsday’s sun and strode toward the heavens.

Then began a terrible combat. Vṛtra seized Indra—the sacrificer of a hundred rites—and in a surge of might swallowed him whole.

The worlds fell dumb, the winds stood still,

As thunder disappeared from sight;

Fear forged a goddess on that peak—

Yawn’s birth to loosen death’s own bite.

The elders, terrified, created Jṛmbhikā, the spirit of yawn. As Vṛtra yawned, Indra compressed his godly form and slipped back from the cavern of that awful mouth. From that primeval escape, O King, yawning clings to breath among creatures of the three worlds.

The battle flared anew—long, grievous, unrelenting. Strengthened by Tvaṣṭṛ’s rite, Vṛtra pressed the gods to the edge, and Indra, hard-beset, turned back. Distress seized all the immortals. Overpowered by the craftsman-lord’s austerity, they gathered with sages upon Mount Mandara.

“When thunder fails and mantras pale,

When pride is dust and courage thin—

Remember He who bears all worlds;

Seek Viṣṇu then, and seek within.”

So, seated high upon the sacred hill, intent on the slaying of Vṛtra and the restoring of order, the gods fixed their minds upon Viṣṇu, the indestructible.

Vaiśampāyana concluded:

Thus, O Bhārata, even Indra’s glory bent beneath the weight of tapas and the recoil of adharma. From this the wise learn: power without righteousness breeds peril; and when beings are bound by pride or fear, only the refuge of the Supreme steadies the wheel of fate.

Vaiśampāyana said:

When Śalya had spoken of the birth of Vṛtra, Yudhiṣṭhira, desiring to hear the end of that wondrous tale, leaned forward in silence. Then Śalya, the king of Madra, continued the ancient account of the fall of Indra and his deliverance through Viṣṇu.

Indra’s Despair and the Counsel of the Gods

The foe has risen vast as space,

The worlds lie bound within his breath;

My arm is weak, my thunder dull—

What shall oppose such living death?

So spoke Indra to the hosts of heaven, his brow furrowed with fear. “He has filled all worlds, O gods. Even I, who once slew Namuci and Bala, cannot withstand this being of unmeasured might. Let us seek refuge with Viṣṇu, the Eternal. By His counsel alone may this terror be subdued.”

Then, accompanied by all the gods and the Ṛṣis radiant as suns, Indra approached the abode of Viṣṇu, the Preserver of worlds. Bowing before Him, they sang of His deeds—the three strides that measured the universe, the churning of the ocean, the binding of Bali, and the restoration of Indra’s throne.

“Thou art the thread that binds all life,

The fire in sacrifice, the hymn, the breath;

Thou art the refuge of gods and men—

Save us, O Hari, from endless death.”

Then spoke Viṣṇu, mild of voice yet mighty in command:

“I know your hearts, O celestials;

Vṛtra’s shadow veils the threefold sky.

Yet victory shall be yours if wisdom guides your hands.

Go, speak to him with peace in tongue,

For guile may slay where force is vain.

I shall enter unseen into the thunderbolt—

Let Indra cast it, and My power shall strike.”

Vaiśampāyana explained:

So instructed by the Lord, the gods departed with the Gandharvas and holy sages, bearing Indra at their head. They came to the place where Vṛtra blazed like a sun at twilight, swallowing earth and heaven in his radiance.

The Ṛṣis spoke with gentle words:

“O unconquered one, thou hast pervaded all that is.

Let strife now end, for all beings suffer.

Thou art mighty, and Indra is mighty—

Let friendship be thy crown, and heaven thy seat.”

Vṛtra, vast and luminous, inclined his heads before them. “How can there be peace,” he said, “between me and Indra? We are fire and flood, day and night.”

Then the seers replied:

“Peace is the fruit of the righteous heart;

One meeting may yield eternal bond.

Seek not the endless war of strength,

But the counsel that outlasts the sword.”

Moved by their words, Vṛtra assented but set forth conditions, saying:

“Let neither god nor Indra slay me by what is dry or wet,

By wood or stone, by hand or weapon,

By day or by night.

If these be granted, I shall abide in peace.”

The sages, for the world’s good, replied, “So be it.”

Thus bound by fate’s subtle law, a false peace settled between them.

But Indra, ever pondering the loophole of destiny, roamed in thought. One twilight—neither day nor night—he beheld Vṛtra upon the ocean’s edge. A heap of sea-foam, vast as a mountain, drifted before him. Then he remembered Viṣṇu’s promise and mused:

“This foam is neither dry nor wet,

It is no weapon, yet not harmless;

The hour is neither day nor night—

Here fate and craft unite.”

Lifting the thunderbolt infused with Viṣṇu’s essence, he hurled it within the foam. The Lord entered it unseen, and the bolt struck Vṛtra’s breast. The Asura fell, his brilliance fading like the setting sun, and all the worlds breathed again.

Light returned to the quarters;

breezes flowed gentle and sweet.

The gods rejoiced and hymned Indra’s name,

And flowers rained from heaven’s street.

Indra, victorious yet humbled, bowed to Viṣṇu in gratitude.

But when the triumph cooled, guilt awoke within him. For he had slain not only an Asura but the son of Tvaṣṭṛ, a Brāhmaṇa-saint. Thus the taint of Brahmahatyā, the killing of the sacred, clung to him.

The thunderer, crowned with fame and sin,

Hid himself like a serpent in rain;

His glory veiled, his senses dim—

The lord of heaven lay drowned in pain.

He sank into the waters, unseen by gods or men, trembling in remorse. Without Indra, the world lost balance: rivers dried, trees withered, rain withheld its blessing, and creatures pined. The heavens grew silent, the earth barren, and the sacrifice forgot its song.

The gods and Ṛṣis, bereft of their king, trembled and said among themselves:

“Who shall rule us now?

Who shall restore order to the worlds?”

But none stepped forth; fear and sorrow bound them. So ended that age of Indra’s downfall, when even the wielder of the thunderbolt bowed beneath the weight of his own deeds.

Vaiśampāyana concluded:

Thus, O son of Kuru, hear how pride, fear, and guilt conspire to humble even the king of gods. From this the wise discern: power is no shield without righteousness, and the mightiest weapon is the will made pure through dharma.

The storm may win, but peace must mend;

The strong may fall, the pure ascend.

For in the end, both gods and men

Return to the law they must defend.