novelraw Arc 3 - Sanat-Sujata Parva Chapter 5 - The Revelation of Nara and Nārāyaṇa
Arc 3 - Sanat-Sujata Parva Chapter 5 - The Revelation of Nara and Nārāyaṇa
Vaiśampāyana said:
In the midst of that vast assembly of kings and counselors, when Sañjaya’s tale had ended, Bhīṣma—the son of Śāntanu, grandsire of the Bharatas, radiant as fire wrapped in calm—spoke unto Duryodhana. His voice, deep and grave, rolled through the white-pillared hall like a warning from the heavens.
“Listen, O prince,” said he, “to an ancient tale known among the gods. Long ago, when ages were young, Bṛhaspati and Śakra, the divine preceptor and the lord of the celestials, went to the grandsire Brahmā. With them came the hosts of heaven—the Maruts with Indra, the Vasus with Agni, the Ādityas blazing like the Sun, the Sādhyas, the seven great Ṛṣis, the Gandharvas with Viśvāvasu at their head, and the tribes of the Apsarases, bright as cloud-light at dawn.
Bowing to the Self-born, they took their seats. Just then, two beings of immeasurable effulgence—ancient as Truth itself—rose and departed without homage. The gathered gods, struck with wonder, asked, ‘Who are they, O Lord of all?’
Then said Brahmā, smiling:
‘Those twain are Nara and Nārāyaṇa—
ascetic fires, twin winds of heaven.
By their tapas the worlds are guarded,
by their play the Asuras fall.
For the joy of creation they act and shine,
the two who are one, the unfathomable line.’
Hearing this, Indra rose with the hosts of heaven and went to that Himalayan hermitage where the two divine sages dwelt in austerity. A fierce war then raged between gods and Dānavas, and Indra, seeking their aid, said humbly, ‘Grant us your help.’
‘So be it,’ answered the divine pair. And with their unseen power, the Asuras were overthrown, their pride broken like dark clouds scattered by the wind. Nara smote hundreds of Paulomas and Kalakañjas; the Dānavas fell like mountains cleft by thunder.
Know, O king, that this Arjuna, riding upon his whirlwind chariot, once struck down the Asura Jambha with a single arrow even as that demon sought to swallow him. It was he who crossed the sea to the golden Hiranyapura and destroyed sixty thousand Nivātakavacas; he who appeased Agni after vanquishing Indra himself.
And Nārāyaṇa—Kṛṣṇa—has likewise slain countless Dānavas, restoring balance to the worlds. These two—of one soul, born in two forms—have again appeared upon the earth as Vāsudeva and Arjuna, the divine Nara and Nārāyaṇa reborn for the world’s renewal.
One soul divided, two forms arrayed—
Man and God in single braid.
When dharma fades and demons rise,
they walk the world with mortal eyes.
No god, no Asura may stand before
the twain whose bow and discus roar.
“Therefore,” said Bhīṣma, “when thou, O Duryodhana, shalt behold those eternal ones seated upon the same car—the Dark One bearing conch, discus, and mace, and the son of Pāṇḍu with bow uplifted—remember then my words. When those two, the might and wisdom of the worlds, advance together, the fate of kings is sealed.
Why should peril not approach the Kurus, when thy mind, O child, hath turned from righteousness and profit alike? If thou heedest not my counsel, thou shalt hear of slaughter such as time itself dreads. For all the Kauravas follow thy folly. Only three stand beside thee—Karna, the cursed son of a charioteer; Śakuni, the cunning son of Suvala; and Duḥśāsana, thy cruel brother. The rest are led astray.”
At these words, Karṇa rose, flushed with pride.
“O grandsire,” said he, “speak not thus of me! I have chosen the warrior’s path. What sin is mine? Have I ever harmed the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra? I have vowed to slay the Pāṇḍavas. Shall the wise make peace with those who have wronged them? My duty is to serve the king and the friend who honours me. That is my dharma.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then Bhīṣma, unmoved, turned to Dhṛtarāṣṭra and said again, “This one, who boasts of slaying the sons of Pāṇḍu, is not equal even to a sixteenth part of them. Know it well, O king—the calamity coming upon thy race springs from this misguided son of a sūta. Relying on him, thy foolish son has insulted heroes born of heaven. Tell me, what feat has this braggart achieved that matches any single deed of the Pāṇḍavas?
When, in the city of Virāṭa, his brother was struck down by Dhanañjaya, what did he accomplish? When that same Arjuna routed the gathered Kuru host and took their robes, where was this hero then? When thy son was carried captive by the Gandharvas, was it not Bhīma and Arjuna and the twins who rescued him? Yet this man roars like a bull, remembering none of it.
Fair of speech but blind to dharma and profit, he utters words that shall prove the ruin of the Kurus.”
Then Droṇa, son of Bharadvāja, after honouring the king and the elders, said softly:
“O king, do what Bhīṣma counsels. He speaks for thy good. Seek peace with the sons of Pāṇḍu before war flames. Covetous words will bring no gain. All that Arjuna vowed and Sañjaya repeated shall come to pass, for there is none equal to him among men or gods in the art of the bow.”
But Dhṛtarāṣṭra, clouded in his heart, turned aside from both Bhīṣma and Droṇa, still questioning Sañjaya about the Pāṇḍavas’ strength. From that moment, said Vaiśampāyana, when the blind king ignored the wisdom of the wise, the Kauravas gave up all hope of life.
Thus ended the counsel, thus began fate’s tide;
Wisdom was spoken—but folly replied.
The grandsire sighed, the guru fell still,
And doom, unheeded, moved as it will.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then Dhṛtarāṣṭra, troubled in spirit yet seeking tidings, spoke to Sañjaya before the gathered princes:
“O Sañjaya, what said the king born of Dharma when he heard that a vast array had assembled here to gladden us? How acts Yudhiṣṭhira, seeing strife approach? Which brothers and sons stand watching his face for command? Who counsels peace to that virtuous lord—provoked though he is by my sons’ deceits?”
Sañjaya bowed and answered:
“All Pañcālas and Pāṇḍavas fix their eyes upon Yudhiṣṭhira, O king—and he restrains them. Chariots roll in from many quarters in ordered columns, gladdening Kuntī’s son, ready for the march. As the sky flushes at sunrise, so the Pañcālas brighten in his presence, their joy billowing like light. Pañcālas, Kekayas, Matsyas—even the herdsmen with their flocks—crowd to salute him. Maidens of Brāhmaṇa and Kṣatriya houses, and even daughters of Vaiśyas, come laughing, eager to behold the mail-clad Pārtha.”
Dhṛtarāṣṭra asked:
“Tell me then, Sañjaya, the strength of Dhṛṣṭadyumna, and the Somakas, and all who will stand with the Pāṇḍavas against us.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
So pressed in the Kuru hall, Sañjaya drew a long, deep breath; his sight swam, his limbs failed—and he fell senseless upon the gleaming floor.
Vidura cried out: “The son of Gāvalgana has swooned, O King; his mind is clouded!”
Dhṛtarāṣṭra:
“Without doubt he has seen those tiger-men—the sons of Kuntī—and fear has seized his heart.”
Revived and comforted, Sañjaya spoke again, his voice low but steady.
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The omen’s wind had crossed the hall,
A hush like ashes veiled it all;
Then speech returned, and from his tongue
The map of war was slowly sung.
Sañjaya said:
“I saw them, O lord of kings—lean from long restraint in Matsya’s court, yet keen as tempered steel. Hear now with whom they come.
With Dhṛṣṭadyumna—that charioteer of destiny, steadfast in truth, unbending before anger, fear, gold, or quarrel; a law unto the righteous—with him they fight.
With Bhīmasena—whose single strength once bore the brothers from the burning lac-house, who became their refuge against the man-eater in the wild, who turned Jayadratha back when the princess of Pāñcāla was seized; who, to please Kṛṣṇā, climbed Gandhamādana and slew the Krodhavāśas; in whose arms dwells the power of ten thousand elephants—with him they fight.
With Vijaya—who, for Agni’s sake and Kṛṣṇa for his second, broke the pride of the wielder of thunder; who pleased the trident-bearing Lord of the Mountain by single combat; the subduer of all earth’s kings—with him they fight.
Nakula—the wonder of the west, tamer of Mleccha hosts; Sahadeva—conqueror of Kāśī, Aṅga, and Kaliṅga, peer in energy to only four on earth—Aśvatthāman, Dhṛṣṭaketu, Rukmī, Pradyumna; youngest in years, lion in steadiness—with these the sons of Pāṇḍu fight.
Śikhaṇḍin—once a princess of Kāśī, austerely vowed, reborn in Pāñcāla to compass Bhīṣma’s fall; versed in the dharmas of both estates; by Yakṣa’s power made male: a formidable bowman—with him they fight. With the five Kekaya princes, mailed and resolute; with Yuyudhāna (Sātyaki)—long-armed, sleepless in the art, the Vṛṣṇi lion whose onset scatters ranks—with him you must contend.
Virāṭa, who once sheltered the high-souled Pāṇḍavas—with him you contend.
The lord of Kāśī, mighty car-warrior of Vārāṇasī—with him they contend.
The sons of Draupadī—tender in years, serpent-bold and weapon-wise—with them they contend.
Abhimanyu—equal to Kṛṣṇa in energy, to Yudhiṣṭhira in self-restraint—with him they contend.
Dhṛṣṭaketu of Cedi, war-mad when angered, unconquerable; he comes with an Akṣauhiṇī of his own.
Vāsudeva—refuge of the Pāṇḍavas as Vāsava is of the celestials—with Him they contend.
Śarabha of Cedi joined with Karakarṣa—with them they contend.
Sahadeva, son of Jarāsandha, and Jayatsena, both matchless spearmen—for the Pāṇḍavas they stand.
And Drupada, great-souled, reckless of life, marches at the head of a vast array.
Relying on these and hundreds more—princes of the East and the North—Yudhiṣṭhira the Just stands prepared for war.”
So named he all, from spear to star,
And fate looked in through doors ajar.
The blind king’s pulse beat like a drum—
For righteousness had drawn its sum.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When Sañjaya had ended his words, the blind monarch, his heart trembling with dread, spoke again, his voice unsteady as the flame of a lamp disturbed by wind.
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:
“All these warriors whom thou hast named, O Sañjaya, are men of courage and renown, yet—all of them together are scarce a match for Bhīma alone. My fear of that wrathful son of Kuntī is vast and unending—like that of trembling deer when the tiger roars in hunger.
I pass my nights awake, sighing hot breaths of terror. I behold in my mind that iron-armed giant, Vṛkodara, whirling his mace amid my sons—like Death himself among doomed men.
In all this assembled host I see not one who may withstand him. His might equals that of Indra; his fury is like Rudra’s own. Stern, unsmiling, oblique in glance, his brow knit in wrath, his voice thundering like the storm—such is Bhīma, unappeased and unrelenting. I know him for the lion among men, the scourge of my race. When the battle flames, he will not leave even one of my foolish sons alive.
Even now, within my heart’s eye, I see that terrible mace—eight-sided, of tempered steel and bound with gold—uplifted like the curse of a Brāhmaṇa. As the lion moves among timid beasts, so will Bhīma move amidst my hosts. He alone, even in play, overbore my sons in childhood; and now, with his wrath matured, he will devour them utterly.
Alas! my heart quakes to remember his strength. From boyhood he was as voracious in appetite as in battle, fierce as flame, and hostile to my children from the first. He, whom none could restrain even as a child—how shall he now, injured and insulted, be turned aside from vengeance?
Cruel in anger, unbending as the mountain peak, tall as a palm tree and broad as an iron pillar, fair of hue and with eyes like molten honey, Bhīma stands as the embodied thunderbolt of destiny. In speed he rivals the wind; in might, the tusked elephant. Who shall live when he is roused to wrath?
He is that same Bhīma who slew Yakṣas and Rākṣasas of fearful power, who tore the limbs of Hiḍimbā’s brother as one rends a reed; who crushed Jarāsandha, lord of Magadha, in single combat—bare-handed, unarmed! That king who once subdued earth itself fell as dust before Bhīma’s grip.
How can frail men, my sons among them, stand before such fury? When he advances, licking the corners of his mouth like a lion scenting blood, breathing long and deep, striking down elephants as a woodsman fells trees, the field will become a furnace. The earth herself will quake beneath his tread.
When the mace flashes in his grasp, hurling death in circles of flame, what shall my sons do but perish? Their army will scatter as reeds before the current of the Ganges. The noise of his weapon will be like the crashing of worlds at dissolution; and as the flood at the world’s end sweeps down forests and cities, so will Vṛkodara sweep my troops from the plain.
It was he who, with Vāsudeva beside him, entered the secret halls of Jarāsandha and slew him face to face; he who ground down the proud Krodhavāśas for Kṛṣṇā’s sake; he who spared none that wronged the sons of Pāṇḍu. How then shall he spare my children, who cast Draupadī to shame and robbed him of his kingdom?
His wrath is long stored up, like the poison of a serpent waiting for the hour of strike. In battle he will vomit that venom, destroying all. With mace uplifted like Yama’s rod, he will smite down elephants, chariots, and kings. None shall escape his hand—neither armored heroes nor fleet steeds.
Even without arms, naked and alone, he is as death walking upon earth. I fear him, O Sañjaya—I, Dhṛtarāṣṭra, lord of the Kurus, whose every breath trembles at the thought of Bhīma’s strength.
Bhīṣma knows it, Drona knows it, and Kṛpa knows it well. All three, noble and wise, have measured that power and know that it is irresistible. Yet even they, bound by duty and the call of destiny, will take their stand in front, seeking death in battle. For what man may flee the wheel of Time?
I see no deliverance. My sons, though warned, rush toward ruin as moths toward flame. They boast of wisdom, yet see not the abyss before them. The dice that rattled long ago were the seeds of this destruction.
This doom was born in Duryodhana’s greed, in Śakuni’s counsel, in my own blindness. And now the hour has come—
Time itself, the devourer of worlds, is driving the chariot of fate.
I see it clearly, O Sañjaya:
The field will blaze,
The sons of Kuru will fall,
And Bhīma, roaring like the fire of dissolution,
Will stand amid the ashes of my house.
When the women of Hastināpura raise their wailing for my hundred slain, when the smoke of pyres darkens the sky—then shall Dhṛtarāṣṭra know his folly.
O Sañjaya, where shall I go? What shall I do? Death will not come though I call to him. My sons are doomed; I hear already the cry of their widows. Like dry grass in summer, they will be consumed by the storm of Bhīma’s wrath, while Arjuna’s arrows rain beside him.
—Such is the fate I see before me. Such is the terror that never leaves my heart.”
Thus spoke the blind king, his sight turned inward to ruin, And the hall of the Kurus fell silent—
For all who heard the name of Bhīma felt the weight of doom descending.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then the aged monarch Dhṛtarāṣṭra, his heart sinking under the shadow of approaching doom, spoke again to Sañjaya, who stood before him silent and grave.
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:
“He whose tongue hath never framed a falsehood—he, who hath Dhanañjaya to fight for him—may well claim sovereignty not of this earth alone, but of the three worlds themselves.
Day by day I ponder, and still I find no warrior who can, mounted on his car, advance against the wielder of Gāṇḍīva. When that terrible bow is bent, and the air is filled with winged shafts—Nālikas, broad-headed arrows, and barbed darts that pierce breast and armor alike—then, O Sañjaya, there is none living that can stand before him.
If mighty Droṇa and Karṇa—those bulls among men, those masters of celestial weapons—encounter him together, then indeed may the issue be doubtful. But even then, victory will not incline to my side. Karṇa is hasty and rash, and Droṇa is old and tender of heart toward his pupil. Yet Arjuna is steadfast as a mountain and keen as lightning—terrible in onset, calm in purpose, and invincible in wrath.
All these warriors are famed for prowess, but their fame itself will perish before him. They might abandon the very sovereignty of heaven, yet never would they turn from battle—but their end is written. For peace shall only come with the fall of one—Droṇa, Karṇa, or Fālguna—and none on earth can slay Arjuna.
How, then, shall his anger, kindled by my sons’ deceit, be appeased? Others who know the use of arms are sometimes conquerors and sometimes conquered—but of Fālguna it is ever heard that he conquers all.
Three and thirty years have passed since that day when, by Kṛṣṇa’s counsel, he summoned Agni to devour the Khāṇḍava forest, and fought alone against the assembled gods. Never once, since that day, have we heard of his defeat. As victory clingeth to Indra’s thunderbolt, so doth triumph follow Arjuna’s hand. For on his car are three invincible powers joined as one—the two Kṛṣṇas and the bow Gāṇḍīva—warrior, god, and weapon united.
We, alas, have neither such a bow, nor such a charioteer, nor such a son of destiny. The blind followers of Duryodhana see it not—how unequal is this strife!
O Sañjaya, the thunderbolt hurled from heaven leaves still some fragment unbroken, but the shafts of Kiritin leave naught surviving. Even now I seem to behold him, his golden banner streaming, his dark locks bound by the diadem, loosing his arrows like the rays of the sun—beheading warriors in hundreds, his wrath a storm of flame.
I behold already, in my mind’s eye, the conflagration of his weaponry—
the fire that issues from Gāṇḍīva,
blazing across the field,
consuming the ranks of my sons
as dry grass before the wind.
Even now I seem to hear the rolling crash of his chariot—the thunder of Savyasāchin’s wheels—and see my armies, seized with terror, scattering like herds before the lion.
When that mighty-armed hero lets fly his arrows, each shaft becomes a tongue of fire. His bow is Death’s own curve; his quiver, the storehouse of destruction. No refuge will remain for my sons when the storm of Arjuna’s battle bursts.
As a tempest-fed blaze, whirling with the wind, devours dry forests, so will the fame and fury of Arjuna’s weapons sweep away my hosts. He will rise like Death itself, urged forward by the Supreme Ordainer, vomiting arrows thick as rain from the clouds of dissolution.
When evil omens shall multiply—
the cries of vultures on our ramparts,
jackals howling at the gates,
horses weeping, and banners trembling without wind—
then shall I know, O Sañjaya, that destruction has descended upon the house of the Bharatas.”
Thus the blind monarch lamented, his mind foreseeing ruin more clearly than eyes could behold, and the name of Arjuna echoed through the hall like the tolling of fate itself.