Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 3 - Sanat-Sujata Parva Chapter 6 - Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s Final Counsel — The Fire of the Pāṇḍavas

Vaiśampāyana said:

When the night was still and the lamps burned low, the old monarch Dhṛtarāṣṭra, his heart trembling with the weight of fate, again spoke unto Sañjaya, the faithful one who stood before him, wise yet powerless to avert destiny.

Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:

“Endued with great prowess and burning for victory, the sons of Pāṇḍu are not alone in their might—their followers too are men of firm resolve, sworn to win or die. They are eager as hungry lions let loose in the forest.

Thou thyself, O Sañjaya, hast spoken of their formidable allies—

the kings of the Pāñcālas,

the Kekayas, the Matsyas, the Magadhas—

all united under the banner of Dharma.

And, greater than all these, He abides with them— the eternal Kṛṣṇa, the Lord of all beings, who, at His will, could subdue the three worlds with Indra and all the celestials at their head.

He, the Creator and Destroyer, that wielder of the discus, standeth resolved to give victory to the sons of Pāṇḍu.

And Sātyaki, that scion of the house of Sini, trained by Arjuna himself, swift as wind, and fierce as flame— when he stands upon the field, his arrows will fall thick and ceaseless like seeds sown by husbandmen across a wide plain. And Dṛṣṭadyumna, prince of the Pāñcālas, born from the sacred fire for Bhīṣma’s destruction, merciless in battle and skilled in every celestial weapon— he too will lead their host against my sons.

Great indeed is my fear, O child— from Yudhiṣṭhira’s righteousness and silent wrath, from Arjuna’s invincible arms, from the fierce strength of Bhīmasena, and from the calm, deadly skill of the twins.

When those lords of men, burning with the fire of destiny, will spread in the midst of my army their net of arrows woven of lightning, I fear my host will be lost within it, as fish caught in a cruel mesh. For this, O Sañjaya, my heart melts in grief.

That son of Dharma, Yudhiṣṭhira, is fair of form and steadfast in virtue— possessed of Brahmic power, wise, patient, compassionate, humble before the aged, modest, forgiving, and firm in resolve.

United with brothers who are heroes, with mighty sons and allies ready for sacrifice, he shines like a blazing fire fed by holy ghee. What fool, doomed to destruction, and bereft of sense, would leap, moth-like, into that Pandava fire which none can withstand?

Alas, I have wronged him.

I deceived that righteous king— and now he shall, like a flame with long tongues, consume all my sons in battle, leaving not one alive. Therefore, I deem it unwise to war with them. Let all the Kauravas, O Sañjaya, think as I do!

If we choose battle, then surely the race of Kuru will perish root and branch. I see this clearly, as a man sees the sun in the sky. Let us seek peace before ruin comes.

For Yudhiṣṭhira, even wronged and exiled, will not remain unmoved at our distress. He will not rejoice at our fall, for he blames me alone as the cause of this unjust war.

If we turn from wrath and yield to reason, perhaps this darkness may yet be dispelled, and the flame of the Bharatas may not be extinguished forever.”

Thus spoke the aged monarch,

his words heavy with foresight and sorrow.

But Fate, like a blind charioteer,

was already driving the Kurus toward their doom.

Sañjaya spoke with the calm voice of truth that pierces illusion and said—O King, it is even as thou hast said. If war arises, destruction shall sweep through the race of Kṣatriyas like a storm through the autumn forest, for the fire of Savyasāchin’s bow cannot be withstood. Yet I wonder, O son of Bharata, how, though knowing this well, thou still listenest to the counsel of thy misguided sons.

They who from the beginning wronged the sons of Pṛthā have sown with their own hands the harvest of death. What need now to lament the fruit of one’s own seed? He who is a father in truth should stand as a wall against ruin. But he who, through greed or blindness, opens the door to sin—how can he be called a father?

O blind king, thou didst laugh that day,

When dice fell dark and truth gave way;

“All this is won!”—thy joyous cry,

While virtue wept and Dharma sighed.

When harsh and sinful words were cast upon those princes, thou sat silent, pleased by the dream of thy sons gaining the earth. Yet ruin, O King, had already risen before thee like a shadow born of thine own delight.

That ancient land of the Kurus was indeed thy heritage, but this vast earth—won by the strength and valour of the sons of Pāṇḍu—was thine only because of their arms. They placed the crown upon thy head, yet thou fancied thyself its conqueror.

When the Gandharvas seized thy sons, helpless and humiliated, it was Arjuna, the son of Kuntī, who freed them from captivity. When they were exiled and dishonoured, thou didst mock their sorrow, thy laughter echoing in the halls like the sound of folly.

When Arjuna bends his bow of flame,

Even the ocean bows in shame;

How then shall mortal flesh endure,

That storm of death, so swift, so pure?

Fālguna is the foremost of archers; Gāṇḍīva is the foremost of bows; Keśava, lord of beings, is the foremost of guides; and the Ape-bannered chariot, drawn by white steeds, is foremost of all cars. That chariot shall roll over the field like the Wheel of Time, crushing all that stands before it.

The earth, in truth, already belongeth to Arjuna, for he hath Bhīma as his right arm and Kṛṣṇa as his heart. Their union is a force that even heaven cannot resist.

When Bhīmasena, fierce as Yama, will strike the ranks, thy sons shall tremble like deer in the thunder. The proud banners of Hastināpura will fall into dust, and thy mighty host shall scatter like leaves before the gale.

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

The Matsyas, the Pāñcālas, the Śālvas, and the Sūrasenas no longer heed thee, O King. Knowing the virtue of Yudhishthira, they have pledged themselves to him. For love of righteousness, they have turned away from thy sons.

He who harmed the sons of right,

And turned to envy virtue’s light,

That sinner’s seed, thy son’s desire,

Now kindleth doom with unseen fire.

It is Duryodhana—proud, blind, and doomed—who draggeth all this ruin upon his kin. He must be restrained, O King, by every means. Grieve not as one helpless, for we warned thee long ago, when dice and deceit ruled the hall.

Thy tears now fall upon ashes; they cannot bring back what truth once kept. O Dhṛtarāṣṭra, wisdom unheeded is like a lamp unlit—bright in promise, but useless in darkness.

So spoke Sañjaya, firm and wise,

As thunder wakes the sleeping skies;

But the blind old king, in sorrow bound,

Heard not the truth within the sound.

Duryodhana’s Boast and Blind Resolve

Duryodhana, son of the blind king, rose before his father whose heart was already broken by fear. His voice was sharp with pride and youth’s folly, and his eyes blazed with false confidence.

“Fear not, O Father,” he said, “nor grieve for us, for thy sons are not as frail as thy mind imagines. The sons of Pāṇḍu are brave, but we are their equals in arms and superior in command. When they roamed the forests in exile, the slayer of Madhu came to them with vast armies—the Kekayas, the Cedis, the Pāñcālas—all arrayed for war. Near Indraprastha they gathered and murmured curses against thee and our house. Even clad in deerskin, Yudhishthira was saluted by kings as their lord; all hailed him as the rightful ruler, and all longed for thy ruin.

Hearing of this, I went to Bhīṣma, to Droṇa, to Kṛpa, trembling with anger and fear of the gathering storm. I said to them, ‘The sons of Pāṇḍu will not keep their vow of peace. Keśava seeks our extinction. With the exception of Vidura, all who serve us shall perish. Should we surrender, or flee, or fight without hope of life? For all the kings of the earth are now bound to the sons of Pṛthā.’

But then—Bhīṣma spoke with the voice of the ocean, calm yet thunderous, saying, ‘Fear not, O Duryodhana. If the sons of Pāṇḍu come to battle, they will not prevail. Each one among us is capable of defeating all the kings of the earth.’ And Droṇa and Kṛpa and Aśvatthāman, born of fire and austerity, echoed the same words. My heart grew firm again, O Father, as steel within the forge.”

“The grandsire, born of Ganga’s wave,

Once all the world as captives gave;

And now his wrath, if roused again,

Will break the pride of Pāṇḍu’s men.

Droṇa, whose birth from flame began,

Knows every arm and battle-plan;

And Kṛpa, sprung from sacred reed,

Strikes foes as lightning splits the seed.”

Duryodhana’s chest swelled as he continued:

“Even now, Father, the earth bows not to Yudhishthira. Their allies have withered; their fires burn dim. The kings of every land have pledged their loyalty to me—men ready to walk into the sea or the flame for my sake. Laugh not at me, O monarch, for even the gods could not pierce my host.

Śakra himself could not scatter this ocean of warriors. Brahmā, the Self-born, could not dissolve it. Let the sons of Pāṇḍu crave their pitiful five villages—for that is all their courage can reach. Thou fearest Bhīma’s arms, but thou knowest not mine. None on earth can match me in the mace. Even Baladeva, my teacher and the lord of strength, declared: ‘None equaleth Duryodhana in the club.’

One blow of mine shall send the wolf-born Bhīma to the halls of Yama. My arm, when it swings in wrath, could shatter the mountains of Himavat. Keśava and Arjuna themselves know this truth. Let my father’s heart rest easy; for I shall slay Vṛkodara and scatter his brothers like dry leaves in wind.”

“The iron mace I wield in war,

Shall sound like drums of death afar;

And Bhīma’s chest, when struck by me,

Shall echo back eternity.”

“Then,” he said, “when Bhīma hath fallen, the others will fall as well. Bhīṣma, Droṇa, Kṛpa, Aśvatthāman, Karṇa, and mighty Śalya—all are like gods among men. They will crush the sons of Pāṇḍu as Garuḍa crushes serpents.

Can Arjuna stand before such might? A hundred times shall he be drowned beneath the arrow-storms of Bhīṣma and Droṇa. Even now, Father, our grandsire, born of the sacred river, is deathless until he wills to die; Droṇa was born of the pot of austerity; Kṛpa from the clump of grass; and Aśvatthāman, son of the same fire, carries a spark of immortality.

And Karṇa, the mighty, the son of Rādhā—he whom even Rāma the Bhārgava praised as his equal—bears still the divine arrow of Indra, given in exchange for his heavenly armour. How shall Arjuna escape such a one? Victory is already in my grasp, as a fruit ready to fall.”

“My host, vast as the rolling sea,

Is bright with kings that fight for me;

Seven hosts the sons of Pāṇḍu lead,

But mine are more—by strength, by deed.

When conches sound and banners rise,

The earth shall blaze before their eyes;

For Fate itself my side hath found,

And Dharma sleeps upon the ground.”

“Why, then, dost thou tremble, O King?” Duryodhana cried. “Even Bṛhaspati hath said that an army larger by a third must prevail. O Father, my force exceedeth theirs by that measure! Thou speakest of omens and fears, but I see victory carved already in my name. Let the sons of Pṛthā come! I long to behold their ruin upon Kurukṣetra’s dust.”

Thus spake Duryodhana, radiant with pride and folly; and as he ceased, a silence fell over the hall like the stillness before thunder. The blind king’s hands trembled upon his seat, for he heard in his son’s voice not courage—but the whisper of approaching doom.

“For pride is the veil of destiny’s face,

And folly the torch that lights its pace;

In the echo of Duryodhana’s cry,

The Kurus’ house was doomed to die.”

Duryodhana, restless and proud, spoke to Sañjaya amid the court that trembled with omens of battle.

“Having gathered seven Akṣauhiṇīs, O Sañjaya,” said he, “what now is Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Dharma, doing with his brothers and his allies? What thoughts stir in the camp of the sons of Pāṇḍu as the day of war draws near?”

Sañjaya bowed slightly, his voice grave and clear like the wind before rain.

“O King,” he replied, “the sons of Pṛthā are of steady heart. Yudhiṣṭhira rejoices, serene and fearless, seeing righteousness on his side. Bhīma’s wrath is bound like thunder waiting in the clouds. Arjuna shines with calm delight, and the twins stand beside them like the twin flames of a single altar.

Desiring to test the mantras he has gained, Vibhatsu yoked his celestial car that gleams like dawn across all quarters. Clad in golden armour, radiant as the monsoon-charged cloud, he said to me with a smile,

‘Behold, O Sañjaya, these signs before the war—

Victory is already ours.’

And when he spoke, I believed it true, for the air itself seemed to tremble with consent.”

“His car was like a moving sun,

Its wheels of gold, its course begun;

The sky was filled with crimson flame,

And all the worlds proclaimed his name.”

Duryodhana’s brows drew tight. “Thou delightest too much,” he said harshly, “in praising those sons of Pṛthā. Tell me rather, what steeds bear Arjuna’s bannered car? What flag waves above that chariot which all men fear?”

Sañjaya’s voice deepened, his words slow as though describing a vision:

“O King, hear of that car which no mortal art could fashion. The divine craftsman Tvaṣṭṛ, called Bhaumāna by the celestials, aided by Indra and Dhātṛ, wrought it with illusions of splendour unknown to men. On its banner they set forms of glory and terror—creatures celestial and divine—moving as if alive.

And when Bhīmasena prayed for strength, Hanumān, son of the Wind-god, promised to place upon Arjuna’s flag his own image roaring through the firmament. That standard covers a space of one yojana, and nothing—tree, hill, or tower—can hinder its flight.

It shines, O King, like Indra’s bow of many hues stretched across the heavens—ever changing, never ceasing. Like a pillar of smoke mingled with flame, glowing with shifting colours, it ascends without weight, unhindered by wind or height.”

“The Ape divine upon it cries,

And strikes with fear the earth and skies;

Its gleam no darkness may conceal,

Its roar makes hearts of heroes kneel.”

“And the steeds,” Sañjaya continued, “a hundred in number, white as moonlit foam, swift as the mind’s own flight—these were gifts of Citraśena, the lord of the Gandharvas. Neither on earth nor in heaven can their path be checked. Even if slain in battle, they rise again, for such was the boon once granted them.

To Yudhiṣṭhira are yoked steeds white as ivory, equal in grace and power; to Bhīmasena, coursers black-maned, shining with the lustre of the Seven Ṛṣis. To Sahadeva are given steeds dark-backed and variegated like the wings of the tittiri bird, a gift from Arjuna himself, swift beyond the wind.

Nakula, fair son of Mādrī, rides steeds sent by mighty Indra, radiant as storm-clouds, tireless as the tempest. And the youthful princes—the sons of Draupadī and of Subhadrā—ride upon steeds of heavenly breed, born of the same wind that bears the scent of heaven’s gardens.

Thus arrayed, O King, the sons of Pṛthā stand ready—

their banners burning like the sun,

their steeds like spirits of light,

and victory hovering unseen upon their path.”

“The drums of heaven sound afar,

The gods look down from every star;

For where the Ape and Archer stand,

Fate holds the thunder in her hand.”