novelraw Arc 4 - Kṛṣṇa-yāna Parva Chapter 22 - The Choosing of the Commander
Arc 4 - Kṛṣṇa-yāna Parva Chapter 22 - The Choosing of the Commander
Vaiśampāyana said:
When Vāsudeva had told the tale of his embassy and the stubborn folly of Duryodhana, Yudhiṣṭhira the Just rose in the tent of council and, with grave resolve, bade his brothers array the troops. Seven akṣauhiṇīs stood ready for the war, he said, and he named the champions appointed to lead them: Drupada of firm counsel, King Virāta, Dṛṣṭadyumna sprung from the sacrificial fire, the mighty Sikhaṇḍin, Sātyaki the Yādava, Chekitāna, and Bhīma of vast strength. These, he declared, were veterans of Veda and vow, skilled in policy and in the arts of war, each fit to lead his host. He then turned to Sahadeva—skilled in arrangement and the rules of battle—and asked which among these should be raised above the seven as commander who could stand against Bhīṣma, whose shafts fell like a consuming fire.
Sahadeva, modest in speech but keen of eye, answered that Virāta, the great king of the Matsyas, a man close in kin and feeling and mighty in arms, was worthy to bear the weight of the chief command; upon him the Pandavas might lean to strip away their wrongs and recover their due.
Nakula next spoke with eloquence, praising Drupada for his rank, learning, and experience: one noble in birth and steady of vow, versed in weapons and policy, a sire of many sons and an ornament of assemblies; Nakula held that Drupada’s wisdom, alliances, and knowledge of celestial arms made him fit to confront Drona and Bhīṣma alike.
Then Sātyaki, the Yādava of furious prowess, uplifted the name of Dṛṣṭadyumna, and with vivid praise recounted his birth from the sacrificial flame—armoured, swift, lionlike in frame and voice, invulnerable in mail, born to slay Drona. To Sātyaki’s mind no man but Dṛṣṭadyumna could meet Bhīṣma’s thunderous arrows and stand unbroken; it was Dṛṣṭadyumna, he said, who alone seemed shaped by fate to be generalissimo.
Bhīma spoke with the roar of a mountain: Sikhaṇḍin, he declared, was fated to overthrow Bhīṣma. As the seers and siddhas had foretold, when Sikhaṇḍin stood within the battle-line, bearing the weight and the strange terrors of his being, none could pierce him; Bhīma saw in Sikhaṇḍin the instrument ordained for Bhīṣma’s fall.
Yudhiṣṭhira then raised his hand and, turning to Kṛṣṇa with reverence, said that in truth the root of their fortune and their safety lay there: let Vāsudeva indicate who should command. For in Kṛṣṇa’s counsel their lives and their kingdom were held; in him their success was founded. Let the night not waste the hour—name the leader, and at dawn they would worship weapons and march to battle under his word.
Kṛṣṇa, the lotus-eyed counsellor, looked upon Dhananjaya and all that had been spoken. He approved of the chiefs named—each worthy, each a bulwark—and yet, mindful of destiny and of the single need to meet Bhīṣma’s terror, he gave his choice: Dṛṣṭadyumna, sprung from the sacrificial fire and born for this very hour, should be made generalissimo.
“Let him who rose from ardent flame
Be leader where the thunder falls;
For he whose birth was made for war
Shall answer where the death-ax calls.
Dṛṣṭadyumna, the fire-born chief,
Whose mail defies the storm of spears,
With lion-heart and steady hand,
Shall guide our hosts through blood and fears.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
So was it resolved in the council. Kṛṣṇa’s choice stood as law for that night; the captains were honored, the weapons purified with flowers and perfumes, and at dawn, by Krishna’s sign, the sons of Pṛthā would march forth in order, their banners proud, their purpose fixed upon the single task: to wrest right from wrong and to meet the doom that fate had now declared.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When Vāsudeva had spoken and named Dṛṣṭadyumna as leader of the host, a cry of joy arose among the assembled kings, deep and thunderous. Their shouts rolled across the plain like the first peal of storm, and in that instant the stillness of peace was broken forever.
The armies stirred like a living sea. Men called to one another—“Draw up! Draw up the ranks!”—while horses neighed, elephants trumpeted, conchs blared, and drums rolled like the booming heart of heaven. The chariots, with their rattling wheels and shining banners, moved in waves; and that vast, invincible host of the sons of Pāṇḍu—armoured, eager, radiant with warlike pride—swept forward like the flooded Ganga when she bursts her banks, surging with eddies and foam.
In the van marched Bhīmasena, broad-shouldered and terrible, his mace gleaming like a pillar of fire. Beside him went the sons of Mādrī—Nakula and Sahadeva—clad in shining mail; and with them rode Abhimanyu, the young lion of Subhadrā, and the five sons of Draupadī, their bows strung and hearts alight. Dṛṣṭadyumna, son of the sacrificial flame, rode near, leading the fierce Prabhadrakas and the legions of Pañcāla.
The earth shook beneath the tramp of warriors; the wind carried the mingled clamour of conch and drum, like the roar of the ocean under a new moon tide. That tumult seemed to climb the very sky, and the hearts of the Pāṇḍavas blazed with joy, for the hour long awaited had come at last.
King Yudhiṣṭhira rode at the centre of his host, calm as dharma itself amidst the whirlwind. Around him moved the carriages of the storehouses and treasuries, the wagons of arms and provisions, the physicians and healers, the weary and the wounded, the attendants and guards. Behind him, the camp-followers, artisans, and servants advanced under careful protection, while detachments circled to guard the treasure and the women left at Upaplavya.
Draupadī, the dark and noble princess of Pañchāla, stayed behind in the city, surrounded by the ladies of the household, servants, and guards, her heart steadfast yet heavy with unspoken fears. Before their departure, the Pāṇḍavas gave gifts of gold and kine to the Brahmanas, who walked around them uttering blessings and sacred hymns. Then, climbing their gem-decked chariots, the sons of Pāṇḍu set forth.
Around Yudhiṣṭhira marched his mighty allies:
the princes of Kekaya, Dṛṣṭaketu of Cedi, the son of Kāśī’s king, Śreṇimat, Vasudāna, the invincible Sikhaṇḍin—each radiant in armour and adorned with shining ornaments. Behind them followed King Virāṭa, Dṛṣṭadyumna of the Somaka line, Susarman, Kuntibhoja, and the sons of Dṛṣṭadyumna—forty thousand chariots, fivefold horsemen, tenfold footmen, and sixty thousand elephants with bells of bronze and golden howdahs.
Then came Anādhṛṣṭi, Chekitāna, Dṛṣṭaketu, and Sātyaki, guarding Vāsudeva and Dhanañjaya as the Vasus guard Indra. And when that sacred army reached the holy plain of Kurukṣetra—broad as the sky and gleaming with dust of many wheels—the sons of Pāṇḍu looked like roaring bulls set loose upon the field.
There they halted, and their conchs sounded—deep and dreadful. Kṛṣṇa’s Pāñcajanya blared like the voice of the thundercloud; Arjuna’s Devadatta answered it with the note of a lion; and the warriors of the Pāṇḍava host took up the cry till the very earth trembled.
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The ocean echoed, the mountains shook,
The winds stood still to hear;
The voice of dharma filled the sky—
The hour of war was near.
And thus, amid the roar of conchs, the roll of drums, and the clamour of shouting men, the sons of Pāṇḍu—righteous, resolute, and aflame with destiny—entered upon the field of Kurukṣetra, where gods themselves bent low to watch the unfolding of fate.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then the righteous Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Dharma, caused his vast host to encamp upon a fair and sacred portion of the field—level, cool, and rich with green grass and fuel. Avoiding places of death and decay, the temples of gods, shrines of the Pitṛs, hermitages of ṛṣis, and all other consecrated grounds, the king chose a site open to the wind, fertile, and pure—befitting both men and gods.
When the beasts of burden were rested and the chariots once more in order, Yudhiṣṭhira set forth again with joy, surrounded by hundreds of monarchs who followed him like stars around the moon. Kṛṣṇa, the eternal Vāsudeva, rode beside Arjuna, and together they moved through the outer lines, dispersing the hidden watchers of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s army who had been posted to spy their march.
Dṛṣṭadyumna, son of the Fire-born king of Pṛṣata’s race, and Sātyaki, that lion of the Vṛṣṇis and friend of Arjuna, measured the ground for the encampment, marking the lines with care and order. When they reached the sacred Hiraṇvatī—the golden river of Kurukṣetra, whose waters are cool, limpid, and free of pebbles or mire, whose banks have long been sanctified by sages and sacrifice—there did Keśava cause a deep moat to be dug, and he placed seasoned warriors to guard the encampment, giving them wise instructions.
The tents of the high-souled sons of Pāṇḍu were pitched according to the laws of royal encampment, and Kṛṣṇa himself oversaw that the same order be observed for the tents of all their allied kings. Thousands upon thousands of pavilions arose, costly and spacious, laid out apart from one another like palaces upon the plain. Each was filled with provisions, arms, and comforts—bright with silks, fragrant with incense, and gleaming like a city of the gods.
Carpenters, smiths, chariot-builders, and artisans by the hundred laboured for hire; physicians and surgeons, skilled in every branch of healing, were stationed with their herbs and instruments, ready for the wounds that war must bring. Within every pavilion Yudhiṣṭhira caused to be gathered heaps of weapons—bows, bowstrings, coats of mail, scimitars, and shining breastplates—together with stores of food and drink, clarified butter, honey, powdered lac, chaff, coals, and fodder for beasts.
There stood elephants by the thousands, cased in steel with cruel spikes upon their sides—huge as mountains, each capable of battling with a hundred warriors. The clink of their armour mingled with the deep rumble of their voices, like distant thunder.
And when word spread that the sons of Pāṇḍu had encamped upon that holy field, their allies began to converge from all quarters—princes and warriors bringing their forces, chariots, steeds, and elephants. Many among them were kings who had once performed great sacrifices, who had kept their vows of chastity, drunk the sacred Soma, and given lavish gifts to the Brahmanas. They came, drawn by love and righteousness, for the sake of Yudhiṣṭhira’s cause and the triumph of dharma.
Thus, upon the golden river’s bank,
Beneath the gaze of heaven’s fire,
The sons of Pāṇḍu raised their camp—
The field of fate, their altar dire.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When Keśava of the Daśārha race had departed from Hastināpura, his mission for peace unfulfilled, Duryodhana’s pride flamed higher than before. Summoning Karṇa, Duḥśāsana, and the cunning Śakuni of Gāndhāra, the Kuru prince spoke fiercely amidst his counsellors.
“O heroes,” he said, “Keśava hath gone to the sons of Pṛthā, thwarted in his purpose and burning with wrath. He will inflame them now with words of fire. Bhīma and Arjuna, ever obedient to his will, will leap to arms. Yudhiṣṭhira, gentle yet weak, bends beneath Bhīma’s voice. Before this, I cast them all into misery; now they burn to repay me. Virāṭa and Drupada—whom I once humbled—have joined their cause under Vāsudeva’s banner. Therefore, the battle that draweth near will be fierce as the war of the gods and Asuras. Let no man be slothful. Make ready our hosts!
Let the kings pitch their pavilions by hundreds and thousands upon Kurukṣetra—broad, strong, and beautiful, near the waters and woods, defended by trenches and towers, filled with weapons, steeds, elephants, and stores. Let roads be levelled from the city to the camp, so that the supplies may pass freely. Proclaim throughout the capital: ‘Tomorrow begins the march of the Kurus!’”
At his command, Karṇa, Duḥśāsana, and Śakuni bowed low and replied, “So be it.” Then, at the coming of dawn, those high-souled ones set in motion the vast machinery of war.
Heralds sounded the royal order. At once, from every palace, pavilion, and street, the allied monarchs rose in wrath, eager to avenge their pride. Their mighty arms, thick as the trunks of elephants and adorned with golden bracelets, glistened as they rubbed them in impatience for battle. With their lotus-like hands they adjusted turbans and armour, fastened sword-belts and cuirasses, and decked themselves in gems and sandal-paste.
The charioteers yoked steeds of fiery breed; the mahouts adorned their elephants with mail of iron and gold. Footmen donned glittering corslets and lifted shields, swords, and spears that gleamed like fire. The crash of smiths at their anvils, the neighing of chargers, the blare of countless conches, and the beat of mighty drums rose together in tumultuous sound, shaking the very walls of Hastināpura.
Then the city of the Kurus shone like an ocean on the night of the full moon:
Its teeming crowds were the rolling waters,
The elephants its whales and fish,
The blare of drums its rising roar,
The treasures its hidden gems.
The flashing weapons were its foam,
The houses its mountain shore,
The roads and bazaars were shining lakes,
And the banners its surging waves.
Thus did the capital of Duryodhana gleam with splendour and confusion, its joy swelling like the sea before a storm.
From its gates poured forth the hosts of kings—men fated to die beneath the sun of Kurukṣetra.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When Keśava had finished speaking of the folly of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s son, the just Yudhiṣṭhira, ever devoted to dharma, turned once more to the scion of the Vṛṣṇis and said with calm gravity:
“O Keśava, how could that wicked prince speak thus, scorning the voice of wisdom? What is our duty now, and by what path shall righteousness be preserved? Thou knowest the hearts of Duryodhana, Karṇa, and Śakuni, even as thou knowest ours. Thou hast heard the words of Bhīṣma and Vidura, and the sorrowful speech of my mother Kuntī. Do thou, O infallible one, after due reflection, tell us clearly what is for our good.”
Then Vāsudeva, with voice deep and resonant as the murmur of thunder, replied:
“What I spoke in the Kuru court was righteous and just—
Words born of dharma and guided by compassion.
Yet they found no echo in Duryodhana’s heart;
For in that man, deceit hath taken the place of wisdom.
He listens not to Bhīṣma, nor to Vidura, nor even unto me.
He seeketh not virtue nor the glory that follows it.
Relying upon Karṇa, he dreameth that all is won.
That wicked soul, blind with pride, even sought my arrest.
But his purpose failed, for fate itself restrained him.
Bhīṣma and Droṇa, though wise, spoke not against it;
Only Vidura remained steadfast in righteousness.
With Śakuni and Duḥśāsana whispering evil counsel,
And Karṇa, the fierce-tongued, breathing hatred,
That deluded prince hath closed his ears to all good.
In Duryodhana alone dwelleth sin greater than in all the earth.
Therefore, O sons of Pāṇḍu, peace is no longer possible.
Between dharma and adharma the battle must now be joined.”
When Keśava ceased, a deep silence fell among the assembled kings. None spoke; all eyes turned toward Yudhiṣṭhira. The son of Dharma, reading their hearts, slowly said to his brothers:
“Let the troops be drawn in array.”
At those words the army of the Pāṇḍavas roared like a sea lashed by storm. Trumpets and conchs blared together, horses neighed, elephants bellowed, and the warriors shouted aloud for joy.
Yet Yudhiṣṭhira, beholding that host which was to be drenched in blood, sighed heavily and said unto Bhīma and Arjuna:
“Alas, that for the sake of a kingdom we have endured exile and misery,
Only to reach this hour of fratricidal slaughter.
That which we sought through patience seemeth now lost;
And though we courted peace, calamity hath come unsought.
How shall we raise our weapons against those elders—
Bhīṣma our grandsire, Droṇa our teacher—
Men whom we revere as the gods themselves?
What kind of victory can be born of such a sin?”
Hearing these words of compassion, Savyasāchī Arjuna bowed and said gently to his elder brother:
“O king, thou hast heard the words of Kuntī and Vidura, repeated by Keśava. Neither of them speaketh what is unrighteous. To shrink now would be to abandon dharma itself. We cannot draw back without shame.”
Then Keśava, smiling faintly, said to Arjuna:
“It is even so, O Pārtha. The time hath come.
The wheel of destiny turneth fast,
And war alone can cleanse this sin.
Let the sons of Dharma stand firm beneath its weight.”
Thus, resolved for battle, the sons of Pāṇḍu rested that night in their vast encampment— their hearts steady as mountains, their minds filled with faith in Keśava, and their warriors rejoicing as if victory had already dawned.