novelraw Arc 5 – Ulūka Agamana Parva - Chapter 1 - Ulūka Sent To Insult
Arc 5 – Ulūka Agamana Parva - Chapter 1 - Ulūka Sent To Insult
Vaisampāyana said,—Sanjaya, having beheld the hosts of the two parties, told the king of the Kurus how Duryodhana set his camp in array and, after offering homage to the allied kings, called round him his chosen counsellors. Karna and Dussasana, Sakuni the son of Suvala, and other chiefs stood by him; and when consultation had been taken with those brave men, he bade that Uluka, the swift messenger of his house, be brought to him in secret. In that private presence Duryodhana, dark with wrath and confident in his numbers, charged Uluka with words of menace and scorn to be delivered before the Pandavas and their allies.
Then Duryodhana spoke, rehearsing his grievance and his summons to battle; and to the hearing of Uluka he framed, with the force of a king, both reproach and enticement, bidding him deliver these things in the hearing of Yudhishthira and of Vasudeva.
O hear now the challenge which he bade be proclaimed:
Rise, then, O Bharata, and fulfil thy boast;
The hour of clash and blood is come at last.
No more the mask of piety shall hide the hand —
Stand forth, O king, and let thy mighty vows be tried.
Vaiśampāyana continued,—This was Duryodhana’s first injunction: that the solemn words once uttered in the Kuru hall should now be made good by arms. He would have Yudhishthira and those with him cast aside any pretence of peace and meet him in open fight; thus did he seek to make battle the sole proof of righteousness and manhood.
Thereafter Duryodhana, whose tongue often assumed the voice of fable when reproach would strike deepest, recited to Uluka a tale which he said explained the conduct of his foes. He spoke of a hypocrite who took upon himself the airs of devotion and so ensnared the simple — the cat that feigned austerity and fed on mice who trusted him. In that parable he likened the Pandavas’ show of virtue to the cat’s pretended piety, and he warned that appearances must not be trusted when the day of testing had come.
A cat with lifted hands feigned penance long,
And birds and mice made him their sanctuary;
He fattened while their numbers waned and died —
Thus cloak of holiness hid teeth that prey.
Duryodhana would make the moral tale a weapon. By telling of the false ascetic he sought to brand the Pandavas as hypocrites who would shelter under the name of dharma while plotting to seize power. The story served him two ends — to wound reputations and to stiffen his own followers’ hearts by the conviction that the enemy’s virtue was only a mask.
Charged with that parable, Duryodhana ordered Uluka to address each hero by name, to inflame pride and to strip away any excuse for timidity. To Vasudeva he sent a double taunt and a double challenge: stand forth in arms and, if it be strength you boast, meet me openly; let not conjuring or wonder-working hide the naked test of battle.
Thou of Vrishni-line, put spectacle aside;
If might be thine, then meet me on the plain:
No phantom-shape nor trick shall save thy fame —
Let steel and arrow prove what words have feigned.
And Vaiśampāyana added, in plainest discourse to the listener, that Duryodhana dreaded most the influence of Vasudeva. By addressing Vasudeva with contemptuous challenge he sought both to provoke Krishna’s warrior side and to expose, before the kings, any reliance the Pandavas had upon wonders rather than arms. Thus did he aim to make the contest appear one of naked manhood, not of counsel or cunning.
Next he bade that Bhīma be taunted for his past disguise and humiliated life at Virata, and he used bitter words to goad that stout son of Kunti: let Dussasana’s blood be his measure of manhood; let him prove the boast he had made in court. To Nakula and Sahadeva he sent brief commands to fight with all their strength, and to Virata and Drupada he spoke with the arrogance of a lord, bidding them, as lesser kings and allies, to join in a common onslaught.
O son of Pritha, rise from kitchen’s shame—
Thy vow of old must not remain untried;
If man thou be, then glut Dussasana’s fame
With thy own hand, or on the field be laid.
Here the narrator explained: Duryodhana’s insult at Bhīma was both sword and spur. He turned the memory of Bhīma’s concealment into a charge of unmanliness, hoping thereby to break his spirit or, failing that, to incense him into rash deeds. To lesser allies he offered no counsel beyond blunt summons: unite and strive for the death of Duryodhana.
To Dhrishtadyumna he sent a sharp command, naming the hour of his trial and bidding him dare the conflict with Drona and others, as though the prince of Panchala must prove his birthright by lethal deed. And to Sikhandin, Duryodhana spoke with a strange mixture of mockery and challenge — declaring that the mighty-souled Bhishma, knowing Sikhandin’s origin, would not strike him, and so urging him to fight without fear.
Dhrishtadyumna, let thy day's demand be met;
Strike where the teacher’s strength and friend’s device conspire.
Sikhandin, march: when Bhishma shuns thy wound,
Then carve thy fame and set the field on fire.
The narrator, speaking to Janamejaya, observed that these words were crafted both to insult and to incite. By promising or implying mercy from certain heroes, by naming slights and daring each man’s courage, Duryodhana strove to shape the battlelines in his favour. He used praise and scorn alike as instruments — to steady his allies and to rend the composure of his foes.
Thus charged, Uluka received his orders: go, proclaim these taunts and summons before the Pandavas and their friends; let every man hear his name bidden to the field; and by such speech inflame wrath, test duty, and bring about the long-expected muster of arms. Vaisampāyana said,—So spake Duryodhana, and so the messenger departed, bearing words that would set the camp of the Pandavas aflame with answer and oath.
Vaisampāyana continued, ”Having wrought his speech to a fierce climax, Duryodhana laughed aloud, the laugh of a man who believed the world already in his hand. He bade Uluka again to bear a charge to Dhananjaya and to Vasudeva: let Arjuna remember the long years of exile, the humiliations of disguise, the toils of the forest and the lowly tasks in Virata's house; let these memories be the spur to wrath and to arms. Thus spoke the son of Dhṛtarāśṭra — not as one who appeals to reason, but as one who hurls reproach like a gauntlet upon a hero’s brow.
Remember, Arjuna, the twelve years of shade and scorn,
The braid, the kitchen’s smoke, the clothing of disguise;
Let those deep wrongs become the fire that forges you —
Either take back the earth, or on the field lay down thy life.”
Vaiśampāyana adds this explanation to Janamejaya: Duryodhana sought to turn memory into motive. By rehearsing past sufferings he would either drive Arjuna to desperate courage or trick him into rashness. Where restraint might counsel measure, scorn would drive a hero to the extremes of valour or folly.
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In the same breath Duryodhana proclaimed his boast against Arjuna’s arms and teachers. He named Drona and Karna, Salya and Bhīṣma — pillars of the Kaurava host — and painted them as mountains that no single man could overthrow. He spoke of the Kuru army as a surging, uncrossable ocean, whose waves and creatures he named in scornful procession: Bhīṣma the current of immeasurable might, Drona the unconquerable alligator, Karna and Salwa the whirlpools and their fishes, Bhagadatta a gale; and each great captain became an element in the sea he offered to swallow the Pandavas.
My hosts are ocean, each lord its wind and wave,
Bhīṣma its current, Drona its iron jaw;
Advance, O Partha, and strike thy forehead on the rock —
For this deluge spares no breast that trusts its shore.
The narrator explained to the assembly that Duryodhana’s catalogue of warriors was both boast and strategy. By rendering his army as a living, devouring force he sought to intimidate not merely by numbers but by image: if the Pandavas saw themselves as frogs in a well before such a sea, courage might fail and counsel be undone.
Duryodhana then scorned the sources of the Pandavas’ rescue in time past. He dismissed the deliverance they had known as owing not to their own prowess but to Krishna’s intervention and to fortuitous help. He taunted Bhīma for his menial disguise in Virata’s house and Arjuna for the braids and gentle tasks he once wore; such memories, he said, proved that their claims of superiority were hollow and that their present boasts were but the ranting of cowards made bold by friendship and chance.
Where was thy bow when fate had scooped thy home away?
When chains were wound and shame had bound thy brow, who bore thee?
Not mace, nor Gandiva, not might of arm nor boast —
But chance and friendship dragged you from the pit to day.
Vaisampāyana interposed a plain remark: Duryodhana wished to cast all honour to the void by reminding each man of prior humiliation. To mock the past is to force the present hand; the insult is a blade that either wounds pride harmlessly or draws forth a deadly reply.
He went on to instruct Uluka to tell Arjuna that the field of Kurukṣetra would be free from mire, that the omens and incantations had been made for every weapon, that steeds were fresh and soldiers paid — all the outward signs of readiness. Yet, by way of confidence, he warned that even if the might of many Vasudevas marched against him, his array would not break; he declared that success is not the child of boast but of method and the will of the Supreme Ordainer.
Duryodhana’s voice then swelled into imagery and threat: the assembled chieftains of the East, West, North and South, the foreign hosts — the Kāmyojas, Sakas, Khasas, Salwas, Matsyas, Pulindas, Dravidas, Andhras, Kañchīs — all moved as a united tide under his banners. He spoke of inexhaustible quivers, of celestial ensigns, of elephants that forged paths through ranks — every token of kingship turned into an instrument of menace.
See how the nations rise, a flood in many tongues —
From north and south they press like waters on a sand;
Their standards are like storms; their trumpets are the breeze —
Go forth, and find thy refuge dashed from every hand.
The narrator then observed that such catalogues do more than frighten; they shape a listener’s imagination into defeat. By naming tribes and heroes, by likening them to sea-creatures and storms, Duryodhana trained all eyes to see an inevitable ruin awaiting those who stood against him.
Lastly, Duryodhana jeered at the very possibility that Arjuna could hope to win sovereignty while such defenders remained. He insisted that only the Supreme Ordainer could overturn the ordained course, and that no boast could substitute for the slow architecture of victory: disciplined method, timely stroke, and the fate that the gods allowed. Thus did he set before Uluka a speech steeped equally in contempt and in the conviction of ordained triumph — a speech made to wound courage and to quicken wrath among the Pandavas.
Vaiśampāyana concluded,—So did Duryodhana arm his words as if they were swords. He entrusted Uluka with taunt and tally, parable and threat, that each hero might be roused or unseated by recollection and insult. The messenger, carrying these burdens of speech, took his way to the camp of the Pandavas, and the air of that forested plain grew heavy with the sense of reckoning to come.
Vaiśampāyana said,—When Duryodhana’s dark counsel had thus been shaped and sealed, Ulūka, son of the gambler Śakuni, sped across the night to the camp of the sons of Pāṇḍu. The banners of the five brothers fluttered by the river Hiraṇvatī, and the hosts of the Śṛñjayas and the Kekayas gleamed like a field of stars beneath the moon. There, before the tent of Yudhiṣṭhira, he came and bowed, his message burning within him like a coal.
Standing amidst heroes, Ulūka spoke with careful humility.
“O king, thou knowest the ways of envoys well.
They speak another’s mind, not their own.
Therefore be not wroth with me if I repeat
The words my master bade me bear to thee.”
Yudhiṣṭhira, calm as still water, replied in gentle dignity that befitted the son of Dharma:
“Fear not, O Ulūka. A messenger bears no blame. Speak freely all that Duryodhana, covetous and blind of heart, hath commanded thee to say.”
Then in the presence of all—the sons of Pāṇḍu, Kṛṣṇa of immeasurable soul, Drupada and his sons, Virāṭa, the kings of the earth, and the armies assembled—Ulūka delivered the challenge of Duryodhana.
He lifted his voice, resonant and proud, as though Duryodhana himself were speaking through him.
“Hear me, O son of Dharma!
Thou wert once vanquished at dice,
And Draupadī, thy queen, was dragged into the hall—
Would not a true man’s wrath blaze forth at that?
Twelve years thou didst wander in the forests,
And a thirteenth thou didst serve in disguise.
Let those years of exile kindle thy blood,
And prove thyself, O son of Pṛthā, a man!
Bhīma, the mighty, made a vow in wrath—
Let him drink Dussāsana’s blood if he can!
The gods of thy weapons have been invoked;
Kurukṣetra awaits thee, firm and fair.”
Thus spake the envoy, his tone sharpened like an arrow’s edge. The listeners felt the sting but kept their calm. Vaiśampāyana, turning to Janamejaya, said that Ulūka’s words were chosen not to reason but to wound—to rouse fury where patience ruled, and to make the field of battle a matter of honour beyond recall.
Ulūka continued, bearing each insult in the very phrasing of Duryodhana’s pride.
“Why boast before thou hast met Bhīṣma in war?
Why speak of victory before the strife?
Like a fool bragging of Gandhamādana’s height
Ere he hath climbed a single step,
Thou vauntest, O Pārtha, in vain.
Without subduing Karṇa, the Sūta’s son,
Or Salya, fierce as Indra in his might,
Or Drona, the preceptor of both bow and Veda—
How dost thou dream to win the world?
The wind may shatter Sumeru’s golden peak,
The sky may fall, the Yugas turn their course—
Ere thy words come true!”
The envoy’s eyes swept the assembly. “Who, loving life,” he cried, “can meet Drona or Bhīṣma and return unpierced by their shafts? Like a frog in a well, thou seest not the might of the ocean that is our host—kings of the four quarters, Kāmbojas, Śakas, Drāviḍas, Andhras, and Kaṇcīs, joined in a single tide. Against that flood thou art but a trembling reed!”
“O fool of little sense,
How wilt thou fight with me,
Surrounded by my elephants and kings?
The host that guards Duryodhana’s crown
Is the swelling Ganga at flood,
And thou—its foam!”
Then, turning to Arjuna, Ulūka delivered Duryodhana’s venomous words meant for him alone.
“Fight, O Arjuna, but cease thy boast!
Battles are won by method, not by words.
If boasts could bring success,
Who would fail in this wide world?
I know thy Gandīva, six cubits long;
I know thy ally, Kṛṣṇa, strong and wise.
Yet still I hold thy kingdom!
For men do not win by birth or pride,
But by the will of the Ordainer above.”
Here Vaiśampāyana said, “Thus did the proud prince seek to cloak his fear with philosophy, for though he mocked destiny, he bowed before it in his heart. He spoke of fate to hide his trembling.”
Ulūka then poured forth further taunts, recalling the dice-hall and the year of disguise, each word dipped in venom.
“Where was thy Gandīva when thou wert enslaved?
Where Bhīma’s mace when ye fell to shame?
’Twas not your might that saved you,
But Kṛṣṇā’s grace,
The daughter of Drupada’s house,
Who lifted you from servitude.
Did not Arjuna wear a braid in Virāṭa’s hall,
Teaching maids to dance and sing?
Did not Bhīma labour as a cook,
His arms weary from kneading bread?
Such were the proofs of your manhood,
O sons of Kuntī!”
So spoke Ulūka, repeating every word with cruel precision.
“From fear of Kṛṣṇa or of thyself, O Pārtha,
I will not yield my crown!
A thousand Kṛṣṇas, a hundred Arjunas,
Will fly in terror when they face my arms.
Meet Bhīṣma in combat—if thou canst!
Or split the mountain with thy brow!
The sea itself may sooner be crossed by hand
Than thou survive the clash of my host.”
And again he compared that host to a sea of doom:
“Drona is its alligator, Bhīṣma its current,
Karṇa and Śalya its whirlpools,
Jayadratha its hidden rock,
And I am its shore!
When thou hast plunged into this ocean of kings,
And thy kin lie slain about thee,
Then wilt thy heart repent its hunger for rule,
As a sinner turns from heaven’s gate in shame.”
When these words were ended, silence fell upon the Pandava camp. The night wind rustled through the banners; the stars trembled above Kurukṣetra, as if awaiting the first cry of the conches.
Vaiśampāyana said,—Thus did Ulūka, obedient to his master’s will, deliver the message that was both insult and summons. In those words, Duryodhana cast the die of fate, and by that envoy’s tongue the war of the worlds was declared.
And having spoken, Ulūka stood silent before the sons of Pāṇḍu, his duty done— while from the heart of every hero there rose a fire, soon to blaze across the plain of Kurukṣetra.