novelraw Arc 5 – Ulūka Agamana Parva - Chapter 3 - The Grandsire Names the Warriors
Arc 5 – Ulūka Agamana Parva - Chapter 3 - The Grandsire Names the Warriors
Then the aged Bhīṣma, smiling faintly, spoke with measured calm to the eager prince:
“Hear now, O Duryodhana,
the names of Rathas and Atirathas
among the Kurus’ hosts.
Though our warriors are countless—
thousands, millions, beyond numbering—
I shall name but the foremost.
First, thou and thy brothers,
including Dussāsana and the rest—
ye are foremost among Rathas,
skilled in driving car and elephant,
deft in mace, dart, and sword.
Ye are masters of the bow,
trained by Droṇa and by Kṛpa,
quick of hand, proud of heart.
Wronged by the sons of Pāṇḍu,
ye will strike like lightning at the Pāñcālas.
Then comes I, thy grandsire,
leader of all, who shall scatter thy foes.
Of my own merits I speak not—
they are known to thee.
Among thy allies, behold Kṛtavarman,
chief of the Bhojas, an Atiratha.
None can shame him in the art of arms;
his arrows fly as Indra’s bolts among the Dānavas.
He will crush the Pandava ranks as storms the sea.
Śalya, king of Madra, great with bow,
is likewise an Atiratha,
boasting himself Vasudeva’s equal in battle.
Abandoning the sons of his sister,
he fights on thy side, O king.
Against the Pandavas’ might he shall stand,
flooding the field with arrows
as the sea with waves.
Bhūriśravā, son of Somadatta,
valiant and pure of heart,
leader of leaders of car-borne troops—
he shall spread havoc among the foe.
Jayadratha, ruler of Sindhu,
is in my judgment equal to two Rathas.
Humbled once by the sons of Pāṇḍu,
when he sought to seize Draupadī,
he bears that scar like fire within.
For years he has performed austerities
and gained a boon to meet the Pāṇḍavas in battle.
Reckless of life, remembering his shame,
he will fight like one possessed by Death himself.’”
Vaiśampāyana said—Thus did Bhīṣma, ocean of wisdom and might, speak to the prince of the Kurus, naming each hero as a star in that vast constellation of war. And Dhṛtarāṣṭra, hearing of these tidings through Sañjaya’s lips, trembled—for though Bhīṣma spoke to hearten Duryodhana, the blind king heard in his words the sound of destiny itself, moving inexorably toward the day when the Gaṅgā’s son would fall beneath Arjuna’s rain of arrows.
Vaisampāyana said—Bhīṣma, the grandsire, when asked to name the worthiest among the warriors, spoke with the slow authority of one who has watched many generations pass like seasons. He recited the names of chiefs and chieftains, assigning to each his rank and destiny upon the plain, so that Dhr̥tarāṣṭra and the kings who listened might know how the hosts were disposed and which men would bear the day.
He began with Sudhakṣina of the Kāmvojas, whom he held equal to a single ratha—a car-warrior of steady temper and inexorable courage. Sudhakṣina, he said, would fight for the Kauravas as one fights for hearth and house; his car-army would swarm the field like a locust-light, pressing and devouring those before it. From Mahīśmati came Nīla, garbed in blue mail, a Ratha whose car-army would spread havoc among the foe; having borne enmity with Sahadeva, he would range constantly against the sons of Pṛthā and never slack his hand.
Sudhakṣina of Kāmboja-line shall stand,
A steadfast ratha guarding throne and land;
Nīla in mail of midnight, war’s bright flame,
Will cleave and scatter those who shape his name.
Bhīṣma then spoke of Vinda and Anuvinda of Avanti—two princes like a matched pair of elephants, each commanding the field with the terrible grace of Yama’s own agents. Both, he judged, were foremost among Rathas: maces, javelins, and bearded darts would whirl from their hands and make wide gaps in any array. The five royal brothers of Trigarta he placed among the foremost Rathas as well; remembering old slights received in Virāṭa’s city, they would, like huge makaras, agitate the ranks of the Parthas and swallow many a valiant man.
Vinda and Anuvinda, twin waves of might,
Like Yama’s tusks they rend the battle-night;
Trigarta’s five, Makaras in the stream,
Shall churn the Parthas’ line and break their dream.
Bhīṣma named Lakṣmaṇa and the son of Duśśāsana as unretreating Rathas—youthful, limbed with speed, versed in the arts of war, and fit to lead divisions. Dandadhara, he said, stood equal to a single Ratha; guarded by his own soldiery, he would fight steadfastly. Vṛhadvala of Kosala, fierce and energetic, was likewise a Ratha whose exertions would gladden the Kaurava side. Kr̥pa, son of Saradwat and the preceptor’s scion, Bhīṣma pronounced a leader of leaders among car-ranks: invincible in skill and reckless of life, he would move across the field like a consuming fire, scattering untold hosts with the precision of a master.
Lakṣmaṇa and Duśśāsana’s son, fierce-stepped,
Like dawn they charge where iron-tongues are repped.
Kr̥pa, the preceptor’s seed, a blazing brand,
Shall sweep the plain and scorch the stubborn band.
The grandsire’s voice, grave as a bell, carried through that assembly; each name he uttered set an image before the listeners’ eyes—men likened to locusts, makaras, elephants, waves and fire. To Janamejaya, O king, the narrator adds this: Bhīṣma did not merely name ranks; he wove each man into the theatre of destiny, showing how their pasts and temperaments would make them instruments of the day. Thus the catalogue of Rathas and Atirathas that the grandsire recited was itself a map of the battle yet to be fought, every title a peg by which fate would hang its hooded lamp.
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Vaisampāyana said—Having spoken of the Trigartas and other allies, Bhīṣma the grandsire, ancient and vast in knowledge as the sea, continued to describe to Duryodhana the measure of his warriors, naming each like a star set in the night of war. His words, heavy with fate, flowed slowly as he spoke.
“Know, O king,” said Bhīṣma, “thy maternal uncle Śakuni is a Ratha. Having sown this quarrel with the sons of Pāṇḍu, he shall now reap its harvest. His troops are fierce, impetuous as the wind, armed with countless weapons, irresistible in their rush. He will fight, no doubt, till death.”
Then, his gaze turning eastward where the sun rose red on the horizon of Kurukṣetra, he spoke of Aśvatthāman, son of Droṇa—his voice lowered as one might when speaking of fire.
“There is none, O king, who surpasses Aśvatthāman.
Among all bowmen he stands foremost,
skilled in every mode of war, in every celestial weapon.
His arrows fly in unbroken line like the stream of time itself.
If he wills, he could consume the three worlds by his wrath.
Years of austerity have sharpened his fury.
His father Droṇa has endowed him with every divine missile.
Yet—one fault mars him, O Bharata’s son:
he loves his life too dearly.
Because of this weakness, I call him not fully Maharatha nor yet Ratha;
for among warriors, he has no peer,
but among renunciants, he still clings to breath.”
Bhīṣma paused, then continued in solemn cadence:
“Strong of limb, his bow-string’s snap can split the mountain’s heart;
his frame glows like a flame-fed fire.
When he roams the field with mace in hand,
none shall withstand him—
he is Yama, come to reckon the dead.
When this war burns low to embers,
Aśvatthāman shall be the wind that fans it bright again.”
“His father Droṇa,” Bhīṣma said, “though aged, is still the lion among Kṣatriya teachers. Immoveable upon the field, he will consume the armies of Yudhiṣṭhira like fire fed by dry grass, his weapons the wind that drives the flame. None in either host can equal him.
Yet know this also, O King: Pārtha is dearer to him than his own son. Remembering the service and the love of his pupil, Droṇa will not slay Arjuna, though he might strike down gods and Gandharvas combined. But the rest—Pañchālas and Śṛñjayas—he will scatter like chaff in the gale.”
“Teacher of all kings, venerable in might,
Droṇa’s heart is both fire and dew—
fire for thine enemies, dew for Arjuna.
His arrows are tongues of flame,
his memory the treasury of heaven’s weapons.
As he stands, the earth herself is still.”
“Prince Vṛhadvala of Kosala,” said he, “is a Ratha—a lion-hearted youth whose weapons flash like serpents’ tongues. His troops, bright with armour and many-hued standards, shall roam the field as Death’s attendants.
Vṛṣasena, the son of Karṇa, is a Maharatha, fierce and strong, whose shafts fall thick as rain. Jalasandha of Madhu’s race is also a Ratha, valiant and true, ready to yield his life for thy cause, fighting from car or elephant’s back with equal ease. His warriors, armed and resolute, will not turn away from battle.”
“Vṛṣasena, Karṇa’s son of flame,
shall match the storm with storm again.
Jalasandha, born of Madhu’s seed,
will spill his life as battle’s meed.”
“Vahlīka,” Bhīṣma said with reverence, “the aged prince, never turning from battle, is an Atiratha. He rushes like the Wind-god himself and slays his foes without return. Brave and stainless, he is the standard of Kuru valour.”
“Satyavān, commander of thy forces,” he continued, “is a Maharatha, ever joyous in strife. He knows no grief before combat. Breaking through the enemy ranks, he scatters confusion like a storm scattering leaves. He will fulfil all the duties of a true Kṣatriya.”
“Vahlīka, ancient and steadfast flame,
shall never turn his car aside;
Satyavān, joying in battle’s breath,
shall scatter the foe with a warrior’s pride.”
“Alambūṣa, chief of the Rākṣasas,” Bhīṣma said, “is a Maharatha. Remembering his old enmity with the sons of Pāṇḍu, he will rage fiercely, employing his powers of illusion. Best among Rākṣasas, cruel in deed, firm in hate, he will stalk the field as a living nightmare.”
Then his voice grew grave and deep as he spoke of the elephant-lord of the East:
“Know, O King, the ruler of Pragjyotiṣa—
Bhagadatta, master of elephants,
foremost in the use of the hook.
In battle he is Vasava’s equal;
none rival him in fight from the elephant’s neck or from the chariot’s floor.
Once he contended with Arjuna for days,
each striving for mastery;
and when that strife ended,
Bhagadatta, whose friend was Indra himself,
made peace with Indra’s son,
acknowledging his kinship in might.
On Airāvata-like beast he rides,
his banner bright as a summer cloud;
in battle he shall shine like Indra descending among men.”
Thus spoke Bhīṣma, the grandsire, his words falling like the measured strokes of a bell foretelling doom. Each name he uttered was both praise and prophecy— each hero he named, a spark in the conflagration that was soon to rise over Kurukṣetra.
And hearing him, Dhṛtarāṣṭra trembled, for even in Bhīṣma’s calm and ordered speech, he could hear the coming thunder of destruction.
Vaisampāyana said—When kings and chieftains gathered beneath the banners of the night, Bhīṣma, ocean-hearted and slow of speech, rose to name the captains who would shape the day of battle. He spoke with the measured cadence of one who has watched generations pass, laying each man like a stone in the map of war so that Dhr̥tarāṣṭra and those assembled might know the weight of the host at his bidding.
Bhīṣma first named Śakuni, the maternal uncle of Duryodhana, and placed him among the Rathas—a fierce leader whose troops, swift as wind and deadly in onset, would press the Pandava ranks without pause. Then, his voice turning grave, he spoke of Aśvatthāman, son of Droṇa, whom he extolled as unequalled among bowmen. Learned in every mode of warfare and gifted with celestial missiles by his sire, Aśvatthāman’s shafts flew in unbroken files; his austerities had fanned a fury that could, if willed, consume the worlds. Yet Bhīṣma admitted a single flaw—Aśvatthāman loved life keenly; this clinging, he said, kept him short of being ranked fully as Maharatha in Bhīṣma’s strict account.
Aśvatthāman, fierce as fire at Yuga’s end,
With bow that splits the mountain’s heart—
Celestial shafts like rivers from his hand,
Yet life he loves; thus stands he half apart.
Bhīṣma went on: his own son Droṇa, though aged, was a terror on the field—immovable, versed in every weapon and every stratagem, destined to waste the Panchāla ranks like dry grass beneath flame. He named Vṛhadvala of Kosala a Ratha, one who would roam the foe’s lines as Death’s minister; Vṛśasena, Karṇa’s son, a Maharatha; Jalasandha, noble of Madhu’s line, ready to cast away life for the cause; Vahlīka, relentless and aged, an Atiratha who never turned back; Satyavān, the commander, a Maharatha who rejoiced in the press of battle; Alambhuṣa, chief of the Rākṣasas, a dread Maharatha given to illusion; and Bhagadatta of Pragjyotisha, foremost among elephant-lords, equal on his elephant to any god in combat.
Bhīṣma’s catalogue was careful, naming each man’s temper and past enmities—how Nīla of Mahīśmati would harry Sahadeva, how the five Trigarta princes, remembering old wrongs, would rage like makaras in the river and shake the Partha ranks. He praised steady captains—Sudhakṣiṇa of the Kāmbojas, Achala and Vṛṣa among the Gandharva-born, Dandadhara, and others whose young strength and furious wrath would be terrible to meet.
When Bhīṣma came to Karna, he spoke with restraint yet frankness: Karna, radiant son of Sūrya and Duryodhana’s chief counsellor and boon-friend, was neither full Ratha nor Atiratha in Bhīṣma’s view. Deprived of his natural coat of mail and of the celestial ear-rings by the curses that had pursued him, Karna was, in Bhīṣma’s judgment, only half a Ratha—mighty in boast and prowess, yet flawed by fate and prone at times to falter.
At these words Karna’s eyes widened and anger flashed. He struck back at the grandsire with words honed like hooks; his speech, proud and burning, asked how one who bore such aversion could judge men fairly, and he accused Bhīṣma of leaning to hatred rather than to merit. Let the king judge aright, Karna cried, for who but he would disparage brave men and scatter the heart of an army?
Karna’s retort rang aloud in measured words:
“Old man, thy arrows of the tongue wound deep,
And from thy hate thou castest judgment blind;
If age has dimmed the sight that once saw men,
Then leave to youth the field, and lift not mind.
Alone I stand to bar the sons of Pṛthā’s line;
When I shall strike, the Parthas turn and fly.
Let fate decide whose valour wears the crown—
But mock not those who on the field must die.”
Bhīṣma answered in the calm weight of one who would not let dissension split the host. He reminded Karna of the long thread of service and of deeds already done; of the time when, at the swayamvara of Kāśī’s daughters, he alone had stayed the rush of countless kings; of the single-car feats that had won him fame. Though aged, Bhīṣma said, he would not sow strife in the night when the hour of battle had come—now was the time for unity, not for jealous tongues. If provoked, he warned, he could quell Karna’s vainglory; but since the prince of the Sūta class lived at Duryodhana’s side, Bhīṣma would carry the burden of command and not foster quarrel among allies.
“This burden, vast as ocean’s tide, I bear,
Long pondered, now the hour calls me forth.
Let not our ranks be sundered in this night;
My hand shall hold the host and prove its worth.”
Duryodhana, eager, then bent to Bhīṣma and asked earnestly that the grandsire mark for him which of the enemy were Rathas and Atirathas, which of the Partha-hosts were leaders of armies and which mere chiefs—so that, before dawn, he might know where strength lay and where weakness might be struck.
Vaisampāyana said—Thus the old commander, steady as a mountain, tempered the pride of youth and gathered the counsel of kings. Bhīṣma’s names were not mere lists but prophecies; each title and epithet traced a warrior’s temper into the pattern of the coming field. And Duryodhana, heart quick with hope, listened—for the morrow would show whether such counsel and such men could turn the wheel of fate in his favour.