novelraw Arc 5 – Ulūka Agamana Parva - Chapter 5 - The Strory of Bhisma’s Restraint
Arc 5 – Ulūka Agamana Parva - Chapter 5 - The Strory of Bhisma’s Restraint
He then named the precedence of Rathas and Atirathas, and—turning to a point that bound honour with oath—Bhīṣma made known a vow that had long stood like a pillar in his soul. Though he would smite and scatter all others, there was one he would not strike: Śikhaṇḍin, once born a woman and later changed to the male, bore in Bhīṣma’s mind the memory of a vow and a law that forbade him to smite one who had once been a daughter. Having observed the celibate vow and the renunciatory acts that marked his life, Bhīṣma declared he would not lift his spear against Śikhaṇḍin even if that prince rushed the field with weapons uplifted.
I swore my vow in days of sun and flame,
To spare the woman-born who stands as man;
Though all the world should charge as one at me,
I strike not him whom once a daughter ran.
Bhīṣma explained in his grave, measured tone that this restraint had roots in duty and in the preservation of certain sacramental vows: in his youth he had renounced a crown for the sake of truth, installed heirs, and lived by a vow that made him loathe the slaying of one who had been a woman. Yet for all this scruple, he vowed to strike down every other chief he might encounter; he would meet Arjuna and Vasudeva, Drona and all leaders of renown, and he would do so as the ordained protector of Duryodhana’s host—expectant of victory or of his own death.
Grant me this hour, to bear the burden laid,
To meet the bright and fight with honest hand;
For vows once sworn stand greater than a king,
Yet with my arm I guard my lord’s command.
Vaiśampāyana continued—Thus the grandsire spoke, and his words fell like calibrated stones upon the maps of destiny. In that counting of warriors, in those vows both fierce and forbearing, the shape of the great day was revealed: a field where restraint and fury, promise and doom, would meet beneath the wide, watching sky.
Vaisampāyana said—Duryodhana, his brow hot with impatience, turned to the grandsire and demanded an account: why, he asked, would Bhīṣma refuse to smite Śikhaṇḍin even should that prince rush at him with weapons uplifted? The question hung in the council like a struck note; the kings leaned forward to hear the reason that lay behind the old warrior’s strange restraint.
Bhīṣma, whose voice carried the weight of many vows, answered calmly and at length. He bade all the monarchs hearken to the tale, that none might reproach him later when destiny’s wheel had turned. Then, in measured tone, he set forth the story of his household and the pledge that had bound him.
He told how his father, Santanu, had been famed over the earth and how, when Santanu’s life reached its destined close, Bhīṣma—obedient to duty and to the counsels of Satyavatī—seated his brother Chitrāngada upon the Kuru throne. After Chitrāngada’s untimely death Bhīṣma had, at Satyavatī’s bidding, placed the child Vichitravirya in the royal seat; the boy looked to Bhīṣma as to a guardian and guide. Moved by a desire that the house might be well settled, Bhīṣma resolved to win wives for Vichitravirya of the noblest kind, and so he journeyed with a single chariot to the city of Kāśī.
There he found the three peerless maidens—Amvā, Amvikā, and Amvalikā—arrayed for their choice, while kings and princes from all lands stood by to claim them. Seeing the splendour and the throng, Bhīṣma took upon himself the bold counsel of a protector. He leapt into his chariot and, sounding challenge, bore the maidens away, crying aloud to the assembly that he would carry them off and daring any king to wrest them back.
With single car he plucked the maidens fair,
Amid a host of kings whose banners shone;
“If any brave would stay my brazen hand,
Let him unsheathe and strive till break of dawn.”
The kings rose as one, drawing their weapons and urging charioteers to charge. On every side the field rose in thunder—cars like masses of cloud, elephants sounding, steeds tossing their bridles. They encircled Bhīṣma and surged forward, a tide of spear and bow. But Bhīṣma stood unafraid. With the lightness of a man twice blessed by skill and fate he loosed his shafts; with single shafts he felled steeds and drivers, cut down golden standards, and shattered the onrush. The assembled kings, checked at every flank and suddenly humbled, broke and withdrew.
The standards fell like autumn leaves in flame,
One arrow’s wing unroofed a hundred steeds;
Where kings had thought to cut a path of fame,
They found their pride undone by Bhīṣma’s deeds.
Victorious, Bhīṣma returned to Hastināpura and delivered the maidens to Satyavatī with the tale of his feat. Thus, by the fierce courage of that hour, he had set the line of succession and bound himself in acts that would shape his days. It was from those vows and from that renunciation, Bhīṣma explained, that his later scruple toward Śikhaṇḍin sprang—an oath born of duty, a mercy born of memory—so that even in the dread and press of Kurukṣetra he would not strike down one who had once been woman.
Bhīṣma said—
“Then, O chief of the Bharatas, I approached my mother, the daughter of the Dāsa clan, that revered parent of heroes. Bowing to her feet, I spoke with reverence: ‘Having vanquished all the kings in fair combat, these daughters of the ruler of Kāśī—who bring beauty alone for their dowry—have been borne away by me for the sake of Vichitravīrya.’ Hearing this, O king, Satyavatī, with tears of joy glistening in her eyes, smelt my head as a blessing and said, ‘By good fortune, O child, thou hast returned victorious.’
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When, with her consent, the time for the nuptials approached, the eldest daughter of Kāśī, her eyes cast down in modesty, spoke words that were both bashful and resolute:
“O Bhīṣma, thou knowest dharma well,
Its rivers, depths, and sacred well;
Attend, O prince, to what I say,
And act in virtue’s proper way.
The ruler of Śālva was my heart’s first choice,
His secret plea I heard, his silent voice.
Without my father’s leave, he sought my hand—
O Kuru’s son, wilt thou not understand?
How canst thou, born of Kuru’s line,
Transgress the law of gods divine?
Let not a maid who longs for another
Languish here, restrained, O brother.
Permit me, prince, to seek my lord,
This is my plea, my truthful word.
Thou art of virtue, famed and true,
O Bhīṣma, grant the right that’s due.”
Thus, O monarch, the maiden of Kāśī, pale yet steadfast, prayed before me. And as she spoke, the hall grew still, as though dharma itself had come to test my vow.”
Bhīṣma said:
“O descendant of Bharata, when I heard the words of that maiden—firm in her resolve yet gentle in appeal—I placed the matter before my mother Kālī, otherwise called Gandhavatī. I also consulted our wise counsellors and the family priests, both household and sacrificial. Having heard their counsel, I permitted the eldest of the three maidens, Amvā, to depart as her heart desired.
Then, O king, that fair princess, veiled in sorrow, left Hastināpura for the city of the lord of the Sālvas. With her went a company of aged Brāhmaṇas and her faithful nurse, attendants of quiet devotion. Through forests and fields, across rivers and hills, she journeyed, sustained by the thought of her beloved.
At length she reached the stronghold of King Sālva, proud ruler of his people. Standing before him, with downcast eyes yet voice steady in emotion, she spoke:
“I come to thee, O mighty-armed lord,
The one my heart hath long adored.
To thee I come, expectant, true—
My soul, my life, I give to you.”
But Sālva, O monarch, laughed bitterly and replied with words that pierced her heart:
“Fair Amvā, once I sought thy hand,
But now thou art of Bhīṣma’s band.
Taken by force before all kings,
Thou art unfit for marriage rings.
When Bhīṣma bore thee from the field,
And all the earth before him kneeled,
Thou didst not cry nor turn away—
Thou went with him that dreadful day.
How shall a king, by dharma bound,
Embrace one seized on battle’s ground?
Go hence, O lady, grieve no more,
I seek thee not as wife or more.”
These cruel words fell like iron rain upon her soul. Yet Amvā, wounded but not broken, clasped her hands and answered:
“Say not so, O lord of might,
Thou wrong’st me in thy blinded sight.
I wept when Bhīṣma bore me far,
A captive from the field of war.
By force he took me, not by will,
My heart was thine, it is so still.
By vows unbroken, pure and free,
My soul belongs alone to thee.
My sisters two are wedded now—
Amvikā, Amvālikā made vow
With Vichitravīrya as their lord;
Thus Bhīṣma kept his father’s word.
I sought his leave and gained release,
I come to thee with heart at peace.
Accept me, Sālva, pure, unwed—
Thy name alone I’ve ever said.”
But Sālva, blinded by pride and fear of Bhīṣma’s wrath, turned away from her pleading. The proud king spurned her like a serpent shedding its slough.
Then Amvā, trembling with grief, her eyes like storm-tossed lotus leaves, raised her voice amid tears:
“Cast off by thee, betrayed, forlorn,
By love’s own arrow deeply torn,
I go, O king, to fate’s embrace—
Truth shall protect the homeless race.
Wherever wander I, alone,
The righteous gods will guard their own.
The path of dharma shall be mine—
Though cast away, my soul divine.”
Thus speaking, O Bhārata, the daughter of the ruler of Kāśī departed, rejected and desolate, her cries echoing through the streets of Sālva’s city—
like the lament of a she-osprey whose mate hath been lost to the sea.”
Bhīṣma said:
“Then, O king, issuing out of the city gates, the maiden Amvā walked alone beneath the darkening sky, her heart crushed beneath the weight of rejection. And as she went, her thoughts burned within her like smouldering coals. She spoke to herself in grief-laden tones:
“Alas! In all this wide and teeming earth,
No maiden bears a fate so dire in birth.
By Bhīṣma seized, by Sālva spurned,
My life to sorrow’s fire is turned.
I cannot to Hastināpura return—
The elephant-city’s gates would burn!
For Bhīṣma gave me leave to go,
Expectant still of Sālva’s vow.
Whom shall I blame for what I bear?
Myself? Or fate’s unyielding snare?
Or Bhīṣma’s pride that knew no grace?
Or my blind sire who lost my place?
Why leapt I not from Bhīṣma’s car,
When kings lay slain in war from far?
This torment now, this shame I feel,
Is fruit of sin I did not heal.
Cursed be Bhīṣma, proud and cold!
Cursed be my father, weak and old!
Cursed be Sālva, false and vain!
Cursed be my own heart’s faithless chain!
Yea, cursed the gods that shaped my woe,
That cast me in this mortal show!
Yet Bhīṣma stands the root of pain—
On him alone shall fall disdain.
Through penance fierce or battle’s flame,
I’ll strike the cause that brought me shame.
For none may rest while wrong remains,
And vengeance purges sorrow’s stains!”
So did the princess of Kāśī wander, her tears mingling with the dust of the road, until she came upon a forest thick with the silence of sages. There, beneath the shade of ancient trees, stood an āśrama radiant with peace, where the smoke of sacrifice curled heavenward and the air itself seemed sanctified.
Among those dwellers of the wood lived a Brāhmaṇa of austere vows, the sage Śaikhavatya, wise in the Āraṇyakas and versed in the sacred law. Seeing the princess pale and trembling, he asked with gentle speech:
“Daughter, what sorrow brings thee here,
So wan of face, so dim of cheer?
This is no place for worldly grief—
What seekest thou, O royal leaf?”
Then, bowing before that holy man, Amvā spoke with humility and despair:
“Revered one, grant me mercy’s grace,
To hide in penance from disgrace.
The world rejects me—Sālva too—
And Bhīṣma’s might hath torn me through.
I seek the woods, the hermit’s life,
To burn away my sin and strife.
The fruit I reap is of my deeds—
Let penance cleanse where sorrow bleeds.
No home remains for one like me,
Disowned by love and family.
Ye sinless saints, with hearts of flame,
Instruct me how to cleanse my shame.”
Thus she spoke, her tears falling like pearls upon the hermitage soil. Then the sage Śaikhavatya, moved to compassion, addressed her kindly:
“Child of sorrow, cease thy cry—
Even pain may sanctify.
What mortals suffer is the plan
By which the gods awaken man.
Perform thy penance, steadfast, pure,
The truth within shall make thee sure.
No curse endures where faith is high—
Through tapas, even grief may die.”
Having thus comforted the daughter of Kāśī with words born of scripture and compassion, the sage and his companions promised to guide her on the path of holy austerity.