Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 1 - Jamvu-Khanda Nirmana and Bhumi Parva Chapter 1 - Vyāsa Grants Divine Sight to Sanjaya

Janamejaya said,

“O revered sage, how did those heroes — the Kurus, the Pāṇḍavas, the Somakas, and all the high-souled kings assembled from distant lands — meet in battle? Tell me how that sacred war unfolded upon the plain of Kurukṣetra.”

Vaiśampāyana said,

“Hear, O lord of men, how the sons of Kuru and Pāṇḍu, joined by the might of the Somakas, entered the field of Dharma. When the hour came, those warriors of immeasurable energy advanced upon the plain of Kurukṣetra, eager for victory and radiant with the fire of their vows. Learned in the Vedas and masters of every weapon, they took delight in the prospect of combat, confident of success and steady in mind.

They approached the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra and took their stand upon the western quarter, facing eastward toward the rising sun. There, beyond the holy region of Samantapañcaka, king Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Dharma, caused countless tents to be raised in ordered ranks. The whole earth seemed emptied of life — its cities bereft of men and horses, elephants and chariots, leaving behind only children, women, and the aged. From every corner of Jambudvīpa where the sun casts its light, multitudes had gathered to that field of destiny.

An ocean of warriors extended for many yojanas, across rivers and hills, forests and plains. The noble Yudhiṣṭhira, mindful of dharma even in war, arranged food and shelter for men and beasts alike, and set secret watchwords that his armies might know one another amid the tumult. He fixed signs and tokens for recognition when battle’s dust should veil the field.”

From east and west the banners flew,

And battle’s breath the heavens drew.

The sons of Pāṇḍu took their stand,

Like lions roaring across the land.

The king of Dharma raised his tents,

While sacred fires sent fragrance hence;

Beyond Samantapañcaka’s plain,

Resounded war’s impending strain.

“Then,” continued Vaiśampāyana, “beholding the standard of Arjuna — that celestial banner whose emblem was the mighty Hanumān — Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s son, Duryodhana, rose in majesty. A white umbrella shone above his head, while a hundred brothers and many allied kings arrayed themselves beside him.

At that sight, the valiant Pāñcālas, thirsting for the battle’s joy, blew their conches and struck cymbals whose notes mingled with the cries of elephants and neighing steeds. Seeing their vigor, Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna, seated together upon one chariot, felt their hearts kindle with divine gladness.”

Then Keśava and Pārtha bright,

Blew their conches in the light;

Pāñcajanya and Devadatta’s cry

Shook the earth and split the sky.

The sound like thunder’s dreadful roar,

Made trembling hearts their faith restore;

As beasts that hear the lion’s tone,

So men and kings were overthrown.

“The sound of their sacred shells — Gigantea and Theodotes — rent the vault of heaven. The warriors of both sides, stricken with awe, felt the blood run cold in their veins; some trembled, some lost control of body, for the breath of destiny passed over the field.

Then rose a mighty storm; the earth shook, dust veiled the sun, and a rain of flesh and blood fell from a darkened sky. Stones were carried by the wind as if hurled by unseen gods. Yet even amid these omens of terror, both armies stood radiant with courage, facing one another like two boundless oceans meeting at the end of the age.

Every house in Bhārata seemed silent, emptied of youth and valor. Only children, women, and the old remained, watching the horizon with hearts weighed by dread and hope.”

Dark grew the sky, the winds were red,

Through storm and dust the omens spread;

Two seas of valor rose and met,

Where fate had cast her diamond net.

No song was heard in town or plain,

Save drums that thundered war’s refrain;

The sons of kings their pledges made,

And waited till the dawn’s arrayed.

“Then, O king,” said Vaiśampāyana, “the Kurus, the Pāṇḍavas, and the Somakas made sacred covenants — laws of battle born of righteousness. They declared that equals should meet equals: chariot against chariot, horse against horse, elephant against elephant, and man against man. None should strike the unready or the fallen; none should wound one who flees or seeks mercy.

Those who bore no arms — the charioteers, the conch-blowers, the drummers, and those that tended beasts or bore weapons — were to be spared. Thus, even upon the field of destruction, dharma was remembered.

When these vows were uttered, the hosts gazed upon one another — sons of the same race, brothers divided by fate — and a strange wonder seized their hearts. Standing upon that consecrated ground, the kings of men shone like blazing stars awaiting the dawn of the world’s great trial.”

Thus stood the hosts, their hearts aflame,

Brothers in blood, yet foes in name;

Two mighty seas by fate aligned,

To test the law, the soul, mankind.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“When the two armies of the Kurus and the Pāṇḍavas had taken their stands—one in the east, the other in the west—awaiting the terrible war that was soon to be born, the great Ṛṣi Vyāsa, son of Satyavatī, approached Dhṛtarāṣṭra. That sage, foremost of all who knew the Vedas, the grandsire of the Bharatas, was gifted with divine sight, knowing the past, present, and future as one continuous vision. Seeing the aged king bowed with grief and tormented by the wickedness of his sons, Vyāsa spoke to him gently in private.”

“O king,” said Vyāsa, calm and deep,

“The hour has come for those who reap.

Thy sons and monarchs, proud and brave,

Shall slay each other, wave on wave.

Time ripens all — both joy and pain,

The bloom must fall, the seed remain.

Grieve not, O Bharata, for this strife,

Is woven in the web of life.”

Then the sage continued:

“O Dhṛtarāṣṭra, if thou desirest to behold this battle with thine own eyes, I can grant thee vision divine. Behold, O king, the war of thy sons and of the sons of Pāṇḍu.”

Dhṛtarāṣṭra replied with trembling voice,

“O holy one, I have no wish to see the slaughter of my kin. But through thy grace, may I hear of every event as it unfolds.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

“When the blind monarch thus chose to hear and not behold, Vyāsa, the bestower of boons, spoke again and said — ‘So be it. To Sanjaya, son of Gavalgani, I grant divine sight and unwearying power. Through him, O king, shalt thou hear all that passes in this war. Nothing, whether done in open day or hidden in the night, shall escape his vision. He shall know even the thoughts that arise within the hearts of men. Weapons shall not wound him; no fatigue shall trouble his limbs. He shall return alive when all is ended.

As for me, O mighty monarch, I shall spread through the world the fame of thy house and of the sons of Pāṇḍu. Grieve not, O bull of Bharata’s race, for destiny cannot be stayed. Where righteousness dwells, there victory abides.’”

Thus spoke the sage with eyes serene,

Who knew the things that lie between;

“The just shall triumph, though they fall,

And dharma stands, sustaining all.”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

“Having spoken thus, the holy Vyāsa, ocean of wisdom, again addressed the king and said:

‘Great shall be the slaughter, O Dhṛtarāṣṭra. I perceive countless omens in heaven and earth, portending the ruin of kings. Behold, hawks and vultures, crows and cranes, circle over the trees in flocks, crying in cruel delight, as though foretelling the feast of death. Beasts of prey roam the plains, scenting the blood of elephants and horses yet to fall. Fierce herons, shrieking from the mid-sky, wheel southward with pitiless cries.

At dawn and dusk I behold the sun dimmed by headless trunks that seem to rise before him. Clouds streaked white, red, and black, charged with lightning like the maces of gods, veil his disc in both twilights. The sun, the moon, and the stars burn unnaturally bright, their light unchanging from day to night.

On the fifteenth night of the bright half of Kārtika, the moon lost her radiance, glowing red as flame while the sky took the hue of a lotus. Kings of valor and princes mighty in arms shall lie upon the ground, sleeping the sleep of death, their maces beside them.”

The heavens weep, the stars grow pale,

The drums of war without hands wail;

The gods’ own images weep and fall,

And terror walks in every hall.

Through voiceless air strange thunders roll,

The beasts lament as if with soul;

The Arundhatī bears Vasiṣṭha’s weight,

And Rohiṇī trembles ‘neath Śani’s fate.

The moon’s bright deer hath lost its way,

And sky-born roars at midnight play;

Even cloudless heavens sound their grief—

The end draws near, beyond relief.”

Vaiśampāyana concluded:

“So spoke the sage Vyāsa, beholding the signs of doom. The very elements echoed his vision; the creatures of earth and sky trembled before the hour ordained. And Dhṛtarāṣṭra, hearing these words, sat silent and sorrowful, knowing that the wheel of time had begun to turn, and that none, not even kings, could stay its course.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

“When the two armies stood facing each other on the sacred field, ready for slaughter, the divine sage Vyāsa, son of Satyavatī, spoke again to the blind monarch Dhṛtarāṣṭra. With the inner sight that beheld both time and eternity, the sage revealed the dreadful omens that darkened the world. His voice, grave as thunder and calm as the sea, filled the royal hall with foreboding.”

“Strange births walk the earth, O king,

Beasts and birds in terror sing;

Nature’s law is turned aside,

The world hath lost her ancient guide.

Asses are born of gentle kine,

Foul unions mock the sacred line;

Trees unseasoned fruit disclose,

And monsters spring where virtue goes.”

Then Vyāsa continued in solemn tone:

“O Bharata, behold the portents that proclaim the ruin of thy race. Women, even those not with child, bring forth deformed offspring. Carnivorous beasts and birds now feed together without fear, their hunger mingled with prophecy. Creatures are born with three horns, with four eyes, with five legs; some have two heads, some two tails, some two sexual forms; they roar with open jaws and cry with unholy voices.

Horses are born with crests, with horns, with triple legs and flaming teeth. The wives of Brahmanas give birth to birds of prey and peacocks. Mares bring forth calves, bitches bring forth jackals and cocks. Even the deer and parrots utter cries of doom. Women give birth to many daughters who, as soon as they are born, dance, sing, and laugh — presaging disaster. The lowly and the ignorant rejoice in drunken laughter, foretelling the fall of order.”

“Children play with arms of war,

Their toys are death, their games a scar;

They build their towns and break them too,

As Fate her ghastly pattern drew.

The earth is rent, her womb doth quake,

The winds their constant roaring make;

Rahu devours the Sun on high,

While Ketu smokes against the sky.”

The sage went on:

“O king, the constellations themselves are darkened. Mars has turned toward Maghā; Jupiter afflicts Śravaṇa; Saturn approaches Bhaga, and Venus burns between the twin stars of Bhādrapadā. Ketu, blazing like fire with smoke, has seized the bright mansion of Jyeṣṭhā. Both the Sun and Moon oppress Rohiṇī, while Rāhu lies coiled between Citrā and Svāti. Even Dhruva, steadfast star of the north, wheels to the right as though shaken from its post.

The earth yields crops out of season — barley with five ears, rice with a hundred. Yet the cows, when milked after their calves have suckled, yield only blood. From bows leap rays of light, and swords blaze with their own fire. The very weapons seem to foresee the war and yearn for slaughter. Shields, mail, and banners glow red as flame. O king, the earth shall be a river of blood; the fallen standards shall be her rafts, and the cries of beasts her waves.”

“Lo, omens darken heaven’s face,

The Seven Seers lose their place;

Comets rage and meteors fall,

The gods grow silent through it all.

Rivers flow with blood-stained tears,

Thunder shakes the mount of years;

Fire burns blue, and altars moan,

As dharma bleeds upon her throne.”

Vyāsa continued, his voice now deep as the voice of the earth itself:

“Meteors hiss through the night; clouds without rain pour showers of blood; fierce winds howl, and dust veils the world. Rahu torments Kṛttikā; the lunar fortnights are twisted from their path. The moon wanes and waxes in thirteen days, and eclipses come when no moon should rise. The sun darkens when no shadow falls. Even this portends, O king, that a great slaughter approaches — an eclipse of men and dharma alike.

The rivers flow backward; wells bellow like bulls; mountains crumble from Kailāsa to Mandara. The four oceans swell, eager to trespass upon the continents. Fierce winds carrying stones crush the trees, while lightning splits both sacred and common groves. Fires burn red, blue, and yellow, bending leftward, reeking of corruption. Standards tremble and emit smoke, drums thunder without being struck, and cymbals rain coal-dust. Crows and vultures cry pakka, pakka from the left, settling on the banners of kings.”

“The beasts run mad, the steeds grow still,

The elephants cry at the river’s will;

The sky is red, the night is loud,

Death walks abroad in a fiery shroud.

O Bharata, turn thy heart to peace,

For fate’s design shall never cease;

The wheel of time, once set in flame,

Shall grind the world and leave no name.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

“When Vyāsa had thus spoken, his words heavy with the scent of destiny, Dhṛtarāṣṭra bowed his head and said —

‘All this, O holy one, is ordained of old. The time has come; the destruction of men cannot be turned away. Yet, if my sons and the kings of the earth die fighting as true Kṣatriyas, they shall attain to heaven. Casting away their lives in the fire of battle, they shall win immortal fame and eternal joy in the worlds beyond.’”

So spoke the blind king, firm in creed,

Accepting time’s unchanging deed;

For those who die in dharma’s fight,

Win deathless fame and heaven’s light.