novelraw Arc 3 – Yudha Arambha Parva - Chapter 7 - Dawn of the Second Day
Arc 3 – Yudha Arambha Parva - Chapter 7 - Dawn of the Second Day
Sañjaya said:
When night had melted into dawn, and the eastern sky flushed red as blood,
the son of Śāntanu—aged yet unconquered, the grandsire Bhīṣma—
gave the signal for battle. The conches of the Kurus answered his command;
chariots were yoked, elephants armoured, and the earth itself seemed to tremble
beneath the restless tread of thousands preparing for death.
Then, desiring victory for thy sons, O King, the grandsire formed that fateful array known as the Garuḍa-vyūha, the Eagle of Destruction.
On the beak of that celestial bird stood Bhīṣma himself,
his white banner gleaming like the morning moon.
Its two eyes were the venerable Droṇa, son of Bharadvāja,
and Kṛtavarman, scion of the Sātvatas, each surrounded by ten thousand cars.
In its head were placed Aśvatthāman and Kṛpa,
guarded by the Trigartas, the Matsyas, the Kekayas, and the fierce Vaṭadhanas.
The neck of the eagle bore Bhūriśravā, Śala, Śalya, and the great Bhagadatta,
with the Madrakas, Sindhu-Sauvīras, and the Pañcanadas.
Upon its broad back stood Duryodhana himself,
shining amid his brothers and chiefs like Indra upon Airāvata.
Vinda and Anuvinda of Avanti, with the Kāmbojas, Śakas, and Sūrasenas,
stretched wide behind to form the tail.
The Magadhas and Kalingas, together with the tribes of the Daśārṇas, held the right wing in gleaming mail; while on the left were the Karūṣas, the Vikuñjas, the Muṇḍas, and the Kaundivṛṣas with the prince Vṛhadbala. Thus spread the Garuḍa of the Kurus across the plain of Dharma, its pinions glittering with steel.
Its cry was drums, its wings were mail,
Its eyes were wrath, its breath was fire;
It shadowed earth from vale to vale—
A bird of death, of Time’s desire.
Beholding that mighty host, Savyasāchin, the left-handed archer, fashioned a counter-array with Dṛṣṭadyumna by his side— a crescent vast as the rising moon, bright with banners and the flash of arms.
On the right horn stood Bhīmasena,
a tempest among men, surrounded by kings of diverse realms,
each armed for slaughter with every weapon known.
Next were Virāṭa and Drupada, aged lions of war,
and near them Nīla of the envenomed arrows.
After Nīla came Dṛṣṭaketu of the Cedis,
with the warriors of Kāśī, Karūṣa, and Paurava arrayed behind him.
In the centre stood Dṛṣṭadyumna, the son of Pṛṣata,
with Śikhaṇḍin, the Pañcālas, and the valiant Prabhadrakas,
forming the heart of that moonlike host.
There also was King Yudhiṣṭhira the Just,
protected by his elephants that gleamed like storm clouds.
Near him stood Sātyaki, the grandson of Śini,
and the five sons of Draupadī, their bows strung and eyes aflame.
Then came Irāvān, the serpent-bannered prince,
and Ghaṭotkaca, Bhīma’s son, dark as a thundercloud,
with the Kekayas roaring beside him.
On the left horn of the crescent shone the best of men—
he whose charioteer was Janārdana himself,
the protector of the universe guiding the hand of his friend.
Thus the sons of Pāṇḍu formed their counter-array, moon to meet eagle, fate against fate— each host shining like twin fires blazing at the end of time.
When the signal was given, both armies surged together.
Chariots collided, elephants roared, horses screamed,
and the footmen shouted till the sky shook with their cries.
Everywhere, O King, cars and elephants
rushed against each other like mountains in motion.
The rattle of wheels, the clang of bells,
the blare of conches, the roll of kettle-drums—
all mingled into one thunderous roar that made the earth shiver.
Arrows flew as lightning falls,
Maces rang on splintered mail;
From helm to heel each hero’s call
Rose loud as surf against the gale.
So, O Bhārata, began once more that terrible day’s battle—
the hosts of thy sons and the sons of Pāṇḍu
striking, slaying, and thundering beneath the pitiless sun,
while heaven itself looked down in silence.
The Clash of the Hosts — The Carnage Unbounded
Sañjaya said:
When the armies of the Kurus and the sons of Pāṇḍu had drawn their vast ranks into order, the chariots glittering like serpents’ coils upon the earth, Dhanañjaya, wielder of Gāṇḍīva, began the slaughter. From his bow poured ceaseless arrows, feathered with gold and tipped with fire, and wherever they fell, leaders of thy divisions went down like trees before the storm. Arjuna moved through the Kuru ranks as the Destroyer himself at the world’s end, and the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, though pierced and scattered, yet fought on, their hearts fixed on death or glory.
With minds unturned from battle and eyes red with resolve, they broke the lines of the Pāṇḍavas in many places, and were themselves broken in turn. Both armies mingled, reeled, and shifted; men fled and returned; the dust of their confusion veiled the sun and made the four quarters one grey mist. None knew direction or command, and they fought guided only by the colors of banners, the cries of tribes, and the watchwords of their kin.
The Kaurava formation, guarded by Droṇa of the unerring arms, held firm like a fortress; and the Pāṇḍava crescent, warded by Arjuna and the mighty Bhīma, stood unshaken as a mountain. From both sides poured forth cars and elephants in ranks so dense that their standards brushed one another; and the field became a single storm of iron.
Cavalry clashed with cavalry, hurling lances and slicing with long, curved swords. Chariot-warriors sought out their equals and felled them with arrows tipped with lightning. Elephant met elephant, tusk against tusk, and their riders smote one another with spears and axes. Footmen grappled hand to hand, striking down their own class with short arrows and battle-axes, shouting their lineages as they fell. Car-warriors brought down elephants with whetted shafts; elephant-men crushed cars beneath their beasts’ feet; horsemen pierced the ranks of chariots and were themselves cut down by footmen in turn.
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Blood darkened dust, dust brightened flame,
And men forgot both name and aim.
Helm struck helm, and sword met hide—
The earth became the sea’s red tide.
Everywhere the struggle was mingled and marvelous. The ground shone as if strewn with garlands, for upon it lay shattered standards, bows, spears, broken lances, golden housings torn from elephants, embroidered blankets soaked in blood, spiked maces and clubs, and polished swords still reflecting the sun. Kampanas, darts, coats of mail rent open, hooks and scimitars, and arrows winged with gold lay in heaps like offerings to Rudra.
The earth, miry with blood and flesh, grew impassable with the bodies of men and beasts. Dust turned to clay; the sun came clear again, and the quarters glowed crimson with death. Headless trunks still stood upright, dripping and swaying, as if the world itself had been cut from its moorings.
Then Bhīṣma and Droṇa, and Jayadratha lord of Sindhu, with Purumitra, Vikarna, and Śakuni of Gāndhāra—lion-hearted all—rallied the Kuru ranks and broke through the Pāṇḍava line. But Bhīmasena, Ghaṭotkaca the Rākṣasa, Sātyaki of the Vṛṣṇis, Chekitāna, and the five sons of Draupadī, with their allied kings, surged back and crushed thy troops and sons as the gods once crushed the Dānavas in the war of heaven.
The Kṣatriyas, striking one another, shone in the blood of their wounds like blossoming kiṃśuka trees. Victors and vanquished alike seemed celestial in splendor, gleaming through the dust like stars seen through clouds.
Then Duryodhana, thy son, came forth supported by a thousand chariots, roaring defiance at the Pāṇḍavas and the fierce Rākṣasa. And the sons of Pāṇḍu, gathering their warriors, rushed against Bhīṣma and Droṇa, those twin mountains of valour. Arjuna himself, crowned and radiant, went forth blazing with wrath against the foremost kings.
Abhimanyu, his youthful lion of a son, and Sātyaki beside him, drove hard against the hosts of Suvala’s son, Śakuni.
Again the war awoke in flame,
Thunder answered thunder’s claim;
Iron wings filled heaven’s dome—
Each shaft a cry, each blow a home.
Thus once more the terrible combat was joined—
both armies burning with equal fury,
each bent upon victory,
each seeking its destiny in the red heart of battle.
The Wrath of Arjuna — The Collapse and Rally of the Kaurava Host
Sañjaya said:
Then, O King, when the fury of the day had risen to its height, many monarchs—burning with wrath and despair—surrounded Phālguna on every side. Thousands of chariots closed upon him, their wheels grinding the earth like thunderclouds descending. They hemmed him in, and from every quarter poured down volleys of arrows so thick that the sky itself was dimmed. Lances with gleaming heads, iron clubs, axes, barbed darts, and maces studded with spikes were hurled at Arjuna’s chariot in torrents, filling the air like a storm of locusts before the monsoon.
But the son of Pṛthā, calm amid the tempest, rose against it with his gold-winged shafts. Each weapon that sped toward him was cut down mid-air and fell harmlessly to the trampled ground.
Arrows sang against arrows’ song,
Spears met the falcon’s cry of steel;
Each flash unmade what rushed along—
The sky itself began to reel.
Beholding that superhuman mastery, the gods and Dānavas, the Gandharvas and Piśācas, the serpents and Rākṣasas cried aloud in wonder: “Excellent! Excellent is Vibhatsu!”
Elsewhere, the Gandharvas, together with Śakuni, Suvala’s son, rushed upon Sātyaki and Abhimanyu. The Gāndhāra host, raging like wildfire, shattered Sātyaki’s car with weapons of every kind. Abandoning his ruined chariot, the Vṛṣṇi hero leapt onto Abhimanyu’s, and together those lions of men mowed down Śakuni’s ranks, their twin bows flashing like comets tearing the sky.
Meanwhile, Droṇa and Bhīṣma, steadfast as mountain peaks amid the storm, laid waste the divisions of Yudhiṣṭhira with their feathered shafts. But the son of Dharma, joined by Nakula and Sahadeva, charged upon Droṇa’s line, and there arose a battle fierce as that of gods and Asuras in ancient time.
Bhīmasena and Ghaṭotkaca fought beside them, performing deeds of strength and terror. Then Duryodhana himself advanced to check them, and Bhīma, laughing and aflame, shot an arrow that struck his cousin full in the breast. Pierced deep and senseless with pain, Duryodhana swooned upon his chariot, and his charioteer swiftly bore him from the field.
The Kaurava ranks, seeing their king struck down, wavered and broke. Bhīma, roaring like Death himself, smote the fleeing host with keen shafts. Dhr̥ṣṭadyumna and Yudhiṣṭhira, in the sight of Droṇa and Bhīṣma, shattered their divisions like Indra cleaving a cloud. Though the grandsire and the preceptor strove to rally them, panic spread; warriors fled like deer before the forest fire.
Then Abhimanyu and Sātyaki, standing together on one car, fell upon Śakuni’s army and hewed it down, blazing like sun and moon meeting in full glory upon the same horizon.
Twin fires raged through shadowed sky,
Bright as suns that never die;
Night itself withdrew in fear—
The light of heroes conquered here.
And elsewhere Arjuna himself, his wrath unbounded, poured arrows upon thy host as rain upon parched earth, till the Kaurava army, trembling and broken, fled in grief and fear.
Beholding this flight, Bhīṣma and Droṇa, burning with anger, strove again to stem the tide for Duryodhana’s sake. Then the king himself, revived from swoon, rose upon his chariot and rode through the ranks, his voice calling men back to courage.
“Stand, warriors of Kurukṣetra!” he cried; and at his call the princes halted. Seeing their lords hold ground, the common soldiers too turned, ashamed to flee. The host rallied again like the swelling sea under the moon’s command.
Duryodhana, rejoicing to see his army reformed, rode swiftly to Bhīṣma, the son of Śāntanu, and said:
“O grandsire, why does my host fall back
While thou and Droṇa still stand whole?
When Gāṇḍīva blazes, dost thou slack—
Or spare the foe, through softened soul?
If peace thou sought, thou shouldst have told
Ere yet this war’s dread fire was fanned;
But now my hope grows faint and cold—
Unless thou fight, with steadfast hand.”
Hearing these words, Bhīṣma laughed aloud, his eyes blazing with wrath, and answered:
“Many times, O king, I warned thee plain—
The sons of Pāṇḍu none can chain.
Not gods with Indra’s might combined
Can bind the lords of lion mind.
Yet what my aged strength can bear,
That shalt thou see, O monarch, there.
Alone I’ll meet them on this field,
Before their gaze my vow is sealed.”
At these words, Duryodhana’s heart swelled with joy. He ordered the conches blown and the drums beaten, and the Kurus raised a roar that shook the sky. The sons of Pāṇḍu answered with their own peal of shells and cymbals, and across the field the twin clamors mingled—a challenge and a promise.
Conch called to conch,
Drum answered drum;
The day’s red fire—
To war had come.
Thus the hosts prepared once more for slaughter, and the earth itself braced for the storm of Bhīṣma’s wrath.