novelraw Arc 3 – Yudha Arambha Parva - Chapter 8 - The Wrath of Krishna and the River of Arrows
Arc 3 – Yudha Arambha Parva - Chapter 8 - The Wrath of Krishna and the River of Arrows
Sañjaya said:
Then, O King, when the fury of battle reached its zenith, the yellow garments of Kṛṣṇa fluttered in the wind, shining like a cloud charged with lightning. Upon his raised arm gleamed the radiant discus Sudarśana — a lotus of flame whose stalk was his own arm, whose petals were blades of light. It shone like that primeval lotus born from Nārāyaṇa’s navel, bright as the dawn.
The wrath of Kṛṣṇa was the morning sun
That made that lotus blaze and run;
Its leaves were keen as razors bright,
Its stem — the arm that wielded light.
Kṛṣṇa’s body was the tranquil lake,
his arm the stalk that sprang from it,
and the discus its flaming bloom.
Beholding the younger brother of Indra, roaring with wrath and armed with that wheel of flame, all beings wailed aloud, thinking the end of the Kurus had come. He appeared, O Bhārata, like the fire of dissolution — the Saṃvarta that devours the worlds at the end of Time. The Lord of the universe blazed like a comet risen to consume creation.
Then the grandsire, Śāntanu’s son, standing fearless on his chariot, bow and arrow in hand, beheld that divine person advancing. He cried aloud:
“Come, come, O Lord of the gods,
O thou whose dwelling is the universe!
I bow to thee, wielder of mace and sword and Śārṅga!
Hurl me down, O Refuge of all beings, from this chariot!
Slain by thee, O Kṛṣṇa, my fortune is made —
in this world and the next.
Great is the honor thou showest me,
O Lord of the Vṛṣṇis and the Andhakas!
My name shall be sung in the three worlds!”
Hearing Bhīṣma’s words, Kṛṣṇa rushed upon him, his eyes like blazing suns, and said in a voice that shook the heavens:
“Thou art the root of this slaughter on earth!
Thou shalt behold Duryodhana slain today.
A wise minister should restrain his king
from the ruin of gambling and greed;
The one who counsels evil
should be cast away as the blind of heart.”
But Bhīṣma replied calmly, his eyes fixed on the Lord of the worlds:
“Destiny is all-powerful, O Keśava.
The Yadus, for their good, abandoned Kaṃsa.
I said the same to Dhṛtarāṣṭra —
yet he heard me not.
For him whose ears are closed to wisdom,
destiny itself distorts the mind.”
Thus spoke the grandsire. Meanwhile Arjuna, that lion among men, leapt from his chariot and ran after Kṛṣṇa, who, blazing with rage, strode toward Bhīṣma like a storm through the forest. Seizing the Lord by both hands, Arjuna strove to hold him back, but Kṛṣṇa dragged him still, like a tempest bearing away a tree. Only at the tenth step did Arjuna succeed, catching the mighty One by the legs and halting him.
Then Pārtha, bowing his head, said in grief and reverence:
“O Keśava, quell thy wrath!
Thou art the refuge of the Pāṇḍavas.
I swear by my sons and brothers —
I shall not turn back from battle
till I have done thy bidding.
By thy command shall the Kurus fall!”
Hearing this vow, Janārdana’s heart was appeased. Smiling once more, he ascended his chariot, radiant with golden ornaments, his discus still upon his arm. Taking again the reins he had cast aside, Kṛṣṇa raised his conch Pāñcajanya, and its thunderous blare filled the heavens.
Beholding him thus — adorned with necklace and armlets, his curls dusted from battle, his eyes fierce, his teeth gleaming white — the Kurus uttered a cry of dread. Drums and cymbals clashed, conches roared, and the earth quaked beneath the rattle of wheels. But all those sounds were swallowed by the twang of Gāṇḍīva, like the roar of thunder drowning the wind.
The bowstring sang, the earth replied,
Clouds shuddered, stars took flight;
The lord of the ape-bannered car
Filled the world with sound and light.
Then the Kuru kings — Duryodhana, Bhīṣma, and Bhūriśravā — shone like comets rising to devour a constellation, rushing upon him with weapons raised. Bhūriśravā hurled seven gold-feathered javelins; Duryodhana cast a gleaming lance; Śalya sent forth a mace; and Bhīṣma, a dart that flashed like lightning.
Arjuna, laughing lightly, met them all. Seven shafts of his cut down the javelins, one severed Duryodhana’s lance, and two cleft the mace and dart asunder. Then, drawing his Gāṇḍīva with both hands, he invoked the Mahendra-astra, the weapon of the thunder-god.
From the heavens poured a storm of arrows, glowing like fire,
and with that blazing deluge Arjuna swept over the Kaurava ranks,
cutting down arms, banners, car-tops, elephants, and steeds.
The twang of his bow filled the quarters and silenced all sound of drum and conch.
When King Virāṭa and Drupada heard that mighty string resound,
they rallied their hosts with fearless hearts,
but the Kauravas, struck with terror, dared not move toward that dreadful music.
The field was strewn with mangled men, sundered chariots, and broken mail.
Elephants fell with golden housings torn,
their trunks and riders pierced by shafts of flame.
A river of blood then coursed the field,
Its waves were red, its foam was flesh;
Its banks were corpses of men and beasts,
Its mire — their marrow fresh.
Helmets floated like lotus buds,
Banners like reeds went down the tide;
And jackals drank from that dread stream
Where Kṛṣṇa’s thunderbolt did ride.
Thus did Arjuna’s arrows form the terrible river of slaughter,
flowing with gore and fat, its shores strewn with shattered armor,
its trees the towering Rākṣasas that stalked the dead.
Vultures and wolves feasted upon the fallen,
and the living beheld it as the dread Vaitaraṇī,
the river that souls must cross in death.
Beholding the foremost Kaurava warriors thus slain,
the Cedis, Pāñcālas, Matsyas, and Kaikayas
raised a cry of triumph that shook the field.
Arjuna, their invincible champion, had crushed the might of Bhīṣma and Drona,
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and all the army of Dhṛtarāṣṭra trembled like reeds before a gale.
The ape-banner waved, the Lord’s conch roared,
The sun dipped crimson to the west;
The Kurus fled, the Pandavas soared—
Day sank upon the field of rest.
Then Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna, filled with joy,
sounded their conches in victory.
The hosts of the Kurus, broken and bloodied,
withdrew toward their tents as the sun set.
Seeing the fiery Mahendra weapon still blazing in the heavens,
they thought the world itself was ending.
And thus, when night descended,
the armies ceased from slaughter and retired for rest.
The warriors murmured through the darkening camps:
“In today’s battle, Arjuna hath slain ten thousand charioteers,
and seven hundred elephants; the western kings, the Sauviras,
the Kṣudrakas and Mālavas—all have fallen.
The feat he hath achieved is beyond mortal power.
Even Bhīṣma, Drona, and the Sindhu-lord could not withstand him.”
So spoke they, trembling and awed,
as they entered their tents bright with torches and lamps.
But in the heart of every Kaurava echoed the same fear—
that tomorrow, when the conch of Kṛṣṇa again would sound,
the sun might rise no more for them.
The Lotus-Discus and the River of Slaughter
Sañjaya said:
The hem of Keśava’s yellow robe streamed upon the wind like a storm-cloud veined with lightning. In his uplifted hand the lotus of the discus—Sudarśana—glowed: its stalk was his beautiful arm, its petals were razors of light, its heart the sun at dawn, like the primeval lotus that once arose from Nārāyaṇa’s navel. Kṛṣṇa’s wrath was that very sunrise which made the lotus blaze, his body the still lake from which the living stalk arose, his right arm the pillar bearing that flaming bloom. Beholding the younger brother of Mahendra advance, roaring and wheel-armed, all creatures wailed aloud, deeming the Kurus already doomed. Vasudeva looked like the Samvarta fire at the Yuga’s end, the preceptor of the worlds flaring forth like a comet risen to consume all life.
Gold-circled, storm-eyed, wheel in hand,
He strode as Time across the land;
The lotus burned, the heavens bowed—
Dharma thundered from the cloud.
Seeing that divine Person draw near with discus raised, Śāntanu’s son, fearless on his car, bow and arrow strung, addressed him: “Come, come, O Lord of gods, whose home is the universe! I bow to thee, wielder of mace, of sword, of Śārṅga. Hurl me from this chariot, O Refuge of creatures! If I fall by thee, Kṛṣṇa, blessed am I in both worlds. Great is the honor thou bestowest, O Lord of Vṛṣṇis and Andhakas—my dignity shall be sung in the three worlds.”
Kṛṣṇa rushed upon him and spoke, terrible and just: “Thou art the root of this slaughter. Today shalt thou behold Duryodhana slain. A wise minister walking the path of dharma restrains a king given to the vice of dice. He of perverted duty, misled by fate, must be cast away.”
Bhīṣma answered gently, steady as a mountain: “Destiny is all-powerful, O Keśava. The Yādavas, for their good, abandoned Kaṃsa. So counselled I Dhṛtarāṣṭra, but he would not hear. When gain is none for the listener, destiny twists his understanding to his own hurt.”
Meanwhile Pārtha leapt from his car and ran on foot after the Chief of the Yādus. Kṛṣṇa, aflame with rage, drew Arjuna behind him as a tempest bends a lone tree. Seizing his legs with all his might, the high-souled Pārtha halted him at the tenth stride. Then, bowing, Arjuna spoke: “Quell thy wrath, O Keśava. Thou art our refuge. I swear by my sons and my brothers: I will not turn from the deed to which I am pledged. Command me, O younger brother of Indra, and I shall annihilate the Kurus.”
Vow-bound, he clasped the Lotus-Lord:
“I am thy bow, be thou the word.
By blood and breath, by kin and name,
I’ll bear thy will through death and flame.”
Janārdana, appeased by that oath, smiled and remounted the car, discus yet upon his arm. Taking up the reins once more, he raised Pāñcajanya; its thunder filled the quarters and the sky. Seeing him adorned with necklace, armlets, and earrings, lashes dust-streaked, teeth white as conch, the Kuru heroes cried aloud. Cymbals, drums, kettledrums, the rumble of wheels and the roar of men mingled to a single fierce uproar. Then the twang of Gāṇḍīva rolled forth like thunder, and from Pāṇḍu’s son bright shafts blazed outward in all directions.
The Kuru king with a mighty force, and with Bhīṣma and Bhūriśravā, comet-bright to consume a constellation, rushed upon him. Bhūriśravā hurled seven gold-winged javelins; Duryodhana cast a vehement lance; Śalya a mace; the son of Śāntanu a lightning-bright dart. Arjuna, with seven arrows, sheared the seven javelins; with one more he cut Duryodhana’s lance; with two he clove the mace and the dart. Then, drawing Gāṇḍīva with both hands and great force, he invoked with proper mantra the terrible Mahendra-weapon, and lo, it shone in the vault of heaven.
With that storm of fire-bright arrows the diademed bowman checked the whole Kaurava host. Arms, bows, banners, and car-tops fell; the shafts pierced kings and elephants and steeds. Filling the quarters with keen and dreadful flights, Pṛthā’s son shook the hearts of foes with Gāṇḍīva’s music; drums, conches, wheels—all fell silent beneath that single string. Knowing that sound to be Arjuna’s bow, King Virāta and Drupada of the Pāñcālas came on with steadfast hearts; but thy warriors stood transfixed, none daring to advance toward that dreadful twang.
The bowstring sang; the world turned pale;
Steel broke like reeds before a gale.
Where thunder walked, all sounds were one—
The law of battle: Arjuna.
Then kings were hewn down, and charioteers with them; elephants with golden housings and proud standards toppled, their trunks torn by broad-headed shafts. Standards of countless lords, set above their engines and illusions, were shorn and cast aside. Foot and car, steed and elephant fell in heaps—nerves numbed, life severed—beneath Dhanañjaya’s rain. Many a warrior’s mail and flesh were sliced clean by Indra’s own namesake weapon.
Arjuna’s arrows made a river on the field, its waters blood from mangled men, its froth their fat; its breadth was fierce; the bodies of elephants and horses formed its banks; its mire was entrails, marrow, and human flesh; vast Rākṣasas stood along it like tall trees. Crowns of heads with streaming hair floated as weed; ridges of corpses banked its thousand channels; smashed cuirasses lay like pebbles. Jackals and wolves, cranes and vultures, hyenas and night-feeders thronged its shores. The living beheld that torrent of fat, marrow, and blood—born of Arjuna’s hail, embodiment of human ferocity—and it seemed to them the dread Vaitaraṇī.
Beholding the foremost Kurus thus slain by Phālguna, the Cedis, Pāñcālas, Kuruṣas, Matsyas, and all allies of the sons of Pāṇḍu raised a single shout to unman their foes. They cried victory, seeing the chosen troops, guarded by mightiest captains, laid low by Kiritin, terror of enemies, as a lion scatters trembling deer. Then the bearer of Gāṇḍīva and Janārdana, both exultant, roared aloud.
The Kurus—with Bhīṣma, Droṇa, Duryodhana, and Vālhīka—mangled by Arjuna’s weapons, saw the sun draw in his rays and that irresistible Indra-weapon unfurled like the end of the age. They withdrew their forces for the night. Dhanañjaya too, work accomplished, glory won, seeing the sun redden and twilight set, returned with his brothers to the camp.
When darkness neared, a great tumult rose among the Kurus. Men said: “Today Arjuna slew ten thousand chariot-warriors and seven hundred elephants. The westerners, the tribes of the Sauviras, the Kṣudrakas and Mālavas—all are fallen. None could have achieved this but Dhanañjaya. Śrutāyuṣ of the Amvaṣṭhas, Durmarśaṇa, Citraseṇa, Droṇa and Kṛpa, the Sindhu-lord, Vālhīka, Bhūriśravā, Śalya, Śala—warriors by the hundred, and Bhīṣma himself—were today overmatched by the angry son of Pṛthā, Kiritin, that peerless car-warrior.”
So speaking, O Bhārata, thy warriors went from the field to their tents. And all the Kuru combatants, hearts shaken by Arjuna, entered pavilions bright with a thousand torches and myriad lamps, while the night carried through every rank the fear of Gāṇḍīva’s dawn.