Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 3 – Yudha Arambha Parva - Chapter 9 - Bhīṣma and Arjuna — The Meeting of the Two Oceans

Sañjaya said:

When night melted into dawn, O Bhārata, and the eastern sky grew pale with the breath of morning, the high-souled Bhīṣma, blazing with renewed wrath, arrayed his hosts and advanced at the head of the Kaurava army. Around him gathered Drona, Duryodhana, Vālhīka, Durmarṣaṇa, Citraseṇa, Jayadratha of Sindhu’s race, and many other kings—royal warriors of great renown, surrounded by their divisions. In their midst the son of Śāntanu shone like the Lord of the Gods among the immortals, his white standard bearing the device of five palmyra trees swaying against the wind.

The elephants in front, adorned with silken banners of red, yellow, black, and brown, waved their standards like clouds streaked with lightning. That vast army—gleaming with gold and steel, filled with elephants and steeds, kings and heroes—looked like the sky in the rainy season, heavy with thunderclouds flashing fire. Then, impetuous as the Ganges flowing toward the sea, the Kaurava host surged forward beneath Bhīṣma’s command, eager for battle.

From afar, Arjuna—his banner bearing the ape of Indra—beheld that mighty tide of men and beasts, a moving mountain of iron and fire. Upon his chariot yoked with white steeds, his tall banner streaming in the wind, stood the son of Pṛthā, radiant as a second sun, and beside him, reins in hand, stood the Lord of the Yādavas.

Beholding that ape-bannered hero and the chariot-shaft wrapped in gold, the Kauravas trembled, their hearts shaken like reeds before a storm. Their array—mighty and complete, protected at each corner by four thousand elephants—seemed a living fortress. The Pāṇḍava host, marshalled to meet it, mirrored its grandeur—an array so perfect that neither men nor gods had seen its like before.

Then from both sides burst the tumult of war:

the thunder of a thousand drums,

the deep blare of conches,

the clang of cymbals and the roar of men.

But soon the hiss of arrows and the twang of bows

overwhelmed that tumult,

and the earth and sky became one trembling voice.

Dust rose in vast billows, veiling the firmament like a canopy of ochre mist. Beneath that shroud, warriors rushed like thunderbolts. Chariots crashed against chariots, elephants gored elephants, and horsemen struck down horsemen with spears and curved swords. Shields studded with gold stars shattered; broken banners fell like meteors. The cries of men and beasts mingled with the whistling of arrows—an orchestra of death.

Wheels screamed upon the trampled plain,

Steel rang on steel in endless chain;

Dust turned to smoke, and smoke to flame—

None knew his friend, nor called his name.

Charioteers and steeds rolled beneath shattered cars.

Elephants, maddened and blood-drenched, crushed footmen beneath their feet;

horsemen clashed headlong, lances splintering,

faces pale as ashes, eyes glazed with fury.

The field became a sea of ruin, dreadful to behold.

When footmen, steeds, and elephants fell in heaps and confusion reigned, Bhīṣma, surrounded by his circle of heroes, beheld from afar the ape-banner flashing through the haze. The son of Śāntanu, his banner marked with palmyras, advanced against Arjuna, whose chariot blazed like lightning for the speed of its steeds and the fire of its weapons.

Then against that son of Indra, equal to Indra himself, rushed Drona, Kripa, Śalya, Vivimśati, Duryodhana, and Somadatta’s son—each eager for glory.

But from the Pāṇḍava ranks sped forth Abhimanyu, Arjuna’s son, golden-mailed and radiant, skilled in every weapon. Baffling the missiles of those mighty warriors, he shone among them like sacred fire upon the altar, fanned by the hymns of priests.

Then Bhīṣma, that elder of the Kurus, like Death himself, created a river upon the field whose waters were blood. But avoiding the youthful Abhimanyu, he turned upon Arjuna himself, the wielder of Gāṇḍīva.

Bow met bow, and flame met flame;

Heaven shook to hear their name.

The storm of arrows veiled the sky,

Earth wept beneath their battle-cry.

Arjuna, crowned with diadem and garlands, drew Gāṇḍīva till it thundered. His shafts, falling thick as rain, shattered Bhīṣma’s weapons mid-flight. The grandsire answered with a tempest of his own—arrows that darkened the sun—yet the son of Pṛthā met and scattered them, as day disperses night.

So those two lions among men fought on,

each striking and countering without fail,

each glowing with the fire of his own might.

The Kurus and the Śṛñjayas stood still to watch,

awed by that single combat—

Bhīṣma the invincible and Dhanañjaya the divine—

bow-strings roaring like twin clouds,

their duel steady as destiny itself.

The field grew still, the world held breath,

To watch two gods contend with death;

Thunder twined with lightning’s flame—

None saw the end, none spoke a name.

Thus, O King, those two mighty souls,

each ocean of valor and virtue,

met upon the shore of destiny—

and the world itself trembled to behold.

The Lion Cubs in the Storm of Kings

Sañjaya said:

Then, O King, Drona’s son, Bhūriśravā, Citraseṇa, and the valiant son of Sāmyamānī—five tigers among men—rushed together against Subhadrā’s son. Alone he faced them all, radiant with youth and strength, like a lion cub in the forest battling five full-grown elephants. None among them could equal him in aim, in quickness of hand, in mastery of weapons, or in the fire of his courage. Beholding his son thus blazing with prowess, Pārtha uttered a roar that shook the field like the lion’s cry that wakens the herd.

Seeing their ranks broken and thy warriors thrown into confusion by the boy’s fury, the princes of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s host surrounded him on all sides. But Abhimanyu, firm in heart and radiant as his father in valor, turned upon them with undiminished spirit. His bow shone like a second sun, ceaselessly drawn and loosed, filling the air with a rain of death.

His bow was fire, his arrows flame,

His wrath the storm no man could tame;

Alone he stood, the lion’s might,

Against the herds that fled his sight.

He pierced the son of Droṇa with a single shaft, struck Śalya with five, and with eight keen arrows brought down the standard of Sāmyamānī’s son. Then, seeing Somadatta’s son hurl at him a golden dart flashing like a serpent, the heir of Arjuna cleft it in twain before it reached him. Before the eyes of Śalya he cut down that warrior’s hundred shafts and slew his four steeds, leaving the lord of Madra amazed.

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Then Bhūriśravā, Śalya, Aśvatthāmā, Sāmyamānī, and Śala, struck with fear at the might of Kṛṣṇa’s son, fell back unable to endure his arms. Seeing their champions driven thus, thy son Duryodhana urged the Trigartas, the Madras, and the Kekayas—five and twenty thousand in number, masters of every weapon and fearless in battle—to surround both Kiritin and his son.

Beholding father and son encircled by that vast sea of foes, the commander of the Pāṇḍava host, the prince of the Pāñcālas, raised his bow in wrath. Supported by legions of elephants, chariots, horse, and foot, Dṛṣṭadyumna advanced like a flaming mountain against the Madras and Kekayas. The Pāñcāla divisions under his standard glowed like a storm-cloud heavy with lightning as they rushed forward.

Then the son of Drupada, with three sharp arrows, struck Śaradvat’s son upon the shoulder. With ten shafts he smote the Madras and swiftly slew the protector of Kṛtavarman’s rear. Next, with a broad-headed arrow, he cut down Dāmana, heir of the high-souled Paurava, and pierced the son of Sāmyamānī with ten shafts, and his charioteer with as many more.

The prince of Pāñcāla, wrathful, red,

Licked dry the dust his own blood fed;

His eyes were fire, his bow a storm—

None might withstand his godlike form.

Enraged by the wounds, Dṛṣṭadyumna severed his foe’s bow and answered with a storm of twenty-five arrows, slaying his steeds and the guards that rode beside him. Standing on his shattered car, the son of Sāmyamānī lifted a bright scimitar of tempered steel and strode toward the Pāñcāla prince on foot.

All the warriors of both hosts beheld him come on like a serpent fallen from the heavens, his sword whirling in arcs of fire, his tread that of an enraged elephant. The son of Drupada, roused to wrath, seized his massive mace and stood ready. When the swordsman came within reach of the car, Dṛṣṭadyumna struck, shattering his foe’s head; the scimitar and shield fell from the lifeless hands, and the warrior’s body crashed upon the dust.

The sword was flame, the mace was thunder,

Earth itself was rent asunder;

One fell, one stood—his glory won,

His name resounded with the sun.

Loud cries of grief arose among thy troops, O King, when that mighty car-warrior fell. Then Sāmyamānī himself, beholding his son slain, rushed like a tempest upon Dṛṣṭadyumna, his heart ablaze with vengeance. All the kings on both sides turned their gaze to that spot where the two princes, equal in valor, met in wrath.

The furious Sāmyamānī struck Prishata’s son with three arrows, as a mahout goads an elephant with iron hooks. Śalya too, indignant, smote the Pāñcāla prince upon the breast. Thus once more the battle flared like the meeting of two mountains—its echo rolling through heaven and earth.

The sky grew dark, the earth grew red,

Gods leaned to watch the blood they shed;

Where princes strove and heroes died,

Dharma and Death stood side by side.

And thus, O monarch, in that vast and terrible field, the fire of Abhimanyu’s valor and the storm of Dṛṣṭadyumna’s wrath shook the armies of men, even as the thunder of Time shakes the worlds.

The Dance of the Destroyer

Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:

“O Sañjaya, I deem destiny to be mightier than effort. For my son’s vast army is ceaselessly hewn down by the sons of Pāṇḍu. Ever thou speakest of my troops as slaughtered, fallen, bereft of courage, while the sons of Kuntī remain unwounded, unwearied, and full of cheer. Thou tellest me always of my warriors as broken and theirs as triumphant. Alas, O Sūta, I hear of endless calamities, unbearable griefs born of Duryodhana’s deeds. I see no path, O Sañjaya, by which the sons of Pāṇḍu may be weakened and mine may win.”

Sañjaya said:

“This mighty ruin, O King, hath its root in thine own doing. Hear, then, of the slaughter of men and steeds and elephants, a tale heavy with death.

Dṛṣṭadyumna, struck by Śalya with nine arrows, answered with a storm of steel, checking the Madra king in wondrous display. Their duel blazed fiercely, neither pausing for breath, until Śalya severed the prince’s bow with a keen-edged shaft and covered him with arrows as rain-laden clouds pour upon the mountain’s side. But while Prishata’s son endured that deluge, Abhimanyu, his heart aflame, sped toward the Madra’s chariot, and within bowshot pierced his breast with three bright shafts.

Like a comet leaping through the dark,

The son of Arjuna loosed his spark;

His arrows sang, his bow was flame—

None could withstand his deathless aim.

Then thy warriors—Duryodhana, Vikarna, Duḥśāsana, Vivimśati, Durmarṣaṇa, Duḥsala, Citraseṇa, Durmukha, Satyavrata, and Purumitra—rallied around the Madra king’s car. But from the other side advanced Bhīmasena, Dṛṣṭadyumna, the five sons of Draupadī, Abhimanyu, and the twin sons of Mādrī—ten heroes against ten. In wrath they clashed like storm against storm, the sky echoing their roars.

Kinsmen met with blazing eyes,

Bows drawn back and thunder-cries;

Bloodied hands and quivering reeds,

Dharma drowned beneath their deeds.

Then Duryodhana smote Dṛṣṭadyumna with four shafts, Durmarṣaṇa with twenty, Citraseṇa with five, Durmukha with nine, Duḥsaha with seven, Vivimśati with five, and Duḥśāsana with three. But Prishata’s son, smiling in wrath, returned upon each of them twenty-five arrows, his bow flashing like lightning. Abhimanyu pierced Satyavrata and Purumitra with ten shafts each, while the sons of Mādrī showered arrows upon their uncle Duryodhana, whose armor rang like iron music.

Śalya, beholding this, covered his nephews with a rain of shafts, yet they wavered not. Then Bhīma, wrathful as Rudra, seized his massive mace, his form like golden Kailāsa crowned with storm. Seeing him advance, thy sons fled in fear; yet Duryodhana, proud and burning, rallied the Magadha host of ten thousand elephants.

At their head, the elephant king of Magadha charged upon Bhīma. Then Vṛkodara, leaping from his car, raised his mace and roared like a lion.

The earth beneath his footsteps groaned,

His bellow split the sky and stoned;

As Death himself with flaming breath,

He strode the plain, the lord of death.

Rushing into the elephant host, Bhīma smote them with blows that cracked bones like thunder splitting peaks. His roars froze their hearts; the beasts, crowding close, lost motion and will. Behind him, Abhimanyu, the sons of Draupadī, Nakula, Sahadeva, and Dṛṣṭadyumna poured arrows like rain to guard his path. Heads of mahouts, arms clasping goads, fell like hailstones; trunks and tusks shattered; the air grew red with blood.

The bodies of elephant-riders swayed headless upon their mounts like trees stripped by lightning. Bhīma strode among them, his mace reeking with gore, terrible as Time when worlds dissolve.

Then the ruler of Magadha urged his colossal beast—peer of Airāvata—against Abhimanyu’s car. But Subhadrā’s son, fearless and bright, struck the creature with a single arrow and felled it like a mountain split by thunder. When the Magadha king fell, Abhimanyu’s shaft, winged with silver, severed his head and cast it to the dust.

Meanwhile Bhīma raged through the field, crushing elephants as Indra shatters mountains with his bolt. Some he slew with a single blow; others he maimed, breaking tusks, limbs, and spines. Blood and marrow drenched the earth; beasts lay heaped like hills; and those still living crouched in terror, bellowing low.

His mace was storm, his arm was flame,

His laughter filled the field with shame;

The tuskers fell, the rivers ran,

Red with the blood of beast and man.

Soaked in the fat and gore of elephants, Bhīma moved like Rudra at world’s end, his mace spinning like Yama’s rod. Its clang matched the thunderbolt’s cry, its sheen the fire of doomsday. As a herdsman drives his cattle with an iron goad, so Bhīma smote the elephant ranks till they trampled their own in panic.

Crushing the hosts as wind scatters storm clouds, Bhīma stood unmoving at last—club in hand, eyes blazing—like the three-eyed Lord upon the cremation ground, when dance and destruction are one.

Dust and blood were the crown he wore,

Death his music, war his shore;

Thus strode Vṛkodara, fierce and grim—

The world’s last night awoke in him.