Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 3 – Yudha Arambha Parva - Chapter 10 - The Tide of War and the Roar of Bhīma

Sañjaya said:

When that vast elephant division lay crushed and silent, thy son Duryodhana, burning with wrath, urged forward his entire army. With a shout that shook the ranks, he commanded, “Slay Bhīmasena!”

Then like the swelling of the ocean on the night of the full moon, that immeasurable host advanced—its waves chariots and elephants, its foam the dust of countless hooves, its roar the mingling of conches and drums. Resplendent banners gleamed like lightning in a storm, and the earth trembled beneath its weight.

Against that moving sea of men, steeds, and beasts, Bhīma, the son of Pāṇḍu, stood firm as a mountain-bank resisting the flood. His form blazed like a beacon upon the field, his mace upraised like the sceptre of Death.

Alone he faced the tide of war,

Unmoved where storm and thunder are;

His voice the roar of mountain rain,

His eyes twin suns upon the plain.

With fearless might he smote the advancing kings, their elephants, steeds, and chariots, his mace whirling like a flaming wheel. Where he stood, no warrior passed; his body was a fortress, his arms its walls.

Dṛṣṭadyumna, Abhimanyu, the sons of Draupadī, the twin sons of Mādrī, and Śikhaṇḍin, steadfast in spirit, fought close beside him. Their arrows flashed like the spray of a great river breaking upon stone, yet Bhīma’s form towered above them all, terrible and still.

Then, raising his massive mace wrought of Śaika iron, Bhīma rushed into the heart of the Kaurava host, like the Destroyer himself armed for dissolution. He crushed ranks of chariots, he dashed horsemen to the ground, and pressed elephants into the dust till they groaned like mountains riven by thunder.

The field turned red beneath his feet; the air was thick with the cries of the dying. Warriors were flung down as trees in a storm, their armor torn and bodies broken.

His mace was flame, his hands were night,

His wrath the end of mortal sight;

The dust was blood, the blood was sea,

The world dissolved in Bhīma’s glee.

Wherever his gaze fell, men trembled; wherever his mace descended, none survived. He seemed the embodied Time that devours creation at the end of the age. His weapon, smeared with blood and marrow, gleamed like the bolt of Indra or the club of Rudra risen in wrath. The field became the image of Yama’s abode—strewn with limbs and armor, soaked in the fat of elephants, echoing with the moans of kings.

Then from afar came Bhīṣma, the grandsire of thy race, his chariot radiant as the sun, his bowstring humming like the voice of the storm. His arrows fell thick as rain, veiling the sky like clouds before the monsoon.

Beholding him, Bhīma’s fury flared anew. With a cry that split the heavens, he bounded forward, mace uplifted, seeking the aged lion who led thy hosts.

At that moment, Sātyaki—the foremost of the Sātvatas, bright as a shaft of lightning—rushed upon Bhīṣma’s flank, scattering the foe as the wind scatters mist. His white steeds flashed like moonlight; his bow rang ceaselessly, each arrow singing death.

Only the Rākṣasa Alamvuṣa dared to meet him, loosing ten shafts that struck but did not stop the Vrishni hero. Sātyaki answered with four keen arrows, piercing the demon’s mail, and sped on through the shivering ranks.

His banner streamed, his arrows burned,

Each flight a comet heavenward turned;

Around him fear took mortal breath,

And kings beheld the face of Death.

Thy warriors rained arrows upon him like storm-clouds bursting on a mountain, yet Sātyaki’s advance could not be stayed. In his chariot gleaming with silver, he moved like the noonday sun, blinding and unstoppable.

All were struck with dread, save Bhūriśravā, the proud son of Somadatta. Beholding his comrades driven back and his father’s name endangered, he seized his mighty bow and spurred his steeds against Sātyaki, thirsting for battle.

The grandsire’s shade fell long and deep,

The field was flame, the sky did weep;

Two lions met in war’s embrace—

The heavens shook to see their face.

Sanjaya said:

Bhurisravas, blazing with wrath, struck Satyaki with nine keen shafts, as a mahout pricks an elephant with the iron hook. Unshaken, Satyaki answered with nine of his own, glittering before all the ranks. Duryodhana and his brothers closed in about Somadatta’s son; the Pāṇḍavas, swift to shield their Yādava ally, ringed Satyaki with steel.

Bhīmasena, mace high, met all thy sons at once. Nandaka loosed a hail of stone-whetted arrows; Duryodhana himself drove nine into Bhīma’s breast. Bhīma climbed his car and said to Viśoka, “The sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra burn to slay me. Drive straight. I will break them in thy sight.” He smote Duryodhana; the king replied, cutting Viśoka and snapping Bhīma’s bow at the grip. Bhīma, roused, strung a new bow, took a razor-headed shaft, and sheared the Kuru bow in two. Duryodhana, furious, seized a tougher weapon and launched a death-bright arrow that struck Bhīma in the chest. The son of Pāṇḍu reeled upon his car-terrace and swooned.

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A hush fell on the iron plain,

The wolf-strong arm hung still;

Around him rose a crimson rain,

And rage grew cold as steel.

Abhimanyu and the foremost car-warriors could not bear that sight; their arrows thickened like monsoon rain on thy sons. Bhīma’s breath returned—he pierced Duryodhana again and again, then lashed Śalya with a golden-winged storm that bore the Madra from the field.

Then fourteen of thy sons—Senāpati, Suśena, Jālasaṃdha, Sulochana, Ugra, Bhīmaratha, Bhīma, Vīravāhu, Ālupa, Durmukha, Duṣpradarśa, Vivitsu, Vikata, and Sāma—rushed as one upon the son of Pāṇḍu. Bhīma licked the corners of his mouth like a wolf among lesser beasts and leapt.

One shaft—Senāpati’s head rolled wide;

Three more—Jālasaṃdha bowed to Death;

Suśena followed on the tide,

And Ugra’s moon-bright brow lost breath.

Seventy barbed for Vīravāhu—

Steeds and standard with him fell;

Twin brothers struck and silent grew,

Sulochana crossed Yama’s dell.

The rest, seeing Bhīma’s fury, broke and fled. Then Bhīṣma cried to all the princes, “Seize the son of Pāṇḍu! His wrath lays low our heroes—close and take him!” At once the host surged; Bhagadatta thundered in atop his temple-rent elephant. Arrows like storm-clouds hid Bhīma from sight. The Pāṇḍava car-warriors would not suffer it—they ringed the lord of Pragjyotiṣa and riddled both king and beast. Blood streaked the elephant’s flanks like sunset on a rain-mass; goaded, it doubled its charge and shook the earth.

Bhagadatta’s shaft struck Bhīma between the breasts and dropped him senseless, flagstaff clutched in hand. The king roared; thy warriors cheered—till Ghaṭotkaca, seeing his sire thus fallen, vanished in rage.

Illusion rose like midnight storm—

Airāvata’s twin in form,

With Vāmana and Mahāpadma tall,

Three four-tusked mountains, black as pall.

Rākṣasas bestrode those dire beasts; they fell upon Bhagadatta’s mount, tusk against tusk. Wounded by arrows, worried by phantoms, the royal elephant screamed like Indra’s thunder. Bhīṣma, hearing the tumult, called to Droṇa and the kings: “Bhagadatta grapples the son of Hiḍimbā—both wrathful, both vast. If we abandon him, he dies. Our beasts are spent, our ranks are torn; I like not fresh trial against the victorious Pāṇḍavas. Proclaim withdrawal. Tomorrow we fight.”

So, fearing Ghaṭotkaca and grateful for night’s veil, the Kauravas drew back. The Pāṇḍavas, roaring like lions, answered with conches and pipes and returned to camp—Bhīma and Ghaṭotkaca at their head, honored by all. Their shouts shook the ground and ground thy sons’ hearts.

Victory’s breath on the banners flew,

The torches climbed the dark;

While in his tent the Kuru grew

Cold with grief’s slow spark.

Duryodhana, cheerless at his brothers’ fall, arranged his camp by rule, then sat in burning thought, tears drying on his face as he brooded over the dead.

Sanjaya said:

Dhritarashtra, shaken by the Pandavas’ unflagging strength and the repeated rout of his sons, asked why the sons of Pritha seemed undiminished “like stars in the sky,” while his own host waned. He feared destiny itself had turned against him and demanded the true cause of the Pandavas’ invincibility and the Kauravas’ decline—what his warriors did when their lines recoiled, and what resolve Bhishma, Drona, Kripa, Sakuni, Jayadratha, Ashwatthama, and Vikarna then embraced.

Sanjaya replied:

Nothing here, O king, is sorcery or illusion. The sons of Pandu fight by fair means, keeping their eyes on righteousness; and victory abides where righteousness stands. Thy sons, given to cruel and deceitful acts, now reap the bitter fruit of their own deeds. Warned often by Vidura, Bhishma, Drona, and by me, thou wouldst not heed; therefore what was foreseen has come to pass.

He added that Duryodhana himself, confounded by repeated defeats, had asked Bhishma in the night, “On whom do the Pandavas rely, that they vanquish us again and again?” Bhishma answered that he had long urged peace as most beneficial; spurned then, his words now proved true. None in the worlds can vanquish the sons of Pandu, for they are protected by the wielder of Śārṅga. To make this plain, Bhishma recounted an ancient vision seen by seers and gods upon Gandhamādana: Brahmā beheld a blazing car in the heavens and worshipped the Supreme Being—Vāsudeva—whose protection sustains all.

Brahmā’s Hymn to the Supreme

Glory of all that lives and moves,

Lord whose shelter spans the spheres;

Master of the work of worlds,

Self-ruled soul beyond all fears.

Vāsudeva, Yoga’s heart—

Unto You we refuge take;

Ever for the world’s good wake,

Victor, source of every art.

Prior, after—You are Yoga,

Lotus-navelled, wide of sight;

Lord of lords, of time the rover,

Sun of suns, unshadowed Light.

Bow-armed Śārṅgin, unimagined,

Form of all, yet ever whole;

Infinite, undecaying, present—

Measureless, the secret Soul.

Snake and Boar, First Cause and Fire,

Yellow-robed, whose locks are tawny;

Cardinal and watchful spire—

All directions are Your body.

Manifest and unmanifest,

Space unfathomed, senses stilled;

Giver, knower, aim and quest,

Will whose wisdom shapes the will.

Earth Your feet and heaven Your head,

Arms the compass, Sun and Moon

Are Your eyes; by Truth are fed

Strength and rite and Vedic tune.

Wind Your breath and Fire Your vigor,

Waters born of mystic sweat;

Aśvins are Your listening, eager,

Sarasvatī—Your speaking set.

None can sound Your scope or source,

Might or measure, birth or end;

Rishis, gods, and beings’ course

On Your grace and guidance bend.

Therefore, Lord, on earth be born

In the Yadu’s noble line;

Right uphold and fiends outworn

Slay, then back to Yoga shine.

From Yourself You forth did send

Saṅkarṣaṇa, Pradyumna’s flame;

Then Aniruddha without end—

From whose power even I came.

Divide, descend, and bless the lands;

Bridge of worlds without a seam—

Past and middle, future spans—

Source and ocean of all dream.

Sanjaya concluded:

Thus did the Grandsire praise the Supreme and ordain His descent. Therefore, O king, the Pandavas—walking in righteousness and guarded by Him—prove unconquerable; while thy sons, who chose the crooked path, falter beneath the weight of their own deeds.

Sañjaya said:

Then Bhīṣma, the grandsire of the Kurus, continued his discourse to Duryodhana, repeating what he had heard from the seers of old.