novelraw Arc 4 - Bhisma-Vadha Parva - Chapter 1 - Makara vs Hawk Formation
Arc 4 - Bhisma-Vadha Parva - Chapter 1 - Makara vs Hawk Formation
Sañjaya said:
When the night had passed and the sun rose crimson on the edge of the horizon, both armies, O King, marched forth once more to the field of battle. As the earth trembled beneath their tread, the Kauravas and the Pāṇḍavas, aflame with wrath and longing for victory, advanced in their serried ranks. And thus, O monarch, in consequence of thy evil policy, the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra and the sons of Pāṇḍu, clad in shining mail, arrayed themselves for combat once again.
Thy grandsire, Devavrata, that foremost of car-warriors and guardian of Kuru glory, formed his host in the mighty shape of a Makara—the sea monster that devours all things. Around him surged a multitude of elephants, steeds, chariots, and men, each stationed in the place appointed by his command. The oceanic roar of their assembly filled the heavens.
Opposite them, the sons of Pāṇḍu arrayed their army in the invincible Śyena—the divine Hawk formation, born of strategy and valor.
In its beak shone Bhīmasena, roaring like a storm;
in its two eyes stood unyielding Śikhaṇḍin and mighty Dhṛṣṭadyumna;
in its head, Sātyaki, dauntless as fire;
in its neck, Arjuna, shaking his bow Gāṇḍīva with thunderous sound.
On its left wing stood Drupada, lord of Pāñcāla,
with his son and their vast host of all arms.
On its right, the king of Kekaya marshalled his akṣauhiṇī.
Behind, as the wings spread wide,
were the sons of Draupadī and Abhimanyu of radiant valor;
and in its tail was Dharmarāja Yudhiṣṭhira himself,
with Nakula and Sahadeva guarding either flank.
Then, in the roar of conches and clash of drums, the two vast hosts met. Bhīma, ever impetuous, drove straight into the gaping mouth of the Makara array, cleaving through ranks of men and elephants, until he reached the front where Bhīṣma stood like blazing fire upon an altar. There, he poured upon the grandsire a shower of keen arrows.
Bhīṣma, possessed of immeasurable might, countered with weapons that blazed like lightning, confounding the Pandava ranks. Then Arjuna, perceiving his soldiers shaken, advanced swiftly and pierced Bhīṣma with a thousand arrows, each one bright as the rays of the sun. Meeting weapon with weapon, shaft with shaft, he stood firm as the Himalaya, his division behind him shouting for joy.
Beholding the slaughter of his warriors and recalling the fall of his brothers on the previous day, Duryodhana’s heart burned with grief. Spurring his horses, he hastened toward Droṇa, the preceptor of princes, and spoke with clasped hands.
“O Ācārya, sinless and mighty, thou art my refuge.
Relying on thee and on grandsire Bhīṣma,
I deemed our victory certain—
aye, even over the gods themselves,
not to speak of these sons of Pāṇḍu, weak and weary.
Blessed be thou! Do now that by which they shall perish.
Let the sons of Pāṇḍu this day be slain.”
Thus urged by the prince, Droṇa, that lion among warriors, pressed forward into the Pandava array, even in the sight of Sātyaki. The grandson of Sini, seeing him advance, rushed to meet the son of Bharadvāja, and a fierce battle ensued between the two heroes. Droṇa, smiling slightly in the fury of combat, pierced Sātyaki with ten arrows in the shoulder. Bhīmasena, raging to shield his comrade, rained his shafts upon Droṇa; but Bhīṣma and Śalya, joining the fray, covered Bhīma in return with their arrows.
Then Abhimanyu, his blood afire, and the sons of Draupadī, their bows singing like bees, poured sharp shafts upon Bhīṣma, Droṇa, and Śalya alike.
Śikhaṇḍin, fearless and radiant, rushed forward against Bhīṣma and Droṇa together. Drawing his bow whose twang was like the roar of thunder, he veiled the very sun with his arrows. But Bhīṣma, seeing Śikhaṇḍin before him, turned aside—remembering the secret of his birth and his former femininity.
Then Droṇa, urged on by Duryodhana, advanced to guard the grandsire. Śikhaṇḍin, beholding that fiery preceptor, avoided him as one would avoid blazing flame at the world’s end.
At this, Duryodhana, with a vast force of men and steeds, came forward to defend Bhīṣma, seeking glory upon glory. The sons of Pāṇḍu too pressed on with steadfast hearts, resolved upon victory.
And then, O King, between the Kaurava and the Pandava hosts, there raged a battle wondrous and terrible to behold—such as was seen of old between the gods and the Dānavas, when heaven and earth trembled under their fury.
Sañjaya said:
Then Bhīṣma, son of Śantanu, that lion among men, fought with unrelenting fury—bent upon shielding thy sons from the terror of Bhīmasena. The battle that followed, O King, between the hosts of the Kauravas and the Pāṇḍavas, was a dreadful storm of destruction, fierce beyond imagining and strewn with the fall of heroes.
The sky itself seemed to shudder beneath the tumult that rose to heaven. The trumpeting of maddened elephants mingled with the neighing of steeds, the blare of conches, the rolling of drums, and the crash of countless weapons. The uproar, deafening as thunder, shook the hearts of men.
In that field where fury reigned,
warriors roared like bulls confined,
each seeking victory,
each thirsting for blood and glory.
Severed heads, bright with jewels,
fell like hail from a stormy sky;
the earth was strewn with arms and mail,
and faces pale as the moon.
The dust rose thick as cloud,
and lightning flashed from blades of steel;
thunder rolled from clashing bows,
and the wind was heavy with cries.
O Bhārata, that ghastly battlefield seemed a river of blood, its red waves fed by the bodies of kings and warriors. Ceaseless showers of arrows poured from the bows of the Kṣatriyas, fierce and unyielding. Elephants of both armies, pierced by shafts, screamed in agony, trampling friend and foe alike. Horses, bereft of riders, galloped madly across the field.
The twang of countless bows and the slap of strings upon leather guards drowned every other sound. Amid the din, headless trunks stood upright for a moment before toppling like trees in a storm. Kings, raging with valor, drove their chariots into the heart of the melee, cutting down foes with maces, lances, and curved scimitars.
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Men with arms like iron clubs
grappled and struck bare-handed;
others, maddened with death’s nearness,
hurled stones and shattered helms.
Warriors locked in mortal rage
slew with fists, with knees, with cries;
the dust grew dark with blood and ash,
and the ground shone red as dusk.
The earth was terrible to behold, covered with the fallen—those slain outright and those writhing in their death-throes. Disarmed chariot-warriors, their cars shattered, snatched swords and rushed upon one another with desperate courage. Blood mingled with dust till the field shone crimson beneath the sun.
Then, surrounded by a mighty division of the Kalingas, thy son Duryodhana advanced like a thundercloud, placing Bhīṣma foremost before him. Against them, the Pandava heroes rallied around Vṛkodara, their steeds fleet as wind, their hearts ablaze with wrath.
And once again, the clash of gods and titans seemed renewed upon the plains of Kurukṣetra, as Bhīṣma and Bhīma—two mountains of valor—rushed together, shaking heaven and earth with the fury of their blows.
Sañjaya said:
When Dhanañjaya beheld his brothers and the kings of the earth contending fiercely with Bhīṣma, he seized his mighty bow and rushed upon the son of Gaṅgā like the wind towards a storm. Then was heard the deep blare of Pāñcajanya mingled with the twang of Gāṇḍīva, and seeing also the golden standard of Pārtha rising above the dust, great fear entered our hearts.
That banner, O King, bearing the device of a lion’s tail, gleamed in the sky like a flaming mountain or a comet rising at world’s end. Adorned with colors of the gods, wrought with celestial art, it flashed unimpeded through the air, its flutter echoing the cry of victory. And the great bow Gāṇḍīva, whose golden back shone like lightning amid the clouds, blazed in the hands of Arjuna, scattering death among thy ranks.
Then roared the son of Pṛthā,
his voice like Indra in tempest,
his palm-slaps thunder loud
over the wailing field of men.
Like a stormcloud driven by furious wind,
he poured his arrows in floods;
the ten directions vanished in darkness,
veiled by the rain of steel.
The earth quaked beneath his chariot-wheels,
the sky shook with the hiss of shafts;
the sun was shrouded in his wrath,
and the hearts of warriors froze.
With weapons of wonder flashing on all sides, Dhanañjaya advanced upon Bhīṣma. The very heavens seemed bewildered, for east and west were lost in the dazzle of his storm. Thy soldiers, O Bhārata, their steeds slain and spirits broken, crowded together in terror and sought refuge beneath the grandsire’s protection. Bhīṣma, guardian of thy sons, then shielded them as the ocean guards its shores.
But the twang of Gāṇḍīva, fierce as thunder, sent fear through every heart. Chariot-warriors leapt from shattered cars, horsemen fell from their steeds, foot-soldiers dropped their arms and lay upon the ground trembling. Hearing that bow’s dread cry, thy troops seemed to melt like snow before the sun.
Then, O King, with steeds fleet as the wind and strong as mountains, the Kāmbojas charged, their chariots flashing like lightning. Around them swarmed the Gopas and Gopāyanas, the Madrakas and Sauvīras, the Gandhāras and Trigartas, with the hosts of Kalinga and Jayadratha’s Sindhus, their ranks dense as forest thickets. Dusśāsana rode before them with fourteen thousand horsemen of chosen breed.
They came thundering down like a black storm-cloud driven by thy son’s will—yet before the onset of Arjuna, they wavered as reeds before the gale. For the sons of Pāṇḍu, uniting their might, fell upon thy army like a sea unleashed, each hero on his car or beast of war, mowing down the foe in multitudes.
The dust raised by elephants, steeds, and men rolled upward like a wall of smoke, blotting out the sun; and amid that murk, Bhīṣma and Arjuna met like blazing planets crossing in heaven.
With lances gleaming and arrows flashing,
Bhīṣma smote from his chariot-top;
his bow sang the hymn of death,
his arrows struck like the tongues of flame.
Opposite, Arjuna stood resplendent,
his face calm as the moon,
yet his hands moved faster than sight,
pouring ruin upon the Kurus.
All over the field, combat flared like a thousand sacrificial fires. The king of Avanti grappled with the lord of Kāśi; the ruler of Sindhu struck at Bhīma; Yudhiṣṭhira, with his sons, contended with mighty Śalya; Vikarna crossed arms with Sahadeva, and Śikhaṇḍin fought against Chitrasena. The Matsyas opposed Duryodhana and Śakuni, while Drupada, Chekitāna, and valiant Sātyaki met Droṇa and his son in deadly combat. Against Dhṛṣṭadyumna rushed both Kṛpa and Kṛtavarman, eager for vengeance.
Then the plain of Kurukṣetra became as a storm-tossed sea: horses screamed, elephants trumpeted, and chariot wheels shrieked on torn earth. Though no clouds covered the sky, lightning flashed across the field from clashing blades and gilded armor. Dust veiled the horizon, meteors blazed through the murk, and fierce winds whirled showers of sand and blood together. The sun vanished in that tempest of war.
Warriors, blinded by dust and fury, struck unseen foes; the whine of arrows filled the air like a swarm of hornets. The gleam of whirling weapons lit the sky, and golden shields, broken and cast away, lay scattered like fallen suns. Heads and limbs fell in showers; shattered chariots toppled; steeds, pierced and bleeding, dragged their broken cars before sinking to the ground.
Elephants, wild with the scent of blood, crushed men, horses, and chariots beneath their feet. Others, pierced by broad-headed shafts, bellowed and fell, shaking the earth as they died. Tusks broke car-shafts like dry reeds, and warriors seized by their hair were dashed to the ground till their bodies became unrecognizable pulp.
The field was a sea of ruin,
its waves of blood and dust;
corpses floated like drifting logs,
and the air was thick with death.
Banners torn and crimsoned with gore
fluttered like wounded birds;
and the cry of elephants dying
was the last hymn of that dreadful day.
Thus, O King, was Kurukṣetra transformed into a realm of horror—strewn with steeds and elephants, with broken cars and fallen warriors, with torn banners and shattered arms. The very earth groaned beneath the weight of destruction, and the rivers of blood that flowed that day seemed to wash away the last remnant of mercy from the hearts of men.
Sañjaya said:
Then Śikhaṇḍin, with Virāṭa, the lion-hearted king of the Matsyas, advanced swiftly against Bhīṣma—the invincible, the mighty bowman, the son of Gaṅgā whose banner shone like fire. And Dhanañjaya, wielder of Gāṇḍīva, moved like a tempest upon Droṇa and Kripa and Vikarna and many other kings of terrible prowess, mighty archers all, whose arms were strong as iron. Against him too came the ruler of Sindhu, with hosts of western and southern lords, his kinsmen and allies, glittering in mail, their standards dancing in the wind.
Bhīmasena, the tiger among men, pressed forward against thy vindictive son Duryodhana and his brother Duśsaha, his mace uplifted like the rod of Death. Sahadeva wheeled his steeds against the guileful Śakuni and his son Ulūka, both expert in the crooked arts of war. King Yudhiṣṭhira, patient and steadfast, remembering the deceit at dice, charged the Kaurava elephant legion, determined to rend it asunder.
Nakula, that stainless warrior, encountered the renowned car-warriors of the Trigartas. Sātyaki, Chekitāna, and Abhimanyu—the radiant son of Subhadrā—swept upon Śalya and the Kaikeyas, filling the air with arrows. Dṛṣṭaketu and the Rākṣasa prince Ghaṭotkaca, fierce as fire and mountain-tall, descended upon the car-division of thy sons. And Dṛṣṭadyumna, commander of the Pāṇḍava host and son of the sacrificial flame, sought battle with Droṇa of the matchless bow.
Thus each hero found his foe, and the two great armies clashed once more.
The sun climbed high, burning gold in the sky;
his light fell upon helms and spears
till the plain shone like a sea of fire.
The shouts of warriors rose together—
deep, thunderous, unending roars of lions.
Banners trembled, their pennons streaming;
chariots creaked, wheels thundered upon the ground.
Spears flashed, arrows whistled,
and the earth drank blood like rain.
The sky itself grew dim with shafts,
so that sun and stars were veiled;
the four quarters blazed with steel
as if creation burned anew.
The blue gleam of burnished blades and the golden glint of armor filled the heavens with strange light; the air was thick with the fragrance of oil and the smell of blood. The bodies of kings lay everywhere, radiant even in death, their jewels glimmering like fallen suns. Brave warriors, tigers among men, shone in the carnage like constellations in the sky.
Then Bhīṣma, the grandsire of the Kurus, filled with wrath, checked Bhīmasena before the eyes of all. His arrows, fletched with gold and whetted on stone, flew thick as rain and pierced the son of Pāṇḍu like lightning striking a tree.
Bhīma, roaring like a storm, hurled at him a dart fierce as a serpent of fire, its staff bound with gold. But Bhīṣma, calm as a mountain, cut it in mid-flight with a single arrow; and with another shaft, broad-headed and shining, he cleft Bhīma’s bow in twain.
Then Sātyaki, brave among the Vṛṣṇis, sprang forward to aid his friend. He loosed a hundred arrows at Bhīṣma, their points keen and blazing. But the grandsire, aiming one terrible shaft, struck Sātyaki’s charioteer full in the breast and laid him low.
The steeds, wild and masterless, broke their reins and galloped across the field like the wind. A cry arose among the Pāṇḍava ranks—
“Hold the reins! Seize the horses!
Stay the car of Yuyudhāna!”
The tumult swelled; confusion seized the field. Bhīṣma, meanwhile, struck down the warriors of the Pāṇḍavas like Indra felling the Daityas with his thunderbolt. Yet even as they fell, the Panchālas and Somakas, resolute in death, gathered their strength and rushed once more upon Bhīṣma. Behind them came Dṛṣṭadyumna, urging his charioteers, his heart fixed on the grandsire’s fall.
And from the Kaurava side, Bhīṣma and Droṇa, with the mightiest kings of thy host, charged in fury toward their foes.
Then, O King, upon that red and smoking plain, another battle began—more dreadful, more unrelenting than before—where death himself seemed to dance upon the corpses of kings, and the roar of combat mingled with the cries of heaven.