Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 4 - Bhisma-Vadha Parva - Chapter 2 - Makara vs Krauncha Formation

Sañjaya said:

Then king Virāṭa, ruler of the Matsyas, fearless and skilled in arms, rushed forward and pierced Bhīṣma—the mighty car-warrior—with three keen shafts that gleamed like tongues of fire. He smote also the grandsire’s steeds with three arrows tipped with gold and winged with vulture feathers, but Bhīṣma, unmoved as the Himālaya, endured them as the mountain bears the storm.

At the same moment, Droṇa’s son, that terrible warrior of firm hand and wrathful heart, struck Pārtha, wielder of Gāṇḍīva, with six shafts between the breasts, their steel heads reddened with his blood.

Then the bow of Arjuna sang,

its voice the roar of heaven’s storm;

with lightning shafts he smote the foe,

his eyes two suns in wrath reborn.

The cords of Gāṇḍīva flamed with sound,

the sky grew red with flight of steel;

and where his arrows fell, O king,

the earth drank blood, the heavens reeled.

Phālguna, enraged and glowing like a midday sun, cut off the bow of Aśvatthāman and struck him with five keen arrows that pierced through armor and flesh. But Drona’s son, burning with anger, seized another bow stronger than the first and smote Arjuna with ninety shafts, and Keśava with seventy.

Then, O king, the two Krishnas—Arjuna and Vāsudeva—breathed deep and hot, their eyes crimson with fury. Arjuna grasped Gāṇḍīva with his left hand, and setting many straight and death-bearing shafts upon its string, he loosed them in a storm that darkened the sky. They pierced Aśvatthāman’s mail and drank his blood, but still he wavered not, desiring only to guard Bhīṣma.

The Kurus marvelled to see him stand unbroken against the two Krishnas, and loud was their praise for the son of their preceptor. For he, instructed by Droṇa in all the divine weapons and their recall, fought like a god among men.

Then Arjuna thought: “He is my master’s son, a Brāhmaṇa and dear to Droṇa; he shall not fall by my hand.”

So sparing Aśvatthāman, the mighty Pārtha turned aside and began to mow down the Kaurava ranks, his white steeds blazing like streaks of moonlight amid the dust.

Meanwhile Duryodhana, fierce with wrath, struck Bhīmasena with ten golden arrows, whetted upon stone and winged with eagle feathers. Bhīma, laughing aloud, seized a heavy bow and, drawing it to his ear, sent ten fierce shafts that smote the Kuru king full in the chest.

Around his neck the shining gem

flamed amidst those circling shafts—

as the sun amid his planets burns,

so gleamed the lord of the Kurus there.

But Duryodhana, maddened, rose again,

his bowstring sang with rage;

and he smote Bhīma in return,

his arrows whirling like angry snakes.

Then those two mighty sons of fortune, battling like twin gods, mangled each other till their armor ran with blood. Their eyes blazed, their laughter shook the air—they seemed as Rudra and Indra in celestial wrath.

Elsewhere, O king, Abhimanyu, lion among heroes and son of Arjuna, pierced Chitrasena with many shafts, and Purumitra with seven. He smote also Satyavrata with seventy arrows, moving upon the field like Indra among the clouds. His arrows whistled and danced around him; the Kurus beheld him radiant like the sun at dawn and trembled.

Chitrasena, Satyavrata, and Purumitra, wounded but unyielding, returned his challenge with a hail of darts. Yet Abhimanyu, though blood flowed down his mail, struck back in fury, cleaving Chitrasena’s bow and piercing his breast so that he fell gasping to the ground.

Seeing their comrade slain, the princes of thy army, burning with rage, closed around the youth from all sides. But he, knowing every celestial weapon, cut them down as fire devours dry reeds. Thy soldiers fled before him; thy sons, struck by his storm of arrows, seemed as moths in a flame.

Then rose thy grandson Lakṣmaṇa,

young and fair, his brow unbent;

he came upon Abhimanyu

like a cloud upon the moon.

Six arrows sped from Subhadrā’s son,

and found the prince and charioteer;

but Lakṣmaṇa too, with furious aim,

returned a rain of deadly shafts.

Then Abhimanyu, swift as thought, cut down Lakṣmaṇa’s steeds and slew his charioteer. The young prince, standing upon his broken car, hurled a glittering dart like a serpent of flame; but Abhimanyu shattered it in flight. Kripa, seeing the peril, lifted Lakṣmaṇa upon his own chariot and bore him away from the fight.

The battle then raged anew, wild and unending. Men met men with naked arms; broken chariots littered the plain; disarmed warriors struck with fists and knees; blood and dust mingled like crimson rain.

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Then Bhīṣma, the aged lion of the Kurus, raised his bow once more and loosed his divine weapons. They fell upon the Pāṇḍava host like meteors upon a stormy sea. Elephants, their riders slain, trumpeted in madness; steeds screamed as they fell; the earth was covered with shattered cars, with armor, and with lifeless men.

The field was red as evening flame,

the air alive with cries and steel;

Bhīṣma strode amid the storm,

the god of death made manifest.

And thus, O King, the sons of Pāṇḍu

faced the fury of thy sire—

the sky itself grew dark with war,

and all the earth was fire.

Sañjaya said:

Then the mighty-armed Sātyaki, invincible in battle and steadfast in the cause of the sons of Pāṇḍu, bent his great bow that could bear the strain of a tempest. Swiftly he drew and loosed innumerable arrows, winged and keen, that hissed through the air like serpents of deadly venom. So light was the movement of his hands—drawing, fixing, and releasing—that he seemed no mortal man, but a cloud pouring rain in a storm.

Beholding him blaze forth thus, like a fire swelling before the wind, king Duryodhana, alarmed, despatched ten thousand chariots against him. But Sātyaki, master of celestial weapons, swept them away as a tempest scatters withered leaves; not one among those mighty warriors escaped the reaper’s hand.

Having thus performed a deed of wonder, he advanced toward Bhūriśravā, son of Somadatta, the lion of the Kuru race. And Bhūriśravā, beholding his kin thus smitten down by Yuyudhāna, came upon him in wrath, his bow as radiant as Indra’s, his shafts bright as lightning. From his mighty hand poured thousands of arrows, each as deadly as a serpent’s fang, and the followers of Sātyaki, unable to endure the storm, fled in all directions, leaving their chief alone amid the field.

Then rose the sons of Sātyaki—

ten warriors fierce and proud,

cased in mail, their banners bright,

their bows like streaks of flame.

“O Kaurava prince,” they cried aloud,

“fight us all or fight each one!

Conquer, and win eternal fame,

or fall by us and earn our joy.”

Bhūriśravā laughed in scorn,

“Come then, ye youths, as ye will;

together or alone, I care not—

I shall slay ye all this day.”

Then began a furious combat. The ten heroes rained their arrows upon him as monsoon clouds pour on a mountain’s flank. But Bhūriśravā, unshaken, cut their shafts in midair and, drawing his bow like a circle of light, lopped off their bows and their heads with whetted arrows. Down they fell, O King, like trees struck by thunder, their armor flashing as they died.

Seeing his sons thus slain, the Vṛṣṇi hero Sātyaki roared aloud—a sound that shook the hearts of men—and drove upon Bhūriśravā with the fury of a lion. The two met like twin mountains clashing; they smote each other’s steeds till both cars stood empty and broken. Leaping to the ground, they seized great scimitars and shields and closed in mortal combat. Steel rang upon steel, sparks leapt like stars in darkness, and both shone resplendent like blazing suns confronting each other.

Then Bhīmasena, rushing up through the din, lifted Sātyaki onto his own chariot, even as a storm lifts the tree from the flood. Likewise thy son, Duryodhana, took Bhūriśravā upon his car before the eyes of all the kings.

Meanwhile, across the plain, the battle raged between the Pāṇḍavas and Bhīṣma, the aged tiger among men. As the sun dipped westward and his light grew crimson, Dhanañjaya, the wielder of Gāṇḍīva, labored fiercely and slew twenty-five thousand car-warriors who had come against him at Duryodhana’s command. They perished before they could even approach him, as insects perish in a burning flame.

The sun sank red behind the dust,

the air was thick with cries;

the blood of kings ran dark as wine,

the chariots rolled like waves.

Partha shone amid the field,

surrounded by the Matsya and Kekaya lords;

his son beside him flashed like lightning,

striking down the night of war.

Then twilight fell. The sun vanished, and the minds of men grew dazed; friend and foe no longer knew one another. The grandsire Bhīṣma, his steeds weary, commanded his host to withdraw. The Pāṇḍava and Kaurava warriors, shaken and exhausted, drew back to their encampments, the one side with the Śṛñjayas, the other with thy sons, to rest and gather strength for another dawn of death.

Sañjaya said:

When the long night had ended and the sun rose crimson upon the field, both Kurus and Pāṇḍavas, refreshed and eager for battle, came forth once again, their conches sounding across the morning sky.

The neighing of steeds, the trumpet of tuskers, the clang of armor, the deep throb of war-drums—all mingled into a single ocean of sound. Standards glittered in the wind, banners shook their silken manes, and the field, O Bhārata, blazed with color and steel.

Then king Yudhiṣṭhira, firm in dharma, said unto Dṛṣṭadyumna:

“O mighty-armed one, array our forces in the formation called Makara, that deadly shape which scorcheth the foe.”

At his command, the son of Pṛṣata, chief of warriors, arranged the army like a vast sea-creature upon the plain.

Drupada and Dhanañjaya formed its head,

two blazing peaks of valor’s might;

Sahadeva and Nakula, the eyes—

sharp, watchful, twin fires in the face of war.

Bhīmasena stood at its beak,

roaring like a tempest among the clouds;

behind, in the curving neck,

Yudhiṣṭhira, Sātyaki, and Abhimanyu shone.

Virāṭa formed its sturdy back,

Dṛṣṭadyumna guarded his flanks with kings;

the Kekayas held the left-wing bright,

Dṛṣṭaketu and Chekitāna the right.

Kuntibhoja and brave Sāṭānika stood firm

as its feet upon the trembling earth,

while Śikhaṇḍin and Irāvān, radiant and fierce,

made its tail, sweeping like flame in the wind.

Thus arrayed, the sons of Pāṇḍu, clad in gleaming mail, advanced at dawn with the hum of conches and the clatter of wheels, their umbrellas and standards flashing in the light.

Beholding this, thy sire Devavrata, the grandsire Bhīṣma, master of every stratagem, marshalled thy host in counter-formation—the great Krauncha, the array of the heron.

In its beak stood Droṇa, that lion among teachers,

and its two eyes were Aśvatthāman and Kripa.

In its head glittered Kṛtavarman, allied with the Kāmbojas and the Valhikas;

in its neck, Duryodhana and Surasena surrounded by many kings.

In its breast were Bhagadatta with his elephants of Pragjyotiṣa,

the Madras, the Sauviras, and the Kekayas of the northern lands.

On its left wing stood the proud king Susarman of Prasthala;

on its right, the Yavanas, the Śakas, and the Tukhāras.

At its tail were Śrutāyus, Satyajit, and Somadatta’s valiant son, guarding the rear.

Thus stood both armies, O King, stretching from horizon to horizon, glittering like twin oceans of spears.

When the signal was given, the earth itself seemed to shake as elephants clashed with elephants, horsemen met horsemen, chariot smote chariot, and infantry surged upon infantry. The sky darkened beneath a storm of arrows, and the plains shone like molten gold in the morning sun.

Thunder of hooves, and the hiss of steel,

the cry of elephants, the warlike peal;

as tempest meets tempest the hosts collide,

death rides proudly at either side.

The Pāṇḍava army, star-bright in the dark,

was guarded by Bhīma, Arjuna, and the twins;

the Kaurava host, firm as the heavens,

by Bhīṣma, Droṇa, and king Duryodhana.

Then Bhīmasena, mighty as a mountain, beholding Droṇa, rushed upon his division like a roaring fire upon dry grass. Droṇa, inflamed with wrath, pierced Bhīma with nine iron shafts that sank deep into his flesh. But Bhīma, undaunted, drew a broad-headed arrow and slew the charioteer of Droṇa.

Restraining his own steeds, the son of Bharadvāja blazed with fury, scattering death among the Pāṇḍava ranks as fire devoureth cotton. The Srinjayas and Kekayas, beaten by his storm of weapons, broke and fled. Yet thy own troops also, struck by Bhīma and Arjuna, reeled like flowers in a gale.

The field, O King, became a vision of horror and wonder: warriors striking without fear, heedless of life; elephants trampling the fallen; men grappling in dust and blood. The battle shone like the meeting of two worlds—one of gods, one of demons—each countering the other’s might with a storm of iron and flame.