novelraw Arc 4 - Bhisma-Vadha Parva - Chapter 6 - Gāṇḍīva’s Roar
Arc 4 - Bhisma-Vadha Parva - Chapter 6 - Gāṇḍīva’s Roar
Sañjaya said: Thy warriors fight to the limit of their strength and skill, O king; yet, as the Ganga’s sweet water turns brackish upon meeting the sea, so does their valor lose savor when it meets the sons of Pāṇḍu. Blame them not; this ruin—vast as Yama’s domain—rose from thy counsel and thy sons’ deeds. Kings hazard life to win a righteous heaven; so too did thine. Hear then the forenoon’s single combats, fierce as the wars of gods and Asuras.
The Avanti brothers, Vinda and Anuvinda, closed with Irāvat. Shafts flew in glittering torrents; no advantage showed till Irāvat slew Anuvinda’s four steeds, cut bow and standard, and forced him onto his brother’s car. Together they roofed the sky with gold-feathered arrows, but Irāvat, raging, felled their charioteer; the riderless team bolted, and the Nāga–princess’ son drove on, harrying thy wavering ranks till they reeled like men who have drunk poison.
Then Ghaṭotkaca, the Rākṣasa prince, thundered against Bhagadatta, lord of Pragjyotiṣa, who stood upon his elephant like Indra astride Airāvata. The sight confounded heaven’s host. Bhagadatta’s presence chilled the Pāṇḍava lines, yet Bhīma’s son held firm, drenching the king in arrows like monsoon rain on Meru. The monarch’s shafts bit deep, but the Rākṣasa stood as a mountain pierced and unmoved. Fourteen lances he shattered in flight; then seventy thunder-bolt shafts he planted in the king. Bhagadatta laughed and slew the Rākṣasa’s steeds at a stroke. Ghaṭotkaca hurled a gold-staffed dart; the king sliced it thrice in the air. Beholding his missile severed, Hidimbā’s son withdrew like Namuci before the thunderer, and Bhagadatta, unconquerable by even Yama, rode his tusker through the Pāṇḍava masses, trampling them as a wild elephant crushes lotus-stalks.
Elsewhere Śalya of Madra met his sister’s sons, the twins. He clouded them in arrows; Sahadeva answered in kind till the Madra lord, smiling, struck down Nakula’s four steeds. Nakula leapt to Sahadeva’s car, and the brothers, shoulder to shoulder, sheeted their uncle’s chariot with steel. Śalya stood like a hill under storm, laughing as he paid them back—till Sahadeva, wrath-sharp, loosed a shaft swift as Garuḍa that bored the Madra’s breast. Reeling, Śalya sank senseless upon his terrace; his charioteer bore him from the press. Thy men, seeing Madra’s banner drift rearward, lost heart, thinking him undone. But the sons of Mādrī, victorious, blew their conches and roared like Indra and Upendra turning upon the Daityas, and plunged, exultant, into thy shaken ranks.
Sañjaya said:
When the sun stood blazing at zenith and the heat of noon had set the armor of men aglow, then Yudhiṣṭhira, the son of Dharma, beheld King Śrutāyus before him on the field. Urging his steeds, the righteous monarch rushed upon his foe.
With nine keen arrows, straight and well-feathered, he smote Śrutāyus on helm and mail. But the king of Kosala, fearless and skilled, checked those shafts and, drawing his mighty bow, pierced Yudhiṣṭhira with seven arrows that drank his blood as if they fed upon his very life.
Then the son of Dharma, wounded and inflamed, shot a boar-eared shaft that struck Śrutāyus full in the heart, and with another, broad as a crescent moon, he felled his glittering standard. Enraged, Śrutāyus loosed seven sharp arrows, wounding the Pāṇḍava prince anew.
But Yudhiṣṭhira, blazing like fire at the world’s end, raised his bow again, eyes bright with wrath. His fury shook the quarters of heaven; the gods and Ṛṣis, the Gandharvas and Rākṣasas, trembled and prayed for peace, for it seemed the world itself might burn beneath his gaze.
Like the fire of dissolution he glowed,
licking his lips with fury’s flame;
the sky grew dim, the earth stood still—
for Dharma’s son had loosed his shame.
Then, mastering his anger by the strength of his own virtue, the great bowman calmly severed Śrutāyus’s bow and struck him in the chest with a long shaft. In the same breath he slew his four steeds and his charioteer. Bereft of arms and horses, Śrutāyus fled the field, while Duryodhana’s host broke in fear before Yudhiṣṭhira, who, like Death with gaping jaws, swept through them with arrow and roar.
Elsewhere, Chekitāna of the Vṛṣṇis engaged Kripa, son of Śaradvat. The Satvata hero clouded Gautama in arrows, but Kripa, calm and deadly, pierced him in return and cut off his bow and banner, slaying his steeds and both his wing-guards.
Chekitāna sprang to the ground and seized his mace, a weapon fit to crush an elephant’s skull. With one swing he slew Kripa’s steeds and his charioteer. But the old preceptor, standing firm upon the earth, loosed sixteen arrows that drove through Chekitāna’s mail. In wrath, the Vṛṣṇi hero hurled his mace like Indra striking Vṛtra, yet Kripa shattered it mid-air with a thousand darts.
Then both cast aside their bows,
and drew bright blades that shone like fire.
They closed, striking with flashing steel—
each blow a thunderclap of ire.
At last, smitten each by the other’s stroke, they fell together upon the dust, senseless and still. Karakarṣa, a friend to Chekitāna, swiftly bore the Satvata away in his chariot; and Śakuni, thy kinsman, lifted Kripa likewise to safety.
Then Dṛṣṭaketu, the valiant Cedi prince, met Bhūriśravā, son of Somadatta. Ninety arrows he planted upon his foe’s breast till the old hero shone like the sun with its rays. But Bhūriśravā, terrible in counter, slew Dṛṣṭaketu’s steeds and charioteer, and shattered his car. Still, the Cedi prince mounted the chariot of Śatānīka and fought on, undaunted.
Meanwhile, Chitrasena, Vikarna, and Durmarṣaṇa, golden-mailed sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, surrounded Abhimanyu. A battle fierce and swift flamed between them, like the struggle within the body of man—between the forces of air, bile, and phlegm. Yet Abhimanyu, mindful of Bhīma’s word not to slay his kinsmen, only disarmed them, casting down their bows and banners but sparing their lives.
When Arjuna beheld far off Bhīṣma—like a blazing comet—moving to protect thy sons from the youthful Abhimanyu, he turned to Kṛṣṇa, saying:
“Urge the white steeds, O Hṛṣīkeśa!
There stand the kings in ranks unnumbered.
Before Bhīṣma reaches the boy,
we must cleave their host as thunder!”
Thus spoken, Mādhava whipped the white horses forward. The sound of the Gāṇḍīva rose again—a storm-wind in the heavens—and thy troops, O monarch, trembled as the earth itself shook under Arjuna’s advance.
The Pāṇḍava hero hailed King Susharman with a voice that carried like war’s own drum:
“Thou art old in enmity, O Susharman,
breaker of vows, foe of the righteous!
Behold the fruit of thine old deceit—
today thou shalt meet thy ancestors!”
Susharman made no reply. Rallying his comrades and thy sons, he surrounded Arjuna on all sides. Clouds of arrows darkened the sky, their hiss like rain upon the maker of day.
Then, O Bhārata, the clash of the armies deepened, dreadful as the sea in tempest. Blood ran across the field like water through broken dikes; elephants stumbled, chariots toppled, and men fell like reeds before the storm.
Thus raged the noon-tide battle,
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when sun and steel were one,
and Arjuna’s wrath met Bhīṣma’s will—
two blazing fires beneath the sun.
Sañjaya said:
Then the mighty Dhanañjaya, pierced by countless arrows, drew deep breaths like a serpent trodden underfoot. His wrath blazed forth, and with swift precision he severed the bows of those assembled monarchs.
In the twinkling of an eye, O King, Arjuna—lion among men—cut down the weapons of all who faced him, and then, with a rain of arrows, struck them each in turn. Some fell headless, some mangled, some pierced through their hearts, and others—blood-soaked and writhing—sank to the dust.
The earth herself seemed to groan beneath the weight of the fallen kings, crimson rivers running through the mire of broken chariots and shattered mail.
Seeing his comrades thus destroyed, the ruler of the Trigartas advanced, his standard streaming, followed by two and thirty of his staunchest allies. Surrounding Pārtha on every side, they loosed their arrows thick as monsoon rain upon a mountain’s flank. The sky darkened with their shafts; yet Arjuna, struck and stung, only tightened his grip upon Gāṇḍīva. His eyes blazed red as he drew his bow to the ear.
Sixty shafts he loosed in flame,
oil-tipped, fierce as storm and fire;
and sixty chariots sank the same—
each king consumed in Arjuna’s ire.
Their ranks annihilated, the son of Indra pressed forward, his heart exulting in battle. The slain fell behind like waves broken on the shore, and Pārtha, unstoppable, sped his chariot onward toward Bhīṣma, the grandsire of the Kurus.
But seeing the ruin of his kin, the Trigarta king once more advanced, bringing many monarchs in his train to bar Arjuna’s path. Then the Pāṇḍava heroes—Śikhaṇḍin at their head—rushed to shield Dhanañjaya, their weapons flashing like lightning through a storm.
Arjuna met his foes with the full fury of his skill; his arrows sang, and the hosts before him crumbled.
Passing through the ring of defenders—Duryodhana, Jayadratha, and the Sindhu king—Arjuna’s chariot rolled on, swift as thought, his mind set on Bhīṣma’s death.
Likewise, Yudhiṣṭhira, burning with rage and followed by Bhīma and the twin sons of Mādrī, drove towards the grandsire, leaving the Madra king behind.
Yet Bhīṣma, lord of celestial weapons, swayed not though attacked by all the sons of Pāṇḍu together. His will was like a rock against the tide. Then Jayadratha, expert in archery, struck with unerring aim and cut down the bows of every Pāṇḍava prince.
Duryodhana, roaring in wrath, smote Yudhiṣṭhira, Bhīma, the twins, and Arjuna with arrows that burned like tongues of fire. Kripa, Śala, and Chitrasena too pierced them on all sides, till the sons of Pāṇḍu glowed with arrows as the gods once glowed when assailed by the Asuras in ancient war.
Seeing Śikhaṇḍin retreating, his bow cut in two by Bhīṣma’s shafts, Yudhiṣṭhira’s heart blazed with anger. He cried out in rebuke, his voice ringing across the field:
“Was it not thou, O son of Drupada,
who swore before thy father’s face,
‘By my hand shall Bhīṣma fall—
the vow I speak before this race’?
Where now thy oath, thy warrior’s pride,
thy promise made on sacred flame?
Shall virtue, fame, and kṣatriya line
all fade before thy trembling shame?
Behold, the grandsire’s arrows blaze,
our legions fall, our hearts are riven—
redeem thy word, lift up thy gaze,
strike now, and keep the vow once given!”
These harsh yet righteous words stung Śikhaṇḍin’s heart. Resolved anew, he grasped his bow and raced toward Bhīṣma like a tempest breaking loose. But the Madra king, Śalya, barred his path with flaming weapons bright as the fires of dissolution.
Śikhaṇḍin, undaunted, countered every missile with shafts of his own. Then, invoking the Varuṇa weapon, he quenched the Madra’s burning storm, and heaven’s hosts beheld in wonder as Śalya’s fire was drowned in the cool brilliance of the waters.
Meanwhile Bhīṣma, radiant as a white mountain, cut down Yudhiṣṭhira’s bow and standard. Seeing the son of Dharma disarmed and shaken, Bhīma flung aside his bow, seized his mace, and thundered toward Jayadratha on foot.
The Sindhu king met him with a storm of five hundred arrows, each sharp as Death’s rod, striking Bhīma on every side. Yet Vṛkodara advanced undeterred, roaring like a lion wounded but unbroken. With a sweep of his mace he slew Jayadratha’s Aratta-bred steeds and shattered his chariot.
Thy son Chitrasena, brave and unflinching, charged the mighty Bhīma with scimitar raised. The Pāṇḍava whirled his mace high above his head, and its fall promised ruin like the thunderbolt of heaven. The Kaurava ranks, seeing it whirl through the air, scattered in fear.
Chitrasena alone stood his ground. Leaping from his car like a lion from a cliff, he faced Bhīma on foot, shield and sword in hand.
The mace crashed down upon the field,
shattered chariot, steeds, and rein;
the dust rose red, the heavens reeled—
and silence followed in its train.
When the smoke cleared, the chariot lay splintered, its horses dead, its driver slain. Thy warriors, O King, shouted with fierce joy, marvelling at the valor of thy son who had faced the storm unmoved. Their cries rolled over the plain like the surf of a restless sea.
Thus raged that day’s battle—terrible, unending—where even valor met valor and life was weighed against destiny.
Sañjaya said:
When thy son Chitrasena, bereft of his chariot, stood weaponless amid the field, his brother Vikarna swiftly drew near and placed him upon his own car. Then, O king, amidst the general tumult of battle—terrible as the storm that shatters mountain peaks—Bhīṣma, son of Śāntanu, drove his chariot straight toward Yudhiṣṭhira.
The armies of the Śṛñjayas quaked. Elephants trumpeted, steeds reared, and men whispered that the son of Dharma had fallen into the jaws of Death. But Yudhiṣṭhira, steadfast as ever, advanced against the grandsire, the twins Nakula and Sahadeva flanking him on either side.
Arrows by the thousand leapt from his bow, veiling Bhīṣma as storm-clouds veil the sun. Yet the son of Gaṅgā, smiling faintly, caught each flight in ordered ranks—by hundreds, by thousands—and sent his own in return, arrows swift and shining like flitting swarms of insects.
In the space of a breath, O king, Bhīṣma’s shafts made Yudhiṣṭhira vanish from sight; such was the skill of that ancient lion of war.
Then, roused to anger, Yudhiṣṭhira loosed a long, venom-tipped arrow that hissed like a serpent toward the grandsire’s breast. Bhīṣma cleft it mid-air with a razor-headed shaft and straightway struck down the gold-armoured steeds of the Kuru prince. Yudhiṣṭhira, leaping to the car of Nakula, fought on, while Bhīṣma, wrathful and magnificent, turned his arrows upon the twins till they staggered under his storm.
Seeing his brothers hard pressed, Yudhiṣṭhira called out across the din, his voice clear as a trumpet:
“Surround Bhīṣma! Strike together, O kings! Let the lion of the Kurus fall!”
At his command, the allied monarchs converged like waves upon a rock. But Bhīṣma, encircled and unshaken, whirled his bow in joy, felling warriors as a master marksman strikes ripe fruit from lofty palms. The severed heads of heroes thudded upon the earth like a shower of stones, and the roar of battle rose anew, dreadful as the crash of the sea.
Confusion swept the field. Broken were the ordered ranks of both hosts, and men sought one another singly, calling out for duel. Then Śikhaṇḍin, sighting Bhīṣma, rushed forward crying, “Wait! Wait!” Yet Bhīṣma, remembering his former womanhood, turned aside, refusing to strike.
The Śṛñjayas, seeing the grandsire’s chariot wheel toward them, raised a shout of triumph and blared their conches till the very air trembled.
The field became a tangle of elephants and cars, and the sun bent westward, reddening the dust of war. Then Dhṛṣṭadyumna of the Pāñcālas and mighty Sātyaki, their bows drawn to the ear, swept through thy lines like fire driven by wind, their arrows flashing and their spears striking down men in hundreds.
Yet thy warriors, steadfast in honour, retreated not, though death hemmed them round. Each fought according to his courage, and their cries rose mingled—grief, valour, fury, pain. Hearing the lament of his men, the princes of Avanti, Vinda and Anuvinda, spurred their steeds and rushed upon Dhṛṣṭadyumna, cutting down his horses with a rain of shafts.
The prince of the Pāñcālas sprang lightly to the chariot of Sātyaki, still burning for battle. At once Yudhiṣṭhira advanced with his guard, driving at the Avanti twins, while Duryodhana’s men, closing about them, prepared to aid their kings.
Arjuna meanwhile ranged across the field like a thundercloud, his arrows crashing among the Kṣatriyas. Drona, the preceptor, his heart fixed upon Duryodhana’s will, burned through the Pāñcāla ranks as fire devours a heap of dry cotton.
All the other sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, clustering round Bhīṣma, hurled themselves upon the Pāṇḍava lines.
When the sun sank red upon the western hills, Duryodhana’s voice rang out above the clamor:
“Lose no time! Press on!”
But already night descended. The dying light glimmered on blood-dark waves as an awful river rose upon the field—a river whose current was red, whose banks were heaped with slain, whose jackals howled and whose waters were thick with flesh. Rakṣasas and Piśācas prowled among the corpses; unseen spirits moved in the smoke.
Then Arjuna, having broken the Trigarta ranks and scattered the kings led by Susharman, turned his car toward his tent. Yudhiṣṭhira too, with Bhīma and the twins beside him, withdrew as the darkness fell.
Bhīmasena, having overthrown the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, followed; and Duryodhana, gathering his weary troops about Bhīṣma, made his way to camp. Drona and his son, Kripa, Śalya, and Kṛtavarman of the Sātvatas, escorting the Kaurava host, sought their quarters. Likewise Sātyaki and Dhṛṣṭadyumna, circling their men for protection, retired to rest.
Thus ended that day’s combat, O King—the field strewn thick with the slain of both armies.
That night, both hosts, their warriors weary and wounded, entered their tents amid songs and rites of healing. Brahmins chanted blessings; bards sang of valour; and cool water cleansed the dust of war.
For a time, the camps shone like the mansions of heaven. Men spoke not of battle but of peace, of friends and brothers spared.
Then silence fell. The two vast armies slept—men and beasts, weapons and standards still—under the watch of outposts set by rule. The moon rose upon a field strewn with arms and corpses, silver on blood, calm above ruin. And for that single night, O monarch, the world seemed at rest.