novelraw Arc 4 - Bhisma-Vadha Parva - Chapter 7 - The Slaughter Renewed
Arc 4 - Bhisma-Vadha Parva - Chapter 7 - The Slaughter Renewed
Sañjaya said:
When the long night of rest had passed, both hosts—the Kauravas and the Pāṇḍavas—rose once more to renew their battle. At dawn, the camps awoke to a tumult vast as the ocean’s roar: conches blared, drums rolled, neighing steeds and trumpeting elephants filled the air with thunder.
Then thy son Duryodhana, with Chitrasena and Vivingsati beside him, and with Bhīṣma the grandsire and Droṇa the son of Bharadvāja—those masters of every weapon—gathered together, their armour gleaming like molten gold. Uniting their counsel, O King, they formed the Kaurava host into an immense and dreadful array, ordered and impenetrable, vast as the ocean whose billows are its elephants and steeds.
At its forefront shone Bhīṣma, son of Śāntanu, upheld by the warriors of Mālava, the southern kings, and the princes of Avanti. Behind him stood Droṇa, firm as a mountain, guarded by Pulindas, Pāradas, and the hosts of the Kṣudraka-Mālava tribes. Next advanced Bhagadatta, lord of the Prāgjyotiṣas, surrounded by the Magadhas, Kalingas, and fierce Piśācas.
Behind Bhagadatta came Vṛhadbala, the ruler of Kośala, leading the Melakas, Tripuras, and Cichilas; next, the Trigarta king, bold and vengeful, followed by a great army of Kāmbhojas and Yavanas.
Then came Aśvatthāman, roaring like a lion and shaking the earth with his shouts, followed by King Duryodhana and his brothers in close array. Kripa of the Śāradvata line brought up the rear, his standard shining white as the moon.
Thus moved forth that Kaurava ocean, its crests the lofty banners, its depths the thunder of drums, its foam the tossing plumes of horses.
Beholding the splendour of this great formation, King Yudhiṣṭhira turned to the generalissimo, the high-souled son of Pṛṣata, and said:
“Behold, O son of Drupada, the Kaurava sea—its waves are elephants and steeds, its depths filled with armed men. Form thou our counter-array without delay!”
Obedient to his king’s command, Dṛṣṭadyumna swiftly marshalled the Pāṇḍava host into the terrible Śṛṅgāṭaka, the Horned Array, famed for breaking every opposing line.
At its two horns stood Bhīmasena and Sātyaki, surrounded by legions of cars, horsemen, and infantry. Behind them shone Arjuna upon his chariot of white steeds, Kṛṣṇa the Dark One holding the reins. In the centre stood Yudhiṣṭhira with the twin sons of Mādrī beside him, while Abhimanyu, Virāṭa, the sons of Draupadī, and mighty Ghaṭotkaca guarded the rear with their divisions.
Thus arrayed, the Pāṇḍava warriors waited upon the field, their banners streaming, hearts eager for victory.
Then rose a tumult fierce and glorious—the roll of drums, the clang of cymbals, the cries of heroes striking their arms, and the long blare of conches echoing to the very heavens. The ground shook beneath the tread of elephants, and both hosts, approaching one another, gazed with unblinking eyes, each seeking its match in valour.
Loud as the sea in storm they met,
steel clashed on steel, the heavens rang;
arrows hissed like rain of death,
and through the smoke bright lances sang.
Soon the battle deepened. Whetted shafts rained down like serpents with open jaws; spears and polished darts, oiled and gleaming, flashed across the field like bolts of lightning; golden maces whirled through the air like meteors, and blue sabres gleamed beside shields inlaid with moons.
Everywhere the earth glittered with fallen arms, and the two hosts, mingling in combat, shone like the gods and Dānavas locked in war.
Car met car, wheel struck wheel; elephants crashed together, tusks grinding till sparks leapt out like fire from flint. Warriors wrestled upon the ground, striking with swords, fists, or clubs, each drenched in sweat and blood.
The field of Kurukṣetra became a sea of fury—its waves the surging ranks of men, its foam the dust of hooves, its tide the flow of crimson blood.
Then Bhīṣma, the son of Gaṅgā, raised his mighty bow. The thunder of his chariot filled the sky; the twang of his string robbed men of their senses. He rushed like a tempest upon the Pāṇḍavas.
At once, the car-warriors of the sons of Pāṇḍu, led by Dṛṣṭadyumna, answered his call with a cry that shook the plain.
The old lion roared, the young ones sprang;
chariots reeled and banners flew.
Dust veiled the sun, the earth was red,
as Bhīṣma and the princes slew.
So began again that vast and dreadful war, where car-warriors, footmen, and elephants tangled in one another’s path, and none could tell, O King, whose blood it was that darkened the earth beneath the setting sun.
Sañjaya said:
The sons of Pāṇḍu could scarce behold Bhīṣma that day, O King—his anger blazing forth like the sun in summer, scorching every quarter with his shafts. At Yudhiṣṭhira’s command, the Pāṇḍava warriors rushed upon the son of Gaṅgā, though he ground their divisions to dust with his keen arrows.
The grandsire, rejoicing in battle, struck down the mightiest among the Śṛñjayas and the Pāñcālas. Still, though mowed like grass before the scythe, the sons of Drupada and Somaka pressed forward, fearless of death, seeking glory in his flame. Bhīṣma’s arrows flew thick as locusts, cutting off the arms and heads of kings; the chariots of their leaders overturned, and the earth was strewn with mangled steeds and elephant corpses, tusks splintered, riders fallen, the air thick with dust and blood.
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Among the sons of Pāṇḍu, none could endure the grandsire’s wrath save the mighty Bhīmasena. Alone he advanced, his standard high, like a storm-cloud rolling toward a mountain peak.
Then rose a cry from all the ranks—a tumult fierce and dreadful—as Bhīma closed with Bhīṣma.
The Pāṇḍavas shouted in triumph; the Kauravas roared in reply. And Duryodhana, anxious for his grandsire, surrounded him with his brothers and guards.
Bhīma’s arrows whistled through the sky. One shaft, keen as the horse-shoe blade, struck down Bhīṣma’s charioteer. The steeds, unrestrained, dashed wildly across the field, dragging the empty car behind them.
Then Bhīma, stringing his bow with thunderous might, beheld thy son Sunābha before him. With one straight shaft he clove his neck—
The arrow sang—a single breath—
then silence fell amid the cries;
and Sunābha’s head, with jewelled crest,
sank to the dust before his eyes.
Seeing their brother slain, seven of Duryodhana’s sons, clad in bright mail and armed with glittering bows, rushed upon Bhīma like rivers upon the sea—Ādityaketu, Vahvasin, Kuṇḍadhara, Mahodara, Aparājita, Paṇḍitaka, and Viśālākṣa—heroes all, roaring for vengeance.
Arrows rained upon Vṛkodara, Mahodara’s nine shafts struck him first, each heavy as Indra’s thunderbolt; Ādityaketu followed with seventy; Viṣṇu with five; Kuṇḍadhara with ninety; Viśālākṣa with seven; and Aparājita, fierce of arm, with many more, his bowstring snapping like fire; Paṇḍitaka’s three shafts closed the storm.
Yet Bhīma wavered not. Gripping his bow with his left hand, he answered their fury in kind—
one arrow for each brother, each death sure as fate:
Aparājita’s fair head he shore,
Kuṇḍadhara next sank down in gore;
swift Paṇḍitaka followed fast,
and Viśālākṣa breathed his last.
Mahodara fell with chest laid bare,
Ādityaketu’s crown cut through the air;
and Vahvasin, by vengeance sped,
joined his brethren mid the dead.
Thus seven princes of Kuru’s house fell by Bhīma’s wrath, their bright armour darkened with blood. The earth drank deep, and the cries of battle faded to murmurs of dread.
The other sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra fled before him, remembering Bhīma’s oath in the Kuru hall—the vow that he would one day drink their blood.
Then Duryodhana, seeing his brothers slain, his heart rent with anguish, cried out to his troops:
“There is Bhīma! Slay him—slay the tiger of the Pāṇḍavas!”
But fear had entered their hearts, O King, for all beheld the might of Vṛkodara and knew that Vidura’s counsel had come to pass.
“When greed and blindness rule the throne,
the seeds of ruin are swiftly sown;
the hand that shuns the path of right
must one day meet its fated night.”
Now those wise words, once scorned, were fulfilled before their eyes.
Then Duryodhana, crushed with grief, went unto Bhīṣma and lamented, saying:
“My heroic brothers, O grandsire, have been slain by Bhīmasena! Our warriors fight bravely, yet they fall one by one. Thou beholdest all and aidest not—alas, what doom have I embraced!”
Hearing these bitter words, Bhīṣma’s eyes filled with tears. He spoke softly, his voice burdened with age and truth:
“O child, what was foretold by me, by Droṇa, by Vidura, and by thy mother Gandhārī—thou didst not heed. Neither Droṇa nor I shall escape this war alive.
Mark my words, O Duryodhana: whomever Bhīma beholds in battle, he will surely slay. This destiny is fixed. Therefore, summon all thy patience, and fight, seeking heaven through valour.
The sons of Pāṇḍu cannot be conquered—not even by the gods led by Indra himself. Set thy heart firm in courage, O Bharata, and meet thy fate in arms.”
Thus spoke the grandsire—his heart heavy, his wisdom clear—as the field of Kurukṣetra burned with destiny’s flame.
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:
Beholding, O Sañjaya, so many of my sons—valiant and trained in arms—slain by a single man, what did Bhīṣma, Droṇa, and Kṛpa do upon the field? Day after day my children fall, and none of them return victorious. Surely, O Sūta, they are overtaken by cruel destiny.
Even while they stand surrounded by unretreating heroes—Droṇa, Bhīṣma, Kṛpa, Somadatta’s son, Bhagadatta, Aśvatthāman, and other mighty warriors—they are vanquished one by one. What greater sign of fate’s decree can there be?
When I, and Bhīṣma, and Vidura counselled my son again and again, he heeded not. Gandhārī too, in her motherly love, forbade him from this folly; yet Duryodhana, blinded by greed and pride, would not awaken. That folly now bears its fruit—Bhīmasena, furious as Death himself, sends my insensate sons each day to Yama’s abode.
Sañjaya said:
O King, the wise words once uttered by Vidura for thy good—words thou didst reject—have now come to pass. Vidura said:
“Restrain thy sons from the dice, O monarch! For the game shall open the door of ruin.”
Like a man refusing medicine when his hour is come, thou didst not listen to the counsel of well-wishers. The words of righteousness once despised now stand fulfilled before thee. The Kauravas perish because they turned away from the warnings of Vidura, Droṇa, Bhīṣma, and other sages of thy house.
When thou refused their guidance, the wheel of destruction began to turn. Hear now, O King, how the battle raged that day, terrible and unspeakable.
At midday, the slaughter grew fierce as Time itself. At Yudhiṣṭhira’s command, the Pāṇḍava warriors rushed upon Bhīṣma alone, eager to bring down the grandsire of the Kurus.
Dṛṣṭadyumna and Śikhaṇḍin led the charge, Sātyaki following with his men; Virāṭa and Drupada, with all the Somakas, advanced against Bhīṣma’s chariot. The Kaikeyas, Dṛṣṭaketu, and Kuntibhoja, their ranks glittering in mail, pressed forward like waves against a rock.
Arjuna, with Draupadī’s sons and the valiant Chekitana, moved to confront the kings under Duryodhana’s banner. Abhimanyu, with the mighty Ghaṭotkaca and Bhīmasena himself, rushed upon the rest of the Kaurava host.
Thus the Pāṇḍava army divided itself into three divisions and fell upon thy sons; and thy army likewise rose in wrath and met them.
Droṇa, the lion among archers, strode forth with his great bow, his eyes red with fury. He smote the Somakas and the Śṛñjayas like Death himself loosed upon mortals. Loud cries of anguish arose from the Pandava ranks; warriors writhed upon the ground like serpents struck by fire.
Shafts fell thick as rain at night,
their iron gleam a storm of doom;
cries and groans o’erflowed the field—
a river red began to bloom.
All around, men convulsed in agony; the ground quaked under the tread of maddened elephants and dying horses.
Bhīmasena, roaring like the god of death, fell upon the Kaurava host, his bow like lightning flashing through dark clouds. He smote elephants as they came, his arrows whistling like the wind of ruin.
Huge beasts, their trunks severed, their hides rent, toppled like shattered hills. Some fell screaming, some fled wild-eyed, some sank still upon the earth.
Mountains of flesh and ivory white,
they sank beneath the hero’s rain;
the ground itself seemed clothed in night,
echoing with their trumpets’ pain.
Nakula and Sahadeva meanwhile broke upon the Kaurava cavalry. Horses bedecked with gold, their manes braided with gems, fell in heaps—tongues torn, throats gasping, nostrils thick with blood. The plain shone strangely beautiful, strewn with shining mail and jeweled reins, even as spring fields bloom with scattered blossoms.
Arjuna, fierce as Indra, carved through the line of kings; their standards toppled, their umbrellas split, their chariots overturned.
Everywhere, O King, the earth was bright with wreckage—shattered bows, severed heads adorned with earrings, garlands and anklets mixed with pools of crimson. Broken fans, torn banners, and chariot wheels gleamed amid the carnage like stars upon a red horizon.
Umbrellas torn and armlets crushed,
the dust of death in golden glow;
jewels mixed with blood and steel—
such was the earth of Kurukṣetra’s woe.
Thus perished the Pandava host when Bhīṣma and Droṇa, Aśvatthāman, Kṛpa, and Kṛtavarman burned with wrath; and likewise fell thy own army when the Pāṇḍava heroes rose in fury. Each host became the other’s ruin; the wheel of fate moved on, grinding both alike beneath its rim.