novelraw Arc 4 - Bhisma-Vadha Parva - Chapter 10 - Duryodhana’s Strategy
Arc 4 - Bhisma-Vadha Parva - Chapter 10 - Duryodhana’s Strategy
Sañjaya said:
When thy son’s sharp words, barbed with disrespect, struck the grandsire’s heart, Bhīṣma—mighty in spirit though aged in years—was silent. Pierced by those wordy daggers, he breathed hard like a serpent roused, grief and wrath burning within him. Long he reflected, restraining his speech. Then, raising his eyes, which seemed to blaze with the fire of heaven, he gazed as though to consume the worlds—the celestials, Asuras, and Gandharvas alike—and spoke in calm but terrible tones.
“Why pierce me, child, with poisoned word?
Have I not fought with deed, not sword?
My life itself I hold as naught—
For thee each drop of blood I’ve fought.
The sons of Pāṇḍu none may bind,
For godlike strength in them is twined;
Their deeds have marked them from the flame—
And thou wouldst question Bhīṣma’s name?”
He said, “O Duryodhana, I have ever striven for thy good. For thee I would cast away this frail body in battle, yet thou woundest me with speech. The sons of Pāṇḍu are invincible. When the son of Prithā, in the Khaṇḍava forest, aided Agni and vanquished even Indra, that was proof enough. When that same Arjuna rescued thee from the Gandharvas while thy brothers and Rādha’s son fled, that too was proof. In Virāṭa’s city he faced us all alone and stripped Droṇa and me of our robes; that was proof. When he subdued Karṇa, and gifted Uttara with the latter’s silks, that was proof. When he defeated the Nivātakavacas, who could not be conquered even by Vasava himself, that was proof.
Who can overcome that son of Pāṇḍu who has for his ally the Lord of the Universe, He who bears the conch and discus, the mace and lotus? Vāsudeva is infinite—He is the destroyer and the preserver, the Supreme Soul, the eternal Lord of all beings, praised by Nārada and the great ṛṣis. Thou, in thy folly, knowest not truth from untruth. The man who nears death beholds all trees as gold; so thou, O son of Gāndhārī, beholdest all things inverted.
Thou hast provoked fierce hostilities with the Pāṇḍavas and Śṛñjayas—fight them now thyself! Let us see thee prove thy manhood. As for me, I shall slay all the Somakas and Pāñcālas, save only Śikhaṇḍin. If I fall by their hand, I shall ascend to Yama’s abode; if I slay them, I shall give thee joy. Śikhaṇḍin was born a woman and became a man by boon; yet the soul within remains Sikhaṇḍinī, once female, now changed. Her I will not strike even if it cost my life.
Rest now, O son of Gāndhārī. Tomorrow I will fight such a battle that the world shall speak of it while the stars endure.”
“Sleep thou sound, O king of men,
For dawn shall see what none again;
Till mountains sink and oceans flee,
Men shall speak of that day and me.”
Having heard him, Duryodhana rose, bowed low, and departed. Returning to his tent, he dismissed his attendants and passed the night in thought. When dawn broke, he roused his brothers, commanding: “Draw up the forces! Today Bhīṣma, enraged, will strike down all the Somakas.”
Hearing his lamentations through the night, Bhīṣma deemed them a silent summons. Grieved, yet resolved, he pondered long on the duel to come with Arjuna. Reading those signs, Duryodhana said unto Duḥśāsana, “Let swift chariots guard the grandsire. Rouse all twenty-two divisions! The day has come we long foresaw—the fall of the Pāṇḍavas and the gaining of the earth. Protect Bhīṣma; guarded by us, he shall guard us and destroy the sons of Prithā.
He hath sworn not to strike Sikhaṇḍin, for that one was once a woman. The world knows how, to serve my father’s will, Bhīṣma renounced a kingdom. How shall he, then, slay one who was female? This, he declared to me in truth. Therefore, Sikhaṇḍin, born a daughter, now fights as a man—but Bhīṣma’s arrows shall not seek her. Yet all other Kṣatriyas who strive for the sons of Pāṇḍu shall he slay. Thus he spake, that chief of Bharata’s line. So let our foremost care be his defence. For even a lion, left unguarded, may be slain by a wolf. Let not Sikhaṇḍin bring the grandsire down unshielded.”
Then he ordered: “Let Śakuni, Śalya, Kṛpa, Droṇa, and Vivingsati guard him well. In his safety lies our victory.”
“A lion’s heart within the field,
Yet if unguarded, must he yield;
Ring him round with shield and car—
Bhīṣma’s breath is Kuru’s star.”
At Duryodhana’s word, they gathered round Gaṅgā’s son with a vast division of chariots. Thy sons arrayed themselves about him like gods defending the wielder of the thunderbolt. The earth trembled beneath their march; the sky echoed with the din.
Then Duryodhana said again, “Yudhamanyu guards Arjuna’s left wheel, Uttamaujas his right; under Arjuna’s shelter stands Sikhaṇḍin. O Duḥśāsana, contrive it so that Sikhaṇḍin, protected by Pārtha, may not strike Bhīṣma unprotected by us.”
Obedient to his brother’s will, Duḥśāsana led forth the troops, placing Bhīṣma in the van. And Arjuna, seeing the grandsire thus surrounded by countless cars, turned to Dhṛṣṭadyumna and said:
“Place before him Sikhaṇḍin bold,
Whose heart was once a woman’s mold;
My bow shall guard his vengeful tread—
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The grandsire’s fate hangs by that thread.”
Thus, O King, the hosts drew up for the morrow’s dawn—when destiny itself prepared to write in blood the fall of Bhīṣma, son of the River and pillar of the Kuru line.
Sañjaya said:
Then Bhīṣma, the son of Śāntanu, that pillar of the Kuru host, went forth at dawn, surrounded by the vast sea of his army. Clad in mail that gleamed like the rising sun, he arranged his divisions in a mighty formation known as Sarvatobhadra—the all-auspicious, secure on every side.
In the van he placed himself, radiant as blazing fire, accompanied by Kṛpa, Kṛtavarman of the Sātvatas, the valiant Śaivya, crafty Śakuni, Jayadratha the Sindhu king, Sudakṣiṇa of the Kāmbhojas, and all thy sons, O Bhārata. To the right wing stood Droṇa, Bhūriśravā, Śalya, and the elephant-warrior Bhagadatta—each clad in mail and armed for death. On the left he stationed Aśvatthāman, Somadatta, and the twin princes of Avanti, commanding a large and glittering force.
In the center, Duryodhana himself, surrounded by the fierce Trigartas, took his stand—his heart inflamed with the lust of battle. Behind the host, forming its tail, were placed the terrible Alambusha and Śrutāyus, mailed and resolute. Thus arrayed, the Kaurava army glowed like a ring of flame encircling the earth.
Each crest a spark, each spear a star,
Each elephant a moving scar;
The field itself a molten sea—
Where thunder slept in strategy.
At the same hour, King Yudhiṣṭhira and Bhīmasena, with the twins Nakula and Sahadeva, arrayed their army to face the grandsire. They placed themselves in the van, armour-clad, their standards bright as fire. Beside them stood Dhṛṣṭadyumna, Virāṭa, and the lion-hearted Sātyaki, leaders of vast and eager troops.
Sikhaṇḍin, Vijaya (Arjuna), Ghaṭotkaca, Chekitāna of mighty arms, and Kuntibhoja, strong and valiant, stood close arrayed. Behind them were Abhimanyu, Drupada, and the five Kaikeyas, their mail shining like liquid gold. Thus, the sons of Pāṇḍu, resolute and terrible, formed their vyūha—mighty and unconquerable.
Then both hosts, glittering like twin oceans under the morning sun, rolled toward each other. The kings on thy side, led by Bhīṣma, advanced in wrath; and the sons of Pāṇḍu, headed by Bhīma, pressed forward to meet them.
The air trembled with the sound of conches, cow-horns, kettledrums, and cymbals. The warriors roared like lions. Horses neighed, elephants trumpeted, and men shouted until heaven and earth seemed to quake. The two armies, clashing in fury, rushed together like storm-lashed seas.
Conch to conch and drum to drum,
Thunder answered thunder’s hum;
Spears like lightning cleaved the haze—
The field was night in noonday’s blaze.
Ere the first shafts were loosed, dread omens filled the sky. The sun grew dim though risen high. Fierce winds howled across the plain, whirling dust like smoke from the pyres of men. Jackals cried with human voices; vultures and crows circled low, scenting blood. Showers fell—not of rain, but of ash, of bones mingled with gore.
The quarters of the world flamed faintly red, and tears streamed from the eyes of beasts. Trembling, they vomited and voided in terror. Meteors struck the sun’s rim and fell like molten arrows to the earth. The cries of the warriors were drowned by the wails of unseen spirits—Rākṣasas and cannibals shrieking in delight.
Then vultures swooped, dogs bayed, and the very earth moaned beneath the tramp of men.
The heavens wept red, the winds were wild,
The beasts of field grew faint and riled;
And over all, with hungry sound,
The jackals sang of death unbound.
Thus, O King, the two vast hosts of Pāṇḍavas and Dhārtarāṣṭras, teeming with elephants, steeds, and kings, closed in that dread hour. Their mingled tumult rose like the roaring of twin oceans under tempest, shaking the three worlds—the earth beneath, the heavens above, and the hearts of men between.
Sañjaya said:
Then the noble Abhimanyu, radiant with youthful might, urged forward his steeds of tawny hue and rushed upon the vast array of Duryodhana. His arrows fell in torrents, swift and unceasing, like monsoon rains upon a field. None among the Kauravas, O King, could resist that lion of men—the son of Subhadrā—who, blazing with wrath and armed with a myriad weapons, plunged into the boundless ocean of thy host.
His bow was thunder, his shafts were rain,
Each stroke a hymn to valor’s strain;
The clouds of men before him broke,
As reeds before the tempest’s stroke.
With shafts like serpents of living flame, he sent many a hero to Yama’s abode. Chariots burst apart, steeds fell mangled, and elephant-warriors rolled in crimsoned dust. The kings of earth beheld his might and cried aloud in wonder, applauding as the heavens themselves would praise Indra in his hour of wrath.
Thy divisions, O Bhārata, tossed and scattered like tufts of cotton swept by storm, fled before him. None stood fast; the host sank like elephants mired in clay. Alone amid the wreck, Abhimanyu shone like a smokeless fire—pure, terrible, and unapproachable. Thy warriors, unable to endure his brilliance, perished as moths rushing into flame.
His bow, with golden inlay, flashed on every side like lightning dancing upon dark clouds. His shafts sped forth thick as bees from a blossoming tree. None could seize the instant to strike him down, for his movements were swifter than sight itself. Confounding Droṇa, Kṛpa, Aśvatthāman, and Jayadratha, he swept through the field, his bow drawn into a perfect circle—a halo around the sun of battle.
Men whispered that there were two Pāṇḍusons that day, for his fury was Arjuna’s own reborn. The Kaurava host reeled, intoxicated by fear, while his allies rejoiced as the gods once rejoiced when Indra smote the demon Maya. From thy ranks arose the wail of the dying, a sound deep and dreadful like the ocean in tempest.
Beholding his army thus broken by one youth, Duryodhana turned in alarm to the Rākṣasa son of Ṛśyaśṛṅga and said:
“Behold, like Vṛtra mid the sky,
He breaks my host, and kings must die!
No cure remains but thee, O might—
Rise, slay this child of Kuru’s light!”
At the king’s word, the mighty Rākṣasa Alamvusha rose for battle. His roar was like thunder among mountain peaks; at that sound, the Pāṇḍava ranks trembled as the sea under storm. Men fell dead of fear; steeds reared and screamed; the very earth quaked as that demon strode forth, bow in hand, his eyes red as burning coals.
He rushed upon Abhimanyu’s lines, showering death like a monsoon cloud hurling lightning. The slaughter was great—thousands perished beneath his rain of arrows. Grinding men as an elephant grinds lotus stalks, he drove deep into the Pandava host until he reached the sons of Draupadī.
They came against him like five blazing planets moving toward the moon at dissolution’s end. Prativindhya struck first, his arrows cleaving the demon’s armor; golden-winged shafts pierced the Rākṣasa till he shone like a storm-cloud lit by lightning. Then all five brothers, fierce as snakes, rained arrows upon him.
Five fires flared on the demon’s crest,
Gold shafts burning in his breast;
The monster reeled, his anger grew—
Like serpent-king in crimson hue.
Pierced and maddened, Alamvusha swelled with rage till his form seemed to double. Laughing cruelly, he shattered their bows and standards, and with five sharp arrows struck each brother. Then, dancing upon his chariot, he slew their steeds and charioteers, loosing a storm of arrows by the hundred. The five sons of Draupadī, fallen and unhorsed, faced him on foot as he rushed, howling, to drag them to Yama’s realm.
Seeing them hard pressed and wounded, the son of Arjuna turned his car and flew to their aid. The field fell silent for a moment, for all knew the meeting of these two—hero and fiend—would shake the heavens.
Like Indra meeting Vṛtra dread,
They clashed with storm above their head;
Fire met darkness, steel met flame—
And earth stood still to hear their name.
Thus did Abhimanyu, bright as dawn, and Alamvusha, dark as night, join in combat fierce and blazing, even as Śakra once contended with the Asura Śambara in the wars of gods and demons. And the hosts of both sides stood as silent witnesses, beholding that terrible wonder on the plain of Kurukṣetra.