novelraw Arc 4 - Bhisma-Vadha Parva - Chapter 11 - Arjuna Fights Drona
Arc 4 - Bhisma-Vadha Parva - Chapter 11 - Arjuna Fights Drona
Sañjaya said:
Listen, O King, and I shall tell thee of that great and dreadful combat—of the mighty Abhimanyu and the Rākṣasa Ālambuṣa, of the feats of Arjuna, Bhīma, and the sons of Mādrī, and of the clash wherein Bhīṣma and Droṇa themselves shone like twin suns upon the field.
When the roaring Rākṣasa, son of Ṛśyaśṛṅga, beheld Abhimanyu cutting down thy princes, he raised his bow and cried aloud, “Wait, wait, O child of Arjuna!”—his voice rolling like thunder through the sky. Abhimanyu too, fearless and radiant, replied with a lion’s roar, and both heroes rushed toward each other like cloud and tempest meeting in mid-heaven.
The one was master of illusion, O King, and the other of celestial arms. Then Abhimanyu smote the demon with three sharp arrows, and again with five that gleamed like tongues of flame. Ālambuṣa, enraged, pierced the youth with nine shafts in the chest, as a goad pierces the hide of an elephant. The night-wanderer then, swift and terrible, showered a thousand arrows; but the son of Arjuna, burning with wrath, struck back nine that tore through the demon’s heart and stood quivering within his breast.
Gold-winged shafts like sunbeams flew,
And through his mail their splendor drew;
He shone, though riven, fierce and bright—
A mountain wrapt in Kinsuka light.
Still, the Rākṣasa, raging and inflamed, darkened the sky with clouds of arrows. His weapons, terrible as the rods of Yama, pierced the earth after wounding Subhadrā’s son. Yet Abhimanyu’s shafts, equally keen, struck through the demon’s mail and glimmered like serpents of gold. At last, Abhimanyu compelled him to turn and flee, even as Indra once drove back Māyā the Asura.
But Alamvusha, unwilling to accept defeat, drew upon his dark craft. He spread a thick and dreadful gloom across the battlefield so that neither friend nor foe could be discerned. Then arose confusion and cries on all sides, for the night itself seemed to descend upon Kurukṣetra. Yet Abhimanyu, calm amid the shadow, invoked the Saurastra, the blazing Solar Weapon. Instantly the veil of darkness was rent, and light returned to earth and heaven.
The illusions of the Rākṣasa dissolved like mist before the dawn. Pierced and scorched by the arrows of the prince, Alamvusha forsook his chariot and fled in terror, his heart quailing before that lion-cub of Pāṇḍu’s line.
Then Abhimanyu, freed from the fiend, fell upon thy troops as a maddened elephant tramples reeds beside the river. Like a blazing wheel of fire he moved among them, his bow drawn, his eyes aflame. Bhīṣma, seeing his soldiers scatter, rained arrows thick as rain upon the youth.
Around him the Kaurava warriors formed a ring—Duryodhana’s brothers, princes and lords of many lands—all showering him with shafts. But Abhimanyu, born of the heroic stock of both Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna, fought on unbroken, his movements swift as thought, his valor equal to Indra’s. None could measure his might that day.
Soon Arjuna himself, hearing the tumult and the cries of “Subhadrā’s son is surrounded!”, turned his steeds and sped to the place. And from the other side, the grandsire Bhīṣma, seeing Arjuna’s banner approach, moved forth like Rāhu seeking to swallow the sun.
Then the field became a thundercloud of war. Bhīṣma stood encircled by thy sons, elephants, and cars gleaming like a wall of mail. The sons of Pāṇḍu, likewise, closed round Arjuna, their armour flashing, their conches sounding, their hearts resolved.
Steel met steel and cry met cry,
Drums rolled thunder through the sky;
Banners shook and standards reeled,
As gods themselves had charged the field.
There the venerable Kṛpa pierced Arjuna with five and twenty shafts; but from his right sprang Sātyaki, bright as a star of war, and smote Kṛpa with keen arrows to please the sons of Pāṇḍu. Gautama, enraged, struck him back with nine barbed shafts, yet the Yādava hero, undaunted, loosed a deadly arrow straight at his foe.
Aśvatthāman, son of Droṇa, cut it mid-flight like Indra cleaving lightning, and Sātyaki, abandoning Kṛpa, turned fiercely upon Droṇa’s son as Rāhu rushes upon the Moon. Their bows flashed like meteors; Aśvatthāman severed Sātyaki’s string, but Sātyaki took another bow and wounded him in chest and arms with six keen points.
Struck and bleeding, the son of Droṇa drooped upon his chariot, clutching the standard for support. Reviving in anger, he pierced the Vrishni hero through with a long and heavy shaft that entered the earth beyond him, and with another cut down his golden banner. Loud he roared, covering his foe in a storm of arrows.
Yet Sātyaki broke through that rain of death as the Sun breaks through the clouds, and in fury he poured a thousand arrows back upon Aśvatthāman, crying aloud like thunder.
When Droṇa saw his son thus pressed, he drove forward to his rescue, loosing a shaft so keen it seemed to split the air. Sātyaki turned and struck the preceptor himself with twenty shining arrows, even as Kṛṣṇa’s kin would strike a god.
At that sight, Arjuna the mighty, whose heart was flame and whose arm was lightning, came rushing like the tempest upon Droṇa.
Guru and pupil met once more,
Their bows the bolts, their oaths the roar;
As Budha meets with Śukra bright,
They burned the heavens with their fight.
Thus, O King, the battle raged—man against teacher, sire against son, and friend against friend—till even the earth herself trembled beneath the weight of their valor and the sky glowed red with the fire of their wrath.
Sañjaya said:
When the sun had climbed high over the blood-stained plain of Kurukṣetra, two mighty lions of men met once more in that ocean of war — Droṇa, son of Bhāradvāja, and Arjuna, son of Pāṇḍu.
Dhṛtarāṣṭra, thou hast said truly: love once bound them, for Arjuna had bowed at Droṇa’s feet, and the preceptor had taught him every secret of the bow. Yet, O King, on that day of destiny, love yielded to duty. For in battle, a Kṣatriya’s law is stern — neither sire, nor brother, nor guru is spared when dharma of arms calls him to the field.
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Two hearts that once beat true as one,
Met steel to steel beneath the sun;
No tears, no pause, no backward glance—
Each bound by vow, each lost in trance.
Then Arjuna, foremost among archers, raised Gāṇḍīva, and three keen shafts flew singing through the air. They struck the preceptor full upon his mail, but Droṇa moved not, nor showed the least concern.
Enraged, Pārtha loosed another storm of arrows that fell like monsoon rain upon a forest. Droṇa, blazing like a forest fire, struck back with countless shafts that darkened the day.
Seeing this, Duryodhana, fearful for his teacher, sent forth Suśarmā of the Trigartas to guard Droṇa’s flank. The Trigarta lord, his bow drawn to his ear, poured volleys upon Arjuna, his shafts glittering in the sky like cranes across an autumn cloud.
Those arrows entered Arjuna’s flesh, vanishing into his body like birds into a fruit-laden tree.
Then, roaring like a storm-cloud, Arjuna pierced the Trigarta king and his son, felling them bleeding upon their cars. Though wounded and reeling, they stood firm, resolved to die. They rained arrows upon Arjuna’s chariot till it shone like a mountain struck by lightning.
Yet Arjuna’s hand was swifter still. His bowstring sang like the wind scattering storm-clouds, baffling the assaults of many warriors at once. The gods themselves looked down in wonder; even the Asuras ceased their enmity for a moment to behold that art of arms divine.
Then the son of Pāṇḍu invoked the Vāyavya Astra—the Wind-weapon.
Suddenly the earth trembled. Trees were torn from their roots; dust and stones whirled through the heavens; and Duryodhana’s troops were scattered like leaves before a tempest.
But Droṇa, calm amid the chaos, invoked the Śaila Astra—the Weapon of Stone. Then the whirlwind ceased, and the ten quarters grew still, as if creation itself had paused in reverence.
Arjuna’s arrows, however, fell unrelenting upon the Trigartas, breaking their spirit and scattering them in panic.
At once Duryodhana rallied his champions — Kripa, Aśvatthāman, Śalya, Sudakṣiṇa of the Kāmbhojas, and Vinda and Anuvinda of Avanti. With Bhagadatta and Śrutāyus leading an elephant host, they encircled Arjuna and Bhīma on every side, their trumpets blaring, their bows drawn to the ear.
The sons of Mādrī, Nakula and Sahadeva, were meanwhile opposed by Bhūriśravā, Śala, and the sons of Śakuni. And Bhīṣma himself, the grandsire, surrounded Yudhiṣṭhira with the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra and their hordes of men and beasts.
Then Bhīma, seeing the great elephant division advancing like a moving hill, licked the corners of his mouth in joy — even as a lion scents blood in the wind.
Leaping from his chariot, mace in hand, he roared so loud that thy warriors trembled. The elephants, vast as clouds, encircled him, their tusks flashing like the crescent moon. Yet Bhīma stood among them like the sun among dark storm masses, his mace rising and falling in crimson arcs.
Tusks he tore and skulls he broke,
Each blow a thunder’s awful stroke;
Through blood and bone he waded deep,
Till heaven itself forgot to weep.
Some beasts he struck down with their riders; others he seized by the tusks and wrenched those weapons from their roots, slaying them with their own ivory spears. His body was streaked with gore and dust, his mace glistening like Rudra’s own trident after the world’s end.
The few surviving elephants fled, trampling their own ranks in terror. Seeing them run, Duryodhana’s army once more broke and scattered across the plain.
Thus, O King, the sons of Pāṇḍu stood unconquered that day—Arjuna flashing like lightning before Droṇa’s storm, and Bhīma raging like the Destroyer himself among the beasts of war.
Sañjaya said:
When the blazing sun stood high, dividing day in twain, there arose upon Kurukṣetra a battle such as earth had never borne before — fierce, vast, and fraught with death. Bhīṣma, the son of Gaṅgā, that aged lion of the Bharatas, with bow ever drawn and heart unwearied, swept through the ranks of the Somakas like fire consuming dry reeds. His shafts fell by hundreds and by thousands; each arrow a sentence of death, each twang of his bow the tolling of a funeral bell. The armies of the Pāṇḍavas bent before him as grain before the storm.
Then Dhṛṣṭadyumna, commander of the host, with Virāṭa, Drupada, and Sikhaṇḍin, closed upon him like clouds upon the sun. Their arrows flew thick as rain, and they pierced the grandsire’s breast and arms, staining his silver mail with blood. But Bhīṣma, unmoved, struck Dhṛṣṭadyumna and Virāṭa each with three shafts and sent a long arrow, bright as lightning, against Drupada’s heart.
Stung by his blows, those princes flamed with wrath like serpents struck by a staff. Sikhaṇḍin especially rained shafts without number upon the grandsire. But Bhīṣma, remembering that Sikhaṇḍin had been born a woman, loosed not a single arrow in reply; for though he stood in death’s hour, the grandsire’s vow was stronger than his rage.
Dhṛṣṭadyumna, burning like fire, smote Bhīṣma with three arrows in the chest. Drupada followed with five and twenty shafts, Virāṭa with ten, and Sikhaṇḍin again with five and twenty more. The grandsire’s armor gleamed red with blood, and he shone like an Aśoka tree in bloom. Calmly he repaid them — three arrows to each — and with one broad-headed shaft he clove Drupada’s bow in twain. The Pāñcāla king seized another and pierced both Bhīṣma and his charioteer.
Then the sons of Draupadī, and the five princes of Kekaya, and the mighty Sātyaki, with Yudhiṣṭhira himself at their head, rushed forward to rescue Dhṛṣṭadyumna and the Pāñcālas. Thy warriors too, O King, gathered round Bhīṣma to shield him.
Cloud met cloud and flame met flame,
The winds of death blew wild;
Earth shook beneath her children slain,
And Kurukṣetra wept defiled.
There rose a general combat dreadful beyond words. Car-warriors smote car-warriors and fell together, Elephants clashed like mountains meeting, Horsemen struck horsemen, and footmen trod the fallen. Chariots, their riders slain, rolled driverless across the field, Crushing men and steeds alike as wind drives storm-tossed trees. They sped in broken circles, wheels flashing, banners torn — Like clouds of vapor in the sky.
Kings rich as Kubera, wise as Bṛhaspati, proud as Indra,
Fell stripped of glory, their golden crowns rolling in the dust.
Some fled on foot, their chariots shattered; others, pierced and dying,
Cried out to heaven with their last breath.
Great elephants, riderless and maddened by blood,
Charged through friend and foe alike, trumpeting like thunder.
Their golden trappings and jeweled parasols were scattered,
Their streaming banners mingled with the dust.
Men, horses, and tuskers lay in heaps;
The field was choked with corpses and broken mail.
A river of blood was born that day.
Its flood was red as setting suns,
Its waves were helms and shields;
Its reeds were hair, its fish were steeds,
Its banks were mortal fields.
Its current ran with severed heads,
Its foam was froth of gore;
And down that dreadful river’s course,
The souls of heroes bore.
Bows formed its bridges, and shattered cars its islands. Coats of mail and helmets floated like lotus-blooms, And swords and spears gleamed like tortoises beneath its surface. Standards and banners were its trees, And mortals were its crumbling banks, Devoured each moment by that hungry flood. Cannibals and ghosts seemed to swim within it as swans, While timid men, fainting and senseless, Were borne away as leaves upon its tide— Even as the river Vaitaraṇī bears the dead to Yama’s realm.
The Kṣatriyas beheld the slaughter and cried aloud:
“Alas! Through Duryodhana’s sin the race of warriors perishes!
O blind Dhṛtarāṣṭra, enslaved by greed and folly,
Why didst thou envy the sons of Pāṇḍu, pure and noble?”
Such lamentations echoed through the smoke and dust.
Hearing these reproaches, Duryodhana, his face dark with wrath,
Turned to Bhīṣma, Droṇa, Kripa, and Śalya, saying,
“Fight on! Delay no longer! Let your deeds proclaim your valor!”
Then the storm rose anew — Kurus and Pāṇḍavas locked once more In battle born of the dice, a feud of fate.
O King, thou seest now the harvest sown—
The crop of greed, of scorned advice, of pride alone.
Neither sons of Pāṇḍu nor thy line will live to tell the tale;
For destiny and folly clasp as one, and both shall fail.
Thus, O Dhṛtarāṣṭra, through thine own blindness and the turning of Time, the blood of brothers flowed upon the field, and Yama’s kingdom swelled with heroes newly slain.