novelraw Arc 4 - Bhisma-Vadha Parva - Chapter 12 - Krishna Breaks His Vow
Arc 4 - Bhisma-Vadha Parva - Chapter 12 - Krishna Breaks His Vow
Sañjaya said:
Beholding Bhīṣma, the son of Gaṅgā, blazing with wrath in the midst of battle and encircled by the Pāṇḍava host as the sun is hemmed by storm clouds at the end of summer, Duryodhana spoke anxiously to his brother Duḥśāsana.
He said, “This mighty bowman, our grandsire Bhīṣma, slayer of countless heroes, stands surrounded on all sides by the Pāṇḍavas and the Pāñcālas. It is thy duty, O hero, to protect him. Guard the grandsire well; for if protected by us, he will destroy all our foes even as blazing fire consumes a field of dry grass. Around Bhīṣma let the army form its shield; for he is our refuge and our hope in this dreadful war.”
Hearing these words, Duḥśāsana, obedient to his elder’s command, gathered a great host around the grandsire and took his position close by him, raising his own bow in reverence and resolve.
Then Śakuni, the son of Suvala, advanced at the head of hundreds of well-armed horsemen, their armor gleaming like silver in the light. They carried bright spears, curved swords, and long lances, bearing proud standards that danced in the wind. Among them marched trained foot soldiers, skilled and fearless, forming a glittering wall of steel around the Kaurava host. With these he surrounded Yudhiṣṭhira, Nakula, and Sahadeva on all sides.
At Duryodhana’s command, ten thousand more cavalry, fierce and swift as Garuḍas swooping upon serpents, were sent forth to strike at the sons of Pāṇḍu.
The earth itself trembled beneath the thunder of their hooves. The sound of their charge was like the cracking of a forest of bamboos set aflame upon a mountain. Clouds of dust rose high, veiling the sun, and the sky grew dim with their fury. The neighing of horses drowned all other sounds as they descended upon the field like a storm from the heavens.
Then the eldest son of Pāṇḍu, steadfast Yudhiṣṭhira, together with the twin sons of Mādrī, checked that rushing flood of horsemen.
Like mountains meeting surging seas,
They held the tide through storm and breeze;
Their arrows flashed, their banners flared,
The charging host they calmly dared.
With straight and deadly shafts, the sons of Pāṇḍu cut off the heads of the foremost riders.
Slain, they fell like mighty elephants collapsing into mountain caves.
Their steeds reared and screamed, struck down by whirling blades;
and men, their helmets rolling in the dust, dropped like fruit from sundered trees.
Everywhere, chariots and horses mingled in ruin; the field became a forest of death.
Panic-stricken steeds fled riderless, neighing in terror, as smaller beasts flee before the lion’s roar.
The conches of victory sounded from the Pāṇḍava lines. Drums beat like thunder in triumph, echoing across the field.
Beholding his cavalry destroyed, Duryodhana’s heart was pierced with grief. Turning to Śalya, the ruler of Madra, he said, “O mighty-armed king, there before thee, the son of Dharma with his brothers routs our forces like the sea bursting upon the shore. Hurl back that wave, O Śalya, as the continent resists the ocean’s fury! Thy strength and valor are famed among all kings—let that fame be proven today.”
Hearing Duryodhana’s command, Śalya advanced, his chariot leading a mighty host. His standard shone like fire; his steeds snorted like thunderclouds.
Yudhiṣṭhira met him boldly, his bow drawn to the ear, and with ten sharp arrows he struck Śalya in the chest. The twins followed, Nakula and Sahadeva, each wounding the king with seven keen shafts. Śalya answered swiftly, piercing each of them with three arrows, and then rained sixty more upon Yudhiṣṭhira, his wrath blazing like the midday sun.
Beholding the eldest son of Pāṇḍu endangered, Bhīma, ever watchful, rushed to his side. His roar echoed through the sky like Indra’s thunder, shaking the hearts of the Madra troops.
The sun had passed his golden height,
And downward turned his fading light;
Then flared anew that dread array—
A storm of war at dying day.
Thus, O King, when the sun bent westward and the shadows lengthened upon Kurukṣetra, the field once more blazed with a battle fierce and terrible, such as gods and men alike might tremble to behold.
Sañjaya said:
Beholding Bhīṣma, the son of Gaṅgā, blazing with wrath in the midst of battle and surrounded on all sides by the Pāṇḍavas—like the sun enveloped by clouds at the end of summer—King Duryodhana spoke with urgency to his brother Duḥśāsana.
He said, “Behold, this mighty bowman, our grandsire Bhīṣma, the slayer of warriors and refuge of the Kuru race, is encircled on every side by the valorous Pāṇḍavas. O bull of Bharata’s line, it is thy sacred duty to protect him. Guard well that illustrious one! For if shielded by us in battle, Bhīṣma of terrible vows will annihilate the Pāñcālas and the sons of Pāṇḍu alike. The protection of Bhīṣma is now our foremost task; he is our defender and our strength. Surround him, therefore, with all our troops, and guard him well—this lion among men who accomplishes the impossible even amid the storm of war.”
Thus commanded, Duḥśāsana marshalled a great host of warriors and took up position encircling the grandsire on all sides.
Then Śakuni, son of Suvala, rode forth at the head of thousands of horsemen, splendidly armed with spears, lances, and swords. Their armor shone bright; their banners fluttered in the wind. Among them marched trained foot soldiers—strong, disciplined, and fearless—forming a wall of iron and steel. These surrounded Yudhiṣṭhira, Nakula, and Sahadeva, hemming in the sons of Pāṇḍu from every quarter.
To strengthen the line, Duryodhana sent forth ten thousand more horsemen—warriors swift as Garuḍas descending upon prey.
The earth quaked beneath the thunder of their hooves. The clatter of iron struck the plain like bamboo forests crackling in fire upon a mountain slope. Clouds of dust rose high into the heavens and dimmed the sun itself. The Pandava army was shaken like a great lake ruffled by a sudden flock of swans. The neighing of horses filled the air, drowning all other sounds.
Then Yudhiṣṭhira, with the twin sons of Mādrī on either side, stood firm and checked that thundering charge.
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Like cliffs that break the sea-born tide,
They met the storm with iron pride;
Their arrows flashed, their bows were drawn,
And death rode forth before the dawn.
Their shafts flew straight and sure, cutting down the foremost riders.
Those horsemen fell to earth like elephants struck upon the mountain’s flank.
Everywhere heads rolled like fruits shaken from lofty trees;
and steeds, struck by gleaming swords, reared and fell in crimson dust.
Soon the field was strewn with men and horses,
and those yet living fled in terror—like deer before the lion’s roar.
The Pāṇḍavas, victorious, raised their conches and beat their drums.
The sound rolled across Kurukṣetra like the voice of triumph itself.
But Duryodhana, struck with grief, turned to the ruler of Madra, saying,
“Behold, O mighty Śalya! The eldest son of Pāṇḍu, with the twins beside him, routs our forces before thine eyes. Stand forth, O invincible one! Resist him as the continent resists the swelling ocean. Thy valor is renowned among kings; let its might be seen today!”
At the king’s behest, Śalya advanced with a mighty host of chariots. His standard glimmered like fire; his steeds flashed like waves of the sea.
Yudhiṣṭhira, the just, met him in fair combat. Ten keen arrows flew from his bow and struck Śalya in the chest. The twins followed swiftly, piercing the Madra king with seven more.
Śalya, burning with anger, answered with three arrows apiece,
then with sixty sharp shafts he smote Yudhiṣṭhira,
and with two each he wounded Nakula and Sahadeva.
Then Bhīma, mighty-armed and fierce as a tempest, beheld his brother standing within reach of Śalya’s chariot— as though before the very jaws of Death. With a roar like thunder rolling through the hills, he sped forward to Yudhiṣṭhira’s side, mace uplifted, his eyes flashing with wrath.
The sun bent westward, his light grown red,
And over the field his last rays spread;
Then rose once more the dreadful cry—
A battle fierce where heroes die.
Thus, O King, when the day waned and shadows lengthened upon Kurukṣetra,
a terrible struggle began anew—
a storm of steel and fire that shook heaven and earth alike.
Sañjaya said:
Then thy sire, O King—Devavrata, son of Śāntanu—stirred by wrath, smote the Pārthas and their ranks on every side with keen, barbed arrows. He pierced Bhīma with twelve shafts and Sātyaki with nine; Nakula with three, Sahadeva with seven; and Yudhiṣṭhira in arms and breast with twelve. He struck Dhṛṣṭadyumna and roared aloud like a lion in rut. Swift came the replies: Nakula with twelve bright shafts, Sātyaki with three, Dhṛṣṭadyumna with seventy, Bhīmasena with seven, and Yudhiṣṭhira with twelve more. Droṇa also, after striking Sātyaki, smote Bhīmasena—five arrows apiece, each like Death’s own rod—yet both heroes answered the Brāhmaṇa-bull with three straight shafts each.
The Sauvīras, Kitavas, Easterners, Westerners, Northerners, Mālavas, Abhiṣāhas, Śūrasenas, Śivis, and Vasātis would not turn from Bhīṣma though his steel rained ceaselessly upon them. Kings from many lands pressed toward the Pāṇḍavas as if toward a sacrificial flame; and the Pāṇḍavas, in turn, ringed the grandsire round. Encompassed by a forest of cars, Bhīṣma blazed the brighter, consuming his foes. His chariot was a fire-chamber; his bow the tongues of flame; swords, darts, and maces the fuel; his shafts the flying sparks; and Bhīṣma himself the fire that fed on Kṣatriya pride. With long, gold-winged arrows, with barbs and nālikās in swarms, he covered the hostile host, felling elephants and chariot-lords, shearing standards as a storm shears palm-crowns. He stripped cars, elephants, and steeds of their riders as the noonday sun strips mist from the earth. At the twang of his bowstring and the thunder of his palm, the lines trembled.
The shafts of thy sire bit through armor and flesh alike. We saw, O Bhārata, hundreds and thousands of riderless cars dragged by their frantic steeds. Fourteen thousand car-warriors of the Cedis, Kāśis, and Karūṣas—glorious, high-born, resolved to die—met the Destroyer’s open mouth in Bhīṣma and passed, with car and beast, to the other shore. The field lay heaped with splintered axles and shattered wheels, crushed fences, fallen helms and glittering mail, axes and maces, short arrows and scimitars, ear-ringed heads and severed arms, torn gauntlets and toppled banners. Elephants, riderless, crashed down; horsemen of the Pāṇḍavas lay slain; and despite all valor the sons of Pāṇḍu could not rally those car-lords whom Bhīṣma’s fury scattered like dry leaves.
The host broke utterly—no two fled together. With cars, elephants, and steeds overturned, and standards littering the plain, the Pāṇḍava army wailed in fear. In that grim confusion sire felled son and son his sire; friend smote friend—fate driving every hand. Many cast off their armor and fled, hair unbound, like wild bulls escaped the yoke. Their cries rose long and bitter.
A river ran of blood and steel,
Its foam the froth on shattered mail;
Its banks were men who could not heal,
Its current heads in ghastly sail.
Bows were its bridges, cars its isles,
Its fish the steeds that thrashed and died;
Crocodiles—elephants in piles;
And Yama swelled upon its tide.
Then the Delighter of the Yādavas, seeing the Pāṇḍava host give way, reined in and spoke to Vibhatsu: “The hour you sought is come, O Pārtha. Strike now, tiger among men, or your senses will desert you. In Virāṭa’s hall you vowed before kings and before me: ‘I will slay all the warriors of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s son, even Bhīṣma and Droṇa, if they stand against me.’ Remember a Kṣatriya’s dharma and make your word truth.”
Arjuna bowed his head and glanced askance, replying heavily: “To seize a kingdom and earn hell by slaying those who should not be slain—or to embrace the exile’s grief—which path? Drive on, Hṛṣīkeśa; I will obey. I will cast down the Kuru grandsire, the invincible.” At his word, Mādhava urged the silver-bright steeds toward Bhīṣma, radiant as the sun to behold. Yudhiṣṭhira’s routed legions rallied, hearts lifting at Pārtha’s banner flaring toward the grandsire.
Bhīṣma roared again and swathed Dhanañjaya’s car in a cloud of arrows; in a breath the chariot—horses, charioteer, and hero—was veiled from sight. But Vāsudeva, patient and deft, wheeled the team beneath that iron rain. Then Pārtha raised his great bow whose thunder shakes the heart, and with razors keen he sheared the grandsire’s bow to splinters. Śāntanu’s son strung another in the blink of an eye—Arjuna cut that too. “Well done! Well done, mighty-armed son of Kuntī!” cried Bhīṣma, and taking yet another beautiful bow, he poured fresh death upon Pārtha’s car. Vāsudeva spun and circled, baffling the storm. Scored by Bhīṣma’s shafts, those two bulls among men shone like tusked lords marked by battle.
When Keśava beheld Arjuna fight with gentle hand while Bhīṣma’s fire scorched the plain—burning Yudhiṣṭhira’s best as at the end of the yuga—his wrath brimmed over. Leaving the silver steeds, the great Lord of Yoga leapt from the car, whip in fist, eyes copper-red, and rushed upon Bhīṣma with only his bare arms, his stride as if to split the worlds.
Yellow-clad, dark-blue as the gem,
He strode—an ocean crowned with flame;
The heavens hushed to look on Him,
The Lord who bears the timeless Name.
Lion to elephant He ran,
Storm upon the mountain’s brow;
“Come, Kṛṣṇa!” cried the grandsire-man,
“O God of gods—strike, strike me now!”
Fear seized the ranks. “Bhīṣma is slain! Bhīṣma is slain!” the warriors cried, beholding Janārdana rush like a thunderhead upon a single peak. Unafraid, Bhīṣma drew his great bow and hailed Govinda: “Come, lotus-eyed One. I bow to You. Hurl me down today; slain by You, my good is made complete. The honor that the three worlds can give is mine if I fall by Your hand. I am Your servant—do as You will.”
But Pārtha, swift as thought, sprang behind Keśava and clasped Him round with both arms. Still the Lord strode on, bearing his friend, till Arjuna, in sorrow and love, seized His feet and held Him fast at the tenth step. “O mighty-armed, desist,” he pleaded. “Let not Your vow be broken, nor Your truth be dimmed. The burden rests with me—I shall fell the grandsire. By my weapons, by truth, by my righteous deeds, I swear: I will do all that brings our foes to ruin. See, this very day I cast down that invincible car-lord as the crescent moon is swallowed at the end of the age.”
Mādhava, hearing Pārtha’s oath, spoke not, but mounted the car again, anger banked like fire within cloud. And once more, as those tigers among men took station, Bhīṣma showered them as monsoon the mountain’s breast. Thy sire drank the lives of warriors as the summer sun drinks the strength of streams. As the Kurus had been broken by the Pāṇḍavas, so now did thy sire shatter the Pāṇḍava ranks; and the routed, helpless, slain in their hundreds and thousands, dared not even look toward him, so like the meridian sun he burned.
The sons of Pāṇḍu, stricken with dread, cast timid glances at Bhīṣma as he wrought superhuman deeds. Their troops, streaming away like kine plunged into an ant-swarm beneath a strong man’s tread, could find no shelter. None could face the immovable car-warrior, bristling with countless shafts, blazing like the sun with his fiery rays.
Thus, while he ground the Pāṇḍava host, the thousand-rayed maker of day sank toward the western hills; and the wearied armies, scorched and staggering, set their thoughts upon withdrawal as darkness laid its hand upon the plain.