novelraw Arc 4 - Bhisma-Vadha Parva - Chapter 14 - Arjuna Moves towards Bhisma
Arc 4 - Bhisma-Vadha Parva - Chapter 14 - Arjuna Moves towards Bhisma
Sañjaya said:
Then, O King, when Arjuna beheld the grandsire—son of Gaṅgā—raging like fire among the reeds, he addressed Śikhaṇḍin, saying:
“Go forth, O prince of Pañcāla, fearless and firm,
Before thee stands thy fate and fame.
Bhīṣma shall not strike at thee today,
While I shall hurl him down in flame.”
Thus urged by Pārtha’s words, Śikhaṇḍin, his wrath rekindled, rushed straight at Bhīṣma. Behind him came Dhṛṣṭadyumna, young Abhimanyu, and the kings Drupada and Virāṭa, their armour gleaming in the sun. The sons of Draupadī, Nakula, Sahadeva, and mighty Yudhiṣṭhira—all surged forward like waves rolling toward the storm’s eye.
And in answer, O Bhārata, thy warriors too advanced, each facing a foe according to his courage and his might.
Citraseṇa rushed like a young tiger upon Chekitāna; Kṛtavarman met fiery Dhṛṣṭadyumna in the press. Somadatta’s son Somadatta, fierce and steady, checked Bhīma in his wrath; Vikarna stood before Nakula’s rain of arrows; and Kṛpa, son of Śaradwat, barred Sahadeva’s way.
Durmukha sped toward Ghaṭotkaca, the dark Rākṣasa whose heart hungered for Bhīṣma’s fall. Duryodhana himself, with proud standard and firm bow, confronted Sātyaki in full charge. Sudakṣiṇa of the Kāmbojas turned his steeds against Abhimanyu; while Aśvatthāman, ablaze with anger, engaged aged Virāṭa and Drupada, those twin chastisers of kings.
Droṇa, master of weapons, met Yudhiṣṭhira, who longed that day to see the grandsire laid low. And Dussāsana—thy son of fierce vows—rushed upon Arjuna, who came like a whirlwind with Śikhaṇḍin before him, his weapons flashing across the ten directions.
Then mighty Dhṛṣṭadyumna, roaring like a lion, raised his voice above the din:
“There rides Arjuna, the thunder of Kuru’s race!
Before him stands Śikhaṇḍin, Bhīṣma’s bane.
Fear not, O warriors—rush upon Gaṅgā’s son!
Even Indra dares not match the bow of Pārtha—
Why then should Bhīṣma, old and worn, restrain your might?”
Hearing their leader’s cry, the Pāṇḍava heroes, hearts alight with joy, surged toward the grandsire’s chariot. But many of thy men met them in mid-course, raising shields, their standards bright as autumn stars, eager to die for Bhīṣma’s sake.
Then, O King, thy son Dussāsana—undaunted, steadfast—stood before Dhanañjaya, defending his grandsire’s life. And behold, a wondrous sight occurred: though Arjuna, wrathful and resplendent, came upon him like the storm upon the sea, he was held fast, unable to pass. As the shore holds back the tide, so did Dussāsana withstand the tempest of Pārtha’s charge.
Both were mighty in arms, bright as the sun and moon in splendour. Both burned with fury, desiring each the other’s death. Like Indra and Māyā in ancient days, they met in dreadful combat.
Dussāsana pierced the son of Pāṇḍu with three shafts and Kṛṣṇa with twenty keen arrows. But Pārtha, beholding his charioteer thus struck, blazed with anger and pierced Dussāsana with a hundred shafts that drank his blood like serpents seeking wine.
Thy son, undaunted, struck Arjuna again with five barbed arrows and three more upon his brow. With those golden shafts gleaming like ornaments, the Pāṇḍava shone as Meru’s crest gleams beneath the dawn. Pierced thus, Arjuna glowed red and splendid as the flowering kiṃśuka in spring.
Then Pārtha, enraged as Rāhu devouring the full moon, poured a thousand arrows upon his foe. Dussāsana cut them all midair, his skill astounding even the gods. Again he struck Arjuna with countless shafts, and again Pārtha, with wrath redoubled, loosed golden-winged arrows that sank into his body like swans diving into a lake.
Bleeding, shaken, yet proud, Dussāsana turned his car toward Bhīṣma, seeking refuge in that ocean of valour. The grandsire received him like an island saving the drowning. Regaining his senses, thy son once more stood firm, piercing Pārtha as Indra once pierced Vṛtra in the war of heaven— yet Arjuna scarcely felt the touch of those arrows, so little did they wound his spirit or his strength.
Thus the field trembled beneath the clash of blood and glory—
Śikhaṇḍin advancing, Arjuna burning behind him,
and the grandsire of the Kurus waiting, unmoved,
like the Sun about to set in a storm of crimson light.
Sañjaya said:
Then, O King, amid that earth-shaking din of conches and bows, many great duels blazed across the field as warriors strove around Bhīṣma like moths circling fire.
The mighty Rākṣasa Alambūṣa, son of Ṛśyaśṛṅga, barred the path of Sātyaki of the Vrishni line, who rode forth toward the grandsire. The bull of Sini’s race, clad in mail, his eyes flashing with resolve, pierced the demon with nine swift arrows, smiling even as he shot. Alambūṣa roared and answered with nine barbed shafts that tore Sātyaki’s armour but could not shake his heart. Then the Yādava hero, his wrath rising like the tide, poured forth a rain of arrows upon the Rākṣasa, each one gleaming like fireflies in a storm.
Alambūṣa, unbaffled, filled the sky with his fierce shafts, and the air rang with his dreadful shouts. Yet Sātyaki, laughing though bleeding, roared in return—his spirit fierce and untamed. Then came Bhagadatta, lord of Pragjyotiṣa, his elephants trumpeting behind him. With arrows keen as hooks, he assailed the Yādava like a mahout goading a maddened tusker.
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Sātyaki, turning from the demon, met that mighty monarch. But the king, with a stroke quick as lightning, sheared the great bow from Sātyaki’s hands. The Vrishni hero seized another, greater still, and pierced Bhagadatta with shafts that rang like thunder on steel. The old monarch, licking his lips in fury, hurled a dart of wrought iron and gold, blazing like the rod of Yama himself.
That weapon shone like a falling star,
Fierce as doom it sped through air;
But Sātyaki’s hand was swifter far—
His arrows split it then and there.
Down fell the dart, its light grown pale,
Like a meteor quenched in the night;
And fear ran through the Kuru’s vale—
For none could check the Yādava’s might.
Beholding that wonder, Duryodhana, his heart afire, surrounded Sātyaki with countless cars and cried aloud to his brothers:
“Seize him, O Kauravas! Let not Sini’s seed escape!
For if he falls, the Pāṇḍava host shall crumble as a wave struck by the wind.”
“So be it!” they answered, and many princes turned upon the Vrishni lion, their standards crowding about him in the sight of Bhīṣma. Yet Sātyaki’s chariot blazed like the sun hemmed by storm clouds; and wherever his shafts fell, thy warriors broke and fled.
Elsewhere, Sudakṣiṇa, ruler of the Kāmbojas, barred Abhimanyu’s way. The son of Arjuna struck him with fourscore arrows, piercing armour and charioteer alike. But Sudakṣiṇa, faithful to Bhīṣma, replied with equal fury, and the air between them was thick with death.
Śikhaṇḍin pressed upon Gaṅgā’s son; Virāṭa and Drupada, their white hairs flying, stormed against the Kaurava host to reach the grandsire. Before them rose Aśvatthāman, son of Droṇa, who met the two kings as a lion meets two hunters. Virāṭa smote him with broad-headed shafts; Drupada struck thrice upon his breast. But Droṇa’s son, filled with wrath, rained arrows upon them like fire upon dry reeds, while the aged kings, fearless still, held their ground, breaking many a shaft with their own.
Kripa, son of Śaradwat, clashed with Sahadeva. Seventy golden arrows he drove into the son of Mādrī, but Sahadeva cut his bow in twain and answered with nine of his own. Taking up another, Kripa struck again, his face serene though bloodied. The two, bound by valour and vow, fought fiercely amid the dust for Bhīṣma’s sake.
Vikarna, noble though of Kuru’s line, strove to shield the grandsire. Sixty arrows he loosed upon Nakula; Nakula answered with seventy-seven. Their fight shone bright like two bulls locking horns, each roaring for honour, neither yielding ground.
Then Durmukha sped forth against the dark Rākṣasa, Ghaṭotkaca, who swept through the field like a storm. Hidimba’s son, rising high upon his car, smote Durmukha upon the chest; but the Kuru warrior, undaunted, pierced him with sixty keen shafts, his shout rolling across the plain.
Kṛtavarman, son of Hṛidika, met Dhṛṣṭadyumna, commander of the Pāṇḍava host. They fought like Indra and Vṛtra—iron against fire. Dhṛṣṭadyumna struck him with fifty-five arrows; Kṛtavarman answered in kind, their bows singing the same fierce note.
Bhurisravas of noble line barred Bhīma’s path to Bhīṣma. He cried “Wait!” and shot a golden-winged arrow deep into Bhīma’s chest. The son of Vāyu stood shining with that shaft, like Mount Krauncha once pierced by Skanda’s dart. Their arrows clashed in midair—two comets meeting in the sky—each seeking to end the other’s breath.
Droṇa himself opposed Yudhiṣṭhira. The sound of his chariot was like the thunder of monsoon clouds. The Prabhadraka troops before him trembled; not one could advance a step.
Citraseṇa met Chekitāna; their duel was sharp and splendid, neither yielding. And everywhere across the plain the names of heroes rang—each locked in strife for Bhīṣma’s sake, each upholding dharma as he deemed it.
Through all this chaos, Arjuna alone, though resisted on every side, broke through thy lines like fire through a thatched roof. Thy son Dussāsana, however, met him once more, straining every nerve to protect the grandsire. Around them thy army, O King, tossed and trembled beneath the blows of the Pāṇḍava host—
a sea of men and steeds lashed by the tempest of destiny.
Sañjaya said:
Then the mighty preceptor Droṇa—great bowman, lion among men, endowed with the strength of an enraged elephant— lifted his vast bow that could check even a maddened tusker and, shaking it in wrath, broke through the Pāṇḍava ranks like fire bursting through dry reeds. Yet even as he smote the foe, his heart was heavy, for he read the omens of the day.
Turning to his son—Aśvatthāman, the scourge of armies, who blazed beside him like the sun amidst storm—he said:
“O son, the hour hath come! Today Pārtha will strive with all his might
To slay the grandsire, Bhīṣma, lord of vows, whose splendour dimmeth light.
See how my arrows leap unbidden from the quiver’s mouth,
How my bow doth yawn and tremble, how my heart sinks in the south.
The birds of omen shriek and wheel, the jackals cry and rave,
The vultures hide their heads beneath our banners like the grave.
The earth herself doth quake and moan, her voice is fraught with fear,
The sun hath lost his golden hue, and blood-red burns the sphere.
Meteor-flames fall from the sky, Parigha girds the sun in flame,
And idols in the temples shake and weep and call my name.
The moon’s pale horns are downward turned, the quarters blaze with woe—
This day, O child, the end is near; today the torrents flow.”
Then Droṇa, sighing, spoke again in solemn voice:
“Without doubt, my son, this is the day when Arjuna, fierce as Time, will fall upon the grandsire. My heart knows it; my weapons resist my hand. The very air murmurs with the twang of Gāṇḍīva and the blare of Pāñcajanya. Surely Pārtha approaches, placing before him the deceitful Śikhaṇḍin, born once a woman and turned by fate to manhood. Bhīṣma hath sworn never to strike such a one. Hence Arjuna will use him for a shield. Alas! my spirit grows faint at the thought of their meeting—Bhīṣma and Arjuna, the old lion and the young thunderbolt.
“Three things, O child, bode ruin today—the wrath of Yudhiṣṭhira, the clash of Bhīṣma and Arjuna, and my own weapons, burning the lives of men. For Arjuna is no mortal bowman. Mighty, tireless, armed with divine missiles, he is unconquerable even by the gods. He knoweth every omen and striketh true as thought. Avoid his path, my son, yet fight for Bhīṣma’s sake. This is no hour for timid hearts. Seek glory even at the price of life; let heaven be thy refuge, victory thy aim.
“Behold! Pārtha, ape-bannered, is already crossing the dreadful river of battle whose waves are chariots, elephants, and steeds. His charioteer is Kṛṣṇa, the Eternal, whose glance dispels the night of fear.
“Yudhiṣṭhira alone among men mirrors dharma’s heart—gentle, restrained, and steadfast in truth. His brothers are storms of fire and wind, and Vasudeva, the unfailing, is their shield. Their wrath, born of grief, is a flame that devours this host of Bharata.
“See how the Pāṇḍava army surges like an ocean, and within its foam moves Pārtha—mighty whale that stirs the deep. The cries of the slain rise like the wailing of spirits. Go now, O son, and stand against the heir of Drupada and the wolf-bellied Bhīma. I shall myself meet Yudhiṣṭhira, whose ranks are strong as the sea’s heart, guarded by Abhimanyu, Sātyaki, Dhṛṣṭadyumna, and the twins.
“Behold that dark youth—Abhimanyu—glorious as Indra’s younger brother;
he leads their van like a second Arjuna.
Take up thy bow, my son! Stand firm for the sake of the grandsire!
Though every father would see his child live long,
yet the law of the warrior leaves no space for tears.
Bhīṣma himself consumes the Pāṇḍava host even now—
equal to Yama in wrath, to Varuṇa in might.
Go, therefore, O child of my heart, and play thy part in this vast design of fate.”
Thus spake Droṇa, his voice a blend of prophecy and grief. And Aśvatthāman, bowing low, took up his great weapon, his eyes flashing like twin fires at dusk— and strode forth into the red morning where death awaited kings.