Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 4 - Bhisma-Vadha Parva - Chapter 17 - Bhisma’s Laid to rest

Sañjaya said:

The Pāṇḍavas ringed Bhīṣma, thrusting Śikhaṇḍin before them. Sataghnīs, clubs, axes, maces, lances, calf-tooth arrows, even flaming rockets hammered the grandsire; his mail split everywhere, yet he burned brighter—like the world-fire at Yuga’s end—his bow the tongue of flame, his shafts the sparks, his chariot-thunder the heat, fallen heroes the fuel. He burst through kings and closed again, then dove straight into the Pāṇḍava sea and struck Sātyaki, Bhīma, Arjuna, Drupada, Virāṭa, and Dhṛṣṭadyumna with storming flights of iron. They answered—ten a piece—while Śikhaṇḍin’s gold-winged heads bit and stayed.

Arjuna, wrath lit, set Śikhaṇḍin before him and sheared away Bhīṣma’s bow. Seven Kaurava pillars—Droṇa, Kṛtavarman, Jayadratha, Bhūriśravā, Śala, Śalya, Bhagadatta—surged up, loosing divine weapons and a surf of arrows that boomed like doomsday seas; the Pāṇḍava champions—Sātyaki, Bhīma, Dhṛṣṭadyumna, Virāṭa, Drupada, Ghaṭotkaca, Abhimanyu—met them head-on, battle crackling god-and-Dānava fierce.

Śikhaṇḍin, screened by Arjuna, struck Bhīṣma again, clipped his standard, stung his charioteer. Bhīṣma seized a fiercer bow; Arjuna cut it. The grandsire hurled a hill-riving dart; Arjuna’s five broadheads split it mid-flight like lightning torn from cloud. Then Bhīṣma thought: With one bow I would end them—were Viṣṇu not their guard. Two bars bind my hand: their unslayableness, and Śikhaṇḍin’s former womanhood. My father granted me unslainness and death at will. The hour has come; I choose it. Unheard by men, the Ṛṣis and Vasus blessed his resolve; cool, flowered winds moved; celestial drums rolled.

Spite of wounds, Bhīṣma pressed on. Śikhaṇḍin’s shafts pricked little; Arjuna’s—hard as thunder—drilled mail and marrow. Smiling, Bhīṣma told Duḥśāsana, “These are Pārtha’s, not Śikhaṇḍin’s.” He flung another dart—Arjuna trimmed it to thirds; he reached for sword and shield—Arjuna shredded the shield to glittering rain. Yudhiṣṭhira roared his line forward; both hosts closed in a roaring whirlpool where earth ran red and level. Through a day of killing ten thousand, Bhīṣma still stood—until Arjuna, at the van, shattered the Kuru center. Nations broke—Sauviras, Trigartas, Mālavas, and more—leaving Bhīṣma ringed and rained upon. At last, with no two finger-breadths of flesh unpierced, the son of Śāntanu toppled eastward before sunset—yet touched no ground, held aloft on a bed of arrows.

He fell like Indra’s banner felled,

The earth beneath him reeled;

But life he held—his vow upheld—

On arrow-thorns he sealed.

Clouds cooled him; voices wondered why he’d die in the sun’s southward course. I live, he answered, mind yoked to Upaniṣadic Yoga; I will depart only when the Sun turns north. Swan-formed seers circled and withdrew; to them he vowed to wait for uttarāyaṇa.

The Pāṇḍavas’ conches brayed; Bhīma slapped his arms and shouted. The Kauravas, stunned, wept around their fallen shield. Some cursed kṣatra-ways; some praised Bhīṣma. Pitṛs and Ṛṣis lauded his vow. And Bhīṣma, quiet on the iron couch, breath bridled by knowledge, lay serene—awaiting his chosen hour.

Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:

Alas, O Sañjaya—what became of my warriors when the mighty Bhīṣma, god-like in strength and pure as a vow, fell slain? He who renounced all worldly joys and became a brahmacārin for his father’s sake—how could he meet death? Even when he spurned Śikhaṇḍin, I knew the Kurus were doomed. And now I hear of his fall! Wretch that I am—my heart must be forged of iron, for it breaks not upon this sorrow. Tell me, O Sañjaya, what was done by that lion among the Kurus—Bhīṣma, the victory-seeking Devavrata—when struck down in battle? How could he, whom Rāma Jāmadagnya himself could not subdue with celestial arms, be slain by Drupada’s child, Śikhaṇḍin of Pāñcāla?

Sañjaya said:

When evening fell, the grandsire Bhīṣma, slayer of hosts and refuge of the Kurus, lay struck down. His fall darkened the world. The Dhārtarāṣṭras wailed, but the Pāñcālas rejoiced. He lay upon a bed of arrows, his body raised from earth, his armor split, his banner fallen. All creatures cried “Alas! Alas!” as the great pillar of Kuru strength crashed upon the plain. Fear gripped both armies. The sky dimmed, the sun lost its brilliance, and the trembling earth gave voice like a mother bereaved.

Men said:

“Behold! This is the foremost knower of the Vedas,

the guardian of kings,

who once gave up joy for duty’s call.

Now he lies—yet shines still.”

Even the ṛṣis, the siddhas, and the cāraṇas murmured,

“This bull among men, purest of vows,

releases now the reins of life,

as once he released his sire from grief.”

When Bhīṣma fell, thy sons were struck dumb. Their faces lost color; they stood with heads bowed in shame. But the sons of Pāṇḍu, having won the field, blew their gold-tipped conches, and the earth echoed with victory. The Pandava lines shouted like storming seas; their trumpets blared, and Bhīma, blood-drenched and laughing, roared amid heaps of fallen men.

The Kurus swooned. Karṇa and Duryodhana gasped for breath, their hope shattered. Chaos swept the field—cries of grief rose, ranks broke apart. Duḥśāsana fled through the lines to Drona’s command, his armor blood-stained, his voice choking with fear. “Bhīṣma is down!” he cried. Drona, hearing, fell faint from his chariot. Regaining his senses, the sage of war raised his hand and forbade the Kurus to fight. The bugles silenced; messengers sped across the field bearing truce to the Pāṇḍavas.

The warriors of both hosts cast aside their arms and gathered, kings and captains alike, to where Bhīṣma lay. They came like gods to Brahmā’s throne—footmen, princes, charioteers—all bowing before the fallen grandsire.

There, upon his bed of steel-tipped shafts, Bhīṣma spoke with calm and radiant voice:

“Welcome, O blessed ones! Welcome, ye lions among men!

I am gladdened by your sight—heroes equal to the gods.”

Then, lowering his head in weariness, he smiled faintly and said:

“My head hangs low upon this bed of arrows—

give me a pillow worthy of a warrior.”

The kings brought silken cushions, rich and soft; he refused them.

With a laugh, he said:

“These, O kings, are not meet for a hero’s rest.”

He turned his gaze to Dhanañjaya, son of Pāṇḍu—mighty-armed, radiant like Indra—and said softly:

“O Arjuna, my head droops.

Give me, child, a pillow such as thou deemest fit for me.”

Thus, amid gods and men, the grandsire of the Kurus—fallen yet unbroken—spoke his last command, serene upon his bed of arrows, his spirit shining like a flame untouched by wind.

Sañjaya said:

Then Arjuna, stringing his great bow and bowing deeply before the grandsire, approached him with eyes brimming with tears. He spoke in a trembling voice, full of reverence:

“O foremost of Kurus, O preceptor of heroes,

command me, invincible one, for I am thy servant!

What wouldst thou have me do, O grandsire of our line,

that I may honour thee in thy hour of rest?”

Bhīṣma, son of Śāntanu, answered gently, his voice calm amidst pain:

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“My head, O Pārtha, hangs heavy upon this bed of arrows.

Give me a pillow worthy of a warrior’s rest.

Thou, the foremost of bowmen, wise in dharma,

art alone fit to grant this boon.”

Arjuna bowed his head and said, “So be it.”

Then, taking up his Gāṇḍīva, he fitted three sharp arrows, reciting sacred mantras, and, having received the grandsire’s blessing, shot them into the ground so that they upheld Bhīṣma’s head like three golden pillars.

The son of Gaṅgā, beholding that act, smiled with serene joy. He said unto Arjuna before all kings assembled:

“Thou hast given me, O son of Pāṇḍu, a pillow worthy of a warrior.

Hadst thou offered aught else, my curse had followed thee.

Thus should a kṣatriya sleep—upon his bed of arrows,

awaiting the sun’s northern course to bear him home.”

Then turning to the gathered monarchs, Bhīṣma proclaimed with steady voice:

“Behold this pillow the son of Pāṇḍu hath given me!

Upon it shall I rest until the Sun turns northward.

When his chariot of seven steeds moves toward Kubera’s gate,

then shall I yield my life as a friend parts from a friend.

Dig a trench about my resting place, O kings;

and cease from enmity, for battle’s hour is past.”

Soon skilled surgeons, trained in the art of drawing arrows, came bearing instruments and salves. Seeing them, Bhīṣma smiled faintly and said to Duryodhana:

“Honour these men and send them hence.

What need have I of physicians now?

Pierced through by arrows, I have attained the kṣatriya’s highest state.

Let my body burn with these shafts still in it;

let me depart as I lie, true to the warrior’s vow.”

Hearing him, Duryodhana dismissed the physicians with rich gifts. All kings present—Pāṇḍavas and Kauravas alike—marveled at that steadfast soul who, lying on the bed of pain, spoke only words of dharma.

Then, as twilight deepened, both armies—blood-stained and weary—circled the grandsire thrice in reverence. They stationed guards about him and withdrew to their tents, hearts heavy and silent, filled with awe at what they had seen.

When the hour was still, Kṛṣṇa approached the sons of Pāṇḍu, who sat together in quiet joy, the weight of battle eased at last. Smiling, Mādhava said to Dharmarāja:

“By fortune’s grace, O son of Kuru, victory is thine!

Bhīṣma, the unslayable, has fallen; his bow of heaven is stilled.

Or perhaps, O king, it is thy righteous wrath alone

that burned him as the sun consumes the mist.”

Yudhiṣṭhira bowed to Keśava and replied with folded palms:

“Through Thy grace is victory; through Thy wrath, defeat.

Thou art our refuge, O Madhusūdana!

They must triumph whom Thou protectest,

for Thy will is the chariot and Thy love the reins.”

Smiling gently, Kṛṣṇa said:

“O best of kings, such words could come from none but thee.”

Thus, under the darkening sky, amid the quiet of truce, the armies of men rested, while Bhīṣma—guardian of dharma—lay radiant upon his bed of arrows, awaiting the turning of the sun.

Sañjaya said:

When night had passed and dawn’s pale light rose upon Kurukṣetra, both armies—the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra and the sons of Pāṇḍu—laid down their arms and came together to behold the grandsire. Kings by hundreds approached that lion of the Kurus, that ancient hero lying upon his bed of arrows. With folded palms they saluted him and stood in reverent silence.

Thousands of maidens came forth, scattering powdered sandalwood, rice, and garlands of flowers upon the son of Śāntanu. Old men, women, and children gathered like mortals gazing upon the rising Sun. Musicians with drums and trumpets, actors, mimes, and craftsmen filled the air with sounds of devotion.

Putting aside armor and arms, the warriors of both sides assembled peacefully around Bhīṣma. They spoke to one another with courtesy and affection, as in days before enmity was born among them. That circle of kings, radiant and solemn, shone like the assembly of gods gathered around Brahmā himself.

Bhīṣma, suppressing the torment that burned through his wounded frame, sighed like a serpent in heat. His body aflame with pain, his breath uneven, he turned his gaze upon the gathered kings and softly said, “Bring me water.”

The Kṣatriyas hastened to bring cool jars and vessels of purest water. But Bhīṣma, seeing them, raised his hand and spoke:

“I cannot, O kings, partake of earthly refreshment now.

I have left the bounds of mortal life.

I lie here awaiting the Sun’s return—

and the passage of the Moon upon her path.”

Having rebuked them gently with these words, he added, “I wish to see Arjuna.”

Arjuna came swiftly, bowed deeply, and said: “Command me, O grandsire—what shall I do?”

Bhīṣma smiled faintly and answered:

“O Pārtha, scorched by thy shafts,

my body burns; my throat is parched.

Give me water, O Dhanañjaya,

as only thou canst give—befitting a warrior’s thirst.”

Arjuna bowed and replied, “So be it.” Mounting his chariot, he struck the Gāṇḍīva, and its deep thunder rolled across the plain. The sound of his palm against the bowstring was like the roar of heaven’s storm. Kings and soldiers trembled as he circled the prostrate grandsire.

Then, having invoked the mantras of the Parjanya-astra, Arjuna loosed a single arrow into the earth south of Bhīṣma’s bed. At once a pure and fragrant stream burst forth—cool as nectar, glistening as crystal. It flowed upward, arching over the fallen hero, and Bhīṣma drank of it deeply.

A murmur of wonder spread through the gathered hosts. Conchs and drums resounded. The Kurus trembled, the Pāṇḍavas rejoiced, and all the kings waved their garments in astonishment.

Bhīṣma, refreshed and serene, turned his gaze upon Arjuna and said:

“O son of Pāṇḍu, this act befits thee well.

Hadst thou failed me, I would have cursed thee.

But thou hast done as a Kṣatriya should—

with wisdom, faith, and power.

Even Nārada spoke of thee as a seer of old,

born once more among men.

With Vāsudeva beside thee, thou shalt perform deeds

no god himself would dare attempt.

Thou art the foremost of bowmen,

as Garuḍa among birds, the ocean among waters,

the sun among lights, Himavat among mountains,

and the Brāhmaṇa among men.”

Then Bhīṣma’s eyes turned toward Duryodhana, and his voice grew grave:

“O king, cast away thy wrath!

Behold the might of Arjuna—who drew from earth this nectar stream.

There is none in the world who can match him.

He knows the weapons of Agni, Varuṇa, Soma, Vāyu, Viṣṇu, Indra, Rudra, Brahmā,

and every lord of creation.

He and Keśava alone hold the knowledge of such arms.

O Duryodhana, make peace while peace may yet be made.

As long as Kṛṣṇa’s wrath is still bound, as long as Bhīma has not crushed thy kin,

as long as Yudhiṣṭhira’s eyes do not burn thy legions like fire,

make peace!

Let my death end this strife.

Give half the realm to the sons of Pāṇḍu.

Let friendship return; let fathers regain sons, and sisters their brothers.

Do not earn the reproach of kings by clinging to folly.

Listen, O child—while yet thou canst.

Otherwise, grief shall consume thee utterly.”

Having spoken thus from his bed of arrows, Bhīṣma, though his body blazed with pain, closed his eyes and entered into yoga, steadying his mind like a lamp sheltered from the wind.

Sañjaya continued:

When these words—pure, righteous, and filled with wisdom—fell from the lips of the grandsire, thy son, O king, heard them but heeded them not, like a dying man who spurns the medicine placed before him.

When the son of Śāntanu, the aged grandsire Bhīṣma, had fallen silent and withdrawn into his deep meditation, the kings of earth departed to their tents. But when the news of Bhīṣma’s fall spread across the field, there came swiftly to his side one whose heart trembled between pride and grief—Karna, the son of Rādha.

He came with steps unsteady, his face pale, his eyes heavy with tears. Seeing the grandsire lying upon his bed of arrows, the mighty Vṛṣa fell at his feet and said, in a voice choked with remorse:

“O chief of the Kurus, I am Rādha’s son—

the one whom thou didst ever regard with disdain,

the one whom thou didst wrong with bitter words.

I stand before thee now, fallen and humbled,

for thou art the sun before whose light all pride fades.”

Then Bhīṣma, the son of Gaṅgā, whose eyes were veiled with age, slowly opened them. Dismissing his guards, he raised one arm and beckoned Karna nearer. And like a father embracing a long-lost child, he drew the warrior close and said with trembling joy:

“Come, come, O mighty-armed hero!

Thou who hast ever sought to match thy strength with mine!

Hadst thou not come, it would have fared ill with thee.

Thou art no Sūta’s son, O Karna—thou art Kuntī’s child,

and Adhiratha is not thy sire.

Long ago I learned this from Nārada and Kṛṣṇa Dvaipāyana.

It is true, O son of the Sun, thou art a prince of the Pāṇḍavas.

I bear thee no malice; my harshness was but for thy tempering,

to blunt the edge of pride that could rend the realm.

For fear of dissension within the Kuru house, I rebuked thee;

but I knew thy worth, thy generosity, thy devotion to Brahmins,

thy might and matchless skill with bow and arrow.

In strength, in courage, in mastery of weapons,

thou art the equal of Pārtha himself—or of Kṛṣṇa, wielder of the discus.

Thou didst subdue the kings at Kāśī single-handed,

and Jarāsandha, boastful in his might, could not stand before thee.

Among men, thou art as the gods are among beings.

Let the anger between thee and the sons of Pāṇḍu end with me.

They are thy brothers, O child of Kuntī.

If thou wouldst please me, unite with them and let this war be stayed.

Let the world rest in peace with my death.”

Karna bowed his head upon Bhīṣma’s hand and replied with sorrow and steadfastness:

“All this I know, O grandsire, and it is true.

I am Kuntī’s son, born of Sūrya’s light, yet abandoned at birth.

Raised in a Sūta’s home, I have lived by Duryodhana’s grace.

How can I forsake the hand that gave me honor, wealth, and brotherhood?

Even as Vāsudeva stands with the sons of Pāṇḍu,

so shall I stand with Suyodhana till my last breath.

Disease and decay are not the deaths of warriors;

battle alone is their path to heaven.

The wheel of destiny turns, O grandsire, and none may stay its course.

I know the Pāṇḍavas and Keśava are unconquerable,

yet it is written that we must fight them.

I cannot cast away this enmity, born of pride and fate.

With a cheerful heart and keeping dharma before me,

I will face Dhanañjaya in fair combat.

Forgive me, O grandsire, if ever I have wronged thee,

by word or deed, in arrogance or folly.”

Then Bhīṣma, smiling faintly through his pain, spoke words of blessing:

“If thou canst not renounce this feud, then fight, O Karna,

but fight without anger or hatred, as a true Kṣatriya should.

Serve thy king with honor, perform thy duty, and attain the heaven of warriors.

Through battle with Arjuna thou shalt reach those realms

that are won only by valor and righteousness.

Go, O son of the Sun—let destiny unfold.

I sought long to make peace, but heaven willed otherwise.”

Sañjaya continued:

When Bhīṣma had spoken thus, Karna, son of Rādha, bowed once more, touching the grandsire’s feet. Having received his blessing and forgiveness, he rose, mounted his chariot, and drove silently toward the camp of Duryodhana—his heart a storm of grief and duty, his face like a setting sun before the night of destiny.