novelraw Arc 1 - Droṇābhiṣeka Parva - Chapter 4 - Drona’s Charge
Arc 1 - Droṇābhiṣeka Parva - Chapter 4 - Drona’s Charge
Sañjaya continued:
When Droṇa had thus pledged himself, though within such bounds, thy foolish sons rejoiced as though Yudhiṣṭhira were already chained. Duryodhana, knowing well his preceptor’s affection for the sons of Pāṇḍu, spread word among his ranks to bind Droṇa fast by his own promise.
Then, O monarch, resounded through the Kaurava host the proclamation:
“The great Droṇa hath vowed to seize Yudhiṣṭhira alive!”
And the warriors of thy army, hearing it, shouted for joy, as though victory were already won — not knowing that fate itself, not Droṇa’s arms, would soon decide the field.
“Thus men rejoice when ruin nears,
Their cries of triumph mask their tears;
For destiny walks unseen beside,
And Time, the archer, bends his tide.”
After Droṇa had declared his vow to seize Yudhiṣṭhira—though bounded by his own conditions—the Kaurava host broke into mighty cheers. Thousands of throats roared like lions, the blare of conches mingled with the hum of bowstrings, and the sky itself seemed to tremble with their tumult.
But Yudhiṣṭhira, ever vigilant and well-served by his spies, soon learned in detail of Bharadvāja’s intent. Gathering his brothers and the kings of his army about him, the son of Dharma spoke to Dhanañjaya, his voice calm but edged with resolve:
“O tiger among men, thou hast heard the purpose of Droṇa. Take counsel, therefore, that his design may fail. That grinder of foes hath vowed to capture me, but his vow, O mighty-armed one, rests upon thee. Remain near me in battle, Partha, so that Duryodhana may not taste the fruit of this desire.”
Then Arjuna, his gaze firm and his tone like steel, answered his elder brother:
“The slaughter of my preceptor I cannot accomplish, O king, nor can I ever abandon thee to the foe. Before I see thee seized, I will yield my own life in battle. Duryodhana dreams of sovereignty by taking thee captive, but that dream shall fade as smoke in the wind.
The firmament with its stars may fall,
The Earth herself may break apart;
Yet Droṇa shall not master thee
While I still draw a living heart.
If Indra himself with his thunderbolt, or even Viṣṇu at the head of the gods, were to aid him, still he could not take thee. As long as I live, O king, banish fear of Droṇa. My word never fails its mark. I have not spoken falsehood; I have not been vanquished; I have never broken a vow once made. This I pledge again today.”
At these words of Pārtha, joy and courage kindled through the Pāṇḍava camp.
Sañjaya continued:
Then conches, drums, and cymbals thundered together; kettle-drums beat; the sons of Pāṇḍu shouted their war-cries like lions in the mountains. The twang of bowstrings, the clash of palms, and the echo of that fierce enthusiasm rose till heaven itself seemed to resound.
Hearing that mighty din, the Kaurava host replied with blaring trumpets and roaring conches. Both armies, vast as the sea, formed their battle-lines and advanced slowly, wave meeting wave, hearts burning for combat.
Then began a conflict fierce and terrible, making the hair stand on end—Pāṇḍavas against Kurus, Droṇa against the Pañcālas. The Śṛñjayas strove valiantly, yet could not break the host of Droṇa, guarded as it was by Droṇa himself. Nor could the warriors of thy son pierce the Pāṇḍava lines, shielded by Arjuna the Diadem-decked.
Protected by Droṇa and Arjuna, both armies stood for a time as though spellbound—like twin forests in full bloom, hushed beneath the moonlit sky.
Then the son of Bharadvāja, radiant as the mid-day Sun, drove his golden chariot through the Pandava ranks, scattering them like dry leaves before a storm. Terrible shafts poured from his bow in every direction, each flashing like a serpent of flame, so that the army of Pāṇḍu seemed to shrink before his wrath. None could gaze upon him in his fury; even as the Dānavas dared not look upon Indra, so none among the sons of Pāṇḍu could meet Droṇa’s blazing eyes.
Then, having confounded the foe, the valiant preceptor turned his chariot upon the division of Dhṛṣṭadyumna and began to mow them down. Covering the sky with his straight-flying arrows, he hemmed in all quarters and crushed the Pañcāla host where Prishata’s son stood resisting him.
“Flame among forests, storm among seas,
Thus Droṇa raged through Pāṇḍu’s men;
His arrows sang like a thousand bees—
None could count them, none knew when.”
Sañjaya said:
Then Droṇa, like a forest-fire fanned by wind, broke the order of the Pāṇḍava host. His golden chariot flashed like lightning inside a bank of cloud; his bow sang with the roar of thunder. Arrows hissed from his hand—sleek, swift, unerring—crushing chariot-warriors, horse and foot, and elephants with their towers. Showers of steel fell as late-summer hail; fear rippled through the Śṛñjaya lines.
A river of wrath he summoned there,
With blood for waves and helms for foam;
Its banks were beasts and broken spears,
And Death, its boatman, called men home.
That dread river, O King, had eddies made of shattered cars; its lilies were corselets, its mire the flesh of the fallen; bones and marrow paved its banks; umbrellas torn became its swans; wheels its turtles, maces its crocodiles, lances its darting fish. Crows and kankas wheeled above; jackals barked along the shore. Into that torrent Droṇa hurled hundreds toward the sphere of the Pitṛs.
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Seeing the preceptor grind all quarters, the Pāṇḍavas, with Yudhiṣṭhira at their center, pressed from every side. From thy side, stalwarts surged to meet them, and battle rose—the hair stood on end.
Śakuni, master of deceit, rushed upon Sahadeva, riddling charioteer, standard, and yoke with keen shafts. Calmly, Sahadeva sheared Śakuni’s standard, bow, driver, and car, and struck him with sixty arrows. Leaping down in rage, the prince of Gandhāra felled Sahadeva’s charioteer with a mace, and the two stood on foot—mace against mace—like twin hill-crests clashing.
Droṇa pierced the Pañcāla king with ten shafts; Drupada answered with many, and again received a heavier hail in return. Bhīmasena smote Vivimśati with burning arrows; unshaken, the Kaurava prince cut Bhīma’s steeds, banner, and bow. The troops cheered. Bhīma snarled, crushed Vivimśati’s steeds with his mace, and the Kaurava sprang shield and sword in hand, charging like a tusker at a tusker.
Śalya laughed lightly and pricked his nephew Nakula with a play of shafts; Nakula’s answer was no game—he lopped his uncle’s steeds, umbrella, banner, reins, and bow, and blew his conch.
Dhṛṣṭaketu met Kṛpa; he cut the Brāhmaṇa’s flights from the air and marked him with seventy shafts, even clipping the crest from Kṛpa’s standard. Kṛpa replied with a close, cold storm, matching steel with steel.
Sātyaki, smiling, struck Kṛtavarman in the breast with a long shaft, then with seventy more; the Bhoja returned him point for point. Like winds that cannot move a mountain, Kṛtavarman could not stir Sātyaki from his ground.
Senāpati wounded Suśarmā in the vitals; Suśarmā’s lance bit back at the shoulder-joint. Virāṭa and his Matsyas hemmed the son of Vikartana; that the Sūta’s child withstood them alone was counted a feat of iron.
Drupada and Bhagadatta joined; the elephant-lord pierced the king, his driver, car, and crest in one ringing volley; Drupada’s shaft answered, biting the chest like a scorpion-sting.
Bhurīśravas and Śikhaṇḍin—masters both—clashed till the air trembled. The son of Somadatta wrapped the Pañcāla in rain upon rain; anger rising, Śikhaṇḍin marked him with ninety, and the Kuru reeled.
Where vows burn bright and hatreds old,
The sky grows tight with feathered fire;
A name, a feud, a promised end—
Fate tightens every singing wire.
Hidimvā’s son met Alamvuṣa—Rākṣasas both, each proud in guile. Illusion matched illusion; forms flashed and vanished like heat-waves over stone.
Chekitāna hunted Anuvinda, slipping in and out like otters in a rapid; they vanished and returned to the eye’s bewilderment.
Lakṣmaṇa fought Kṣatradeva with the fury of Viṣṇu of old upon Hiraṇyākṣa.
Then Paurava, shouting, drove upon Abhimanyu. He smothered the youth in arrows; Subhadrā’s son shattered his standard, umbrella, and bow, and struck charioteer and steeds. Fixing a death-shaft to the string, he drew—when Haridīka’s son shore bow and arrow together with two keen cuts. Abhimanyu tossed the stump aside, seized sword and shield, and flashed forward.
He whirled the star-spangled shield and the bright blade till offense and guard were one art. He sprang upon Paurava’s shaft, vaulted to the chariot, gripped the king by the hair, kicked the driver lifeless, and struck the standard down. Lifting Paurava high like Garuḍa from the sea with a writhing snake, he showed him helpless to all the kings; the Sindhu lord Jayadratha could not endure the sight.
Jayadratha, with peacock-crested shield and a sword hung with a hundred bells, sprang roaring to the ground. Abhimanyu loosed Paurava and leapt like a hawk, meeting the Sindhu on earth. Javelins, axes, and scimitars hurled at him he split with sword or slipped with shield; then he and Jayadratha closed—sword to sword, shield to shield—tiger and lion at grips. Strokes whirled and fell without a hair’s breadth between them; inward and outward turns traced twin circles like winged mountains wheeling in the sky. Jayadratha’s blade lodged and snapped in the gold-faced shield of Arjuna’s son; retreating six steps, he sprang back to his car. The youth too returned to his chariot, and then—like wasps on a bright blossom—many Kuru kings swarmed round him. Abhimanyu only laughed, wheeled sword and shield, and roared.
Young lion of the Vṛṣṇi line,
With Pāṇḍu’s fire in every vein—
A single hand against a host,
He scorched their ranks like summer’s bane.
Śalya hurled a dart of iron and gold, a tongue of fire. Abhimanyu leapt and caught it in mid-fall like Garuḍa seizing a serpent, then hurled it back with both arms at Śalya’s car; it slew the driver and cast him from his place. The field rang with “Excellent!” from Virāṭa, Drupada, Dhṛṣṭaketu, Yudhiṣṭhira, Sātyaki, the Kekayas, Bhīma, Dhṛṣṭadyumna, Śikhaṇḍin, the twins, and the sons of Draupadī. Bows thrummed, palms cracked, lion-shouts rose; Abhimanyu’s heart burned brighter.
But thy sons, O King, could not abide those signs of triumph. At once they ringed the youth and poured a rain of shafts like monsoon over a mountain-shoulder. Then Artayāni—Śalya—mindful of his fallen charioteer and zealous for thy sons’ welfare, stormed forward in wrath against Subhadrā’s child.
And still, afar, Droṇa’s bow sang—its arrows a bright, unending river—while Prishata’s son stood against the flood.
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:
“O Sañjaya, thou hast described to me many wondrous single combats, each fit to be sung by bards for ages. Hearing of them, I envy those that have eyes to behold such sights. Truly, this war between the Kurus and the Pāṇḍavas—like that ancient clash of gods and Asuras—will be spoken of as marvellous among men. Yet I am not satisfied. My heart still yearns to hear more. Tell me, then, in full, the combat between Artayani, the ruler of the Madras, and the valiant son of Subhadrā.”
Sañjaya said:
When Śalya saw his charioteer slain, rage blazed in him like the fire at the end of the Yuga. Grasping his iron mace, massive and dark, he leapt from his golden chariot to the ground.
Bhīmasena, seeing the king of Madra advancing, seized his own colossal mace—its handle bound with golden wire, its head vast as a boulder—and rushed forward like Death himself rising to strike. Subhadrā’s son, too, brandished a mace that shone like Indra’s thunderbolt and called out—
“Come, come, O king! Let us meet!”
But Bhīma, restraining the youth with gentle firmness, said, “Stand aside, dear one. This foe is mine.”
Then the two mighty warriors—Bhīmasena and Śalya—stood face to face like twin mountains, unmoving, irresistible.
The lord of Madra, beholding Bhīma, came on like a tiger charging an elephant. Then conches and trumpets blared, drums rolled, and shouts like thunder rose from both armies: “Bravo! Bravo!” Warriors pressed in from every side to witness the clash of giants.
There was none among men, O King, save Śalya himself, who could endure the might of Bhīma in battle; nor any but Vṛkodara who could face the stroke of Śalya’s mace.
Both weapons gleamed in motion—the mace of Bhīma shining with golden bands, that of Śalya flashing like a bolt of lightning. They circled and roared like bulls before combat; their arms bent, their eyes aflame.
Like bulls that test each other’s horns,
They wheeled and struck, withdrew and burned;
Each blow a thunder, each step a quake,
Each breath a storm the heavens spurned.
Their maces met—iron upon iron—with the clang of Indra’s thunderbolt. Sparks flew in showers; the sky reddened as if with the glow of twilight. The mace of Śalya, shattered by Bhīma’s stroke, burst apart in fragments of fire. And Bhīma’s own weapon, struck in turn, glimmered like a rain-soaked tree alive with fireflies.
Each hurled his weapon again, and the air blazed. Śalya’s mace whirled like a meteor tearing the sky; Bhīma’s flew back like a second sun, scorching all before it. When they met, the flash was like the meeting of two great serpents breathing flame.
Their blows echoed through the field, deafening as the clouds of the storm-god. Both heroes bled freely, yet neither gave ground. Struck on both flanks by the king of Madra, Bhīma stood unshaken, like a mountain split by lightning yet unmoved. Struck in turn by Bhīma, the mighty Śalya swayed not, steadfast as a crag smitten by the storm.
Then, circling in narrower paths, they closed again—each making eight quick strides—and smote one another at once, falling together like a pair of thunder-struck trees.
At that moment, the warrior Kṛtavarman hastened forward and found Śalya lying senseless, gasping like a serpent wounded, blood streaming from his limbs. Lifting him upon his car, the Bhoja prince bore the ruler of Madra swiftly from the field.
Bhīma, reeling like a drunkard, rose within the twinkling of an eye, still gripping his mace. When thy sons beheld Śalya borne away senseless, terror seized them; their elephants and horses quailed, and thy ranks wavered.
Then, driven by the Pāṇḍavas’ onslaught, thy host—crushed, broken, and filled with fear—fled in all directions like storm-scattered clouds.
The sons of Pāṇḍu, blazing with triumph, stood victorious upon the field. They roared like lions, blew their mighty conches, and beat their drums and cymbals till the sky trembled. Their joy was like the flare of sacrifice-fire rising toward heaven—
bright, victorious, and terrible to behold.
The field was strewn with shattered gold,
With blood like streams through furrows rolled;
And midst that ruin shone the five—
As gods made flesh, as fire alive.