novelraw Arc 1 - Droṇābhiṣeka Parva - Chapter 9 - End of the 12th Day’s Battle
Arc 1 - Droṇābhiṣeka Parva - Chapter 9 - End of the 12th Day’s Battle
Sañjaya said:
Having slain Bhagadatta, that mighty monarch—Indra’s own beloved friend and ally, radiant in strength—Pārtha, the son of Pāṇḍu, circumambulated his fallen form in honour, even as a disciple would his preceptor slain in battle.
But scarce had he done so when two fierce warriors—the sons of the Gandhāra king, Vṛṣaka and Acala, twin lions among men and subduers of hostile towns—rushed upon him with fury.
From before and behind they poured their arrows,
Like twin torrents meeting in tempest,
Striking the son of Kuntī with whetted shafts
That hissed and blazed like serpents of fire.
Then Arjuna, his eyes narrowing with wrath, cut down the steeds, charioteer, bow, standard, and umbrella of Vṛṣaka into glittering fragments. Turning his full force upon the Gandhāra troops, he loosed storms of arrows and flashing weapons that swept through their ranks like the monsoon wind over dry reeds.
Five hundred Gandhāra heroes, charging with uplifted swords, he sent to Yama’s abode with shafts swift as thought. Then the sons of Suvala, bereft of steeds, mounted a single car together and renewed their assault.
Like twin suns rising against the dawn,
They showered their shafts on Arjuna’s form;
Like Vṛtra and Vāla smiting Indra of old,
They struck the son of Pāṇḍu on front and flank.
Yet Pārtha, calm as Time itself, bent his bow and with one single arrow, bright as death, pierced the hearts of both those brothers standing side by side.
They fell together, red-eyed and lion-faced,
Their bodies gleaming like twin stars fallen from heaven,
Spreading around them a radiance of valour and fame.
When thy sons beheld their valiant maternal uncles lying lifeless upon the earth, grief turned to rage; they rained weapons upon Arjuna like the angry monsoon upon a mountain peak.
Then Śakuni, master of guile and illusion, burning with wrath at the death of his kin, spread forth a hundred phantoms to bewilder the two Krishnas.
From the sky and earth alike fell clubs and spears,
Iron balls, Sataghnis, razors, and whetted arrows,
Axes, mallets, and crescent-headed blades—
A storm of steel descending from every side.
And with them came phantom beasts:
Asses braying, camels and buffaloes bellowing,
Tigers, lions, wolves and bears,
Crows, vultures, monkeys, and ghostly ghouls—
All crying out in hunger and hate,
Rushing toward Arjuna in monstrous array.
But Dhanañjaya, versed in divine weapons,
Smiled and loosed clouds of radiant shafts;
And struck by that living storm,
Each illusion perished with a cry.
Then darkness thick as ink covered the sky, And voices unseen mocked and reviled him. But Arjuna, invoking the Jyotiṣka weapon, Dispelled that shadow as the dawn scatters night.
Next arose a deluge—waves surging up from nothing,
Threatening to drown his chariot and steeds.
Then the son of Indra, lifting the Āditya weapon,
Dried those waters with a blaze like the sun at noon.
One by one, Śakuni’s phantoms perished— His magic broken by the laughter of Arjuna. Struck with fear and wounded by arrows, The prince of Gandhāra fled from the field, Swift as a jackal fleeing fire.
Then Pārtha, turning once more upon the Kaurava host, Drew Gandīva to his ear— And the sky darkened beneath his arrows.
They fell in waves, unending,
Until thy vast army split in two,
One stream flowing toward Droṇa,
The other toward Duryodhana’s standard.
A storm of dust arose; the sun vanished from sight. We could not see Arjuna—only the voice of Gandīva, Its thunder rolling above the clash of conchs and drums.
On the southern field raged battle fierce and bright,
Many warriors against one—the invincible Arjuna.
I myself, O King, followed Droṇa northward,
But where Pārtha moved, there was ruin.
Yudhiṣṭhira’s legions struck the foe everywhere;
But Arjuna, like a summer gale scattering clouds,
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Smote Duryodhana’s divisions beyond reckoning.
None could withstand him, none could stand before him.
Where his arrows flew,
Men fell with a single wound and died;
Elephants toppled like hills split by thunder;
Steeds, pierced through the heart, collapsed in silence.
The ground was strewn with mangled limbs, With armour, banners, and broken cars— And the cries of jackals and dogs Echoed through that dreadful plain.
Fathers fled their sons, friends forsook friends,
Each man sought only to save his life;
And struck by Arjuna’s shafts,
Even the bravest abandoned the beasts that bore them.
Thus was the field of Kurukṣetra filled With fear, fire, and the glory of the son of Pāṇḍu, Whose wrath that day no mortal eye could bear.
Sañjaya said:
When thy divisions, O King, were broken and routed, and all fled swiftly from the field, confusion reigned like storm upon the sea. The hearts of thy warriors quaked; yet many among the foremost heroes of the world, faithful to Duryodhana and zealous for their own renown, turned once more toward Droṇa, their commander.
In that terrible hour, when death walked openly between the hosts, these valiant men pressed behind the preceptor’s car, seeking either glory or release. With weapons raised high and voices shouting his name, they struck against the advancing Pāṇḍavas, though the ground itself seemed to tremble under the weight of so many slain.
Taking advantage of a fleeting error of Bhīmasena, and of valiant Sātyaki and Dhṛṣṭadyumna, the Kurus rallied fiercely and fell upon Yudhiṣṭhira’s line.
From one side rose the cry: “Slay Droṇa! Slay the preceptor!”
From the other side came the answer: “Let Droṇa live! Guard him well!”
Thus both armies seemed as gamblers in the dark— Each staking their fortune upon one man.
The Pañchāla prince Dhṛṣṭadyumna, general of the Pāṇḍava host, hastened wherever Droṇa’s chariot cut through their lines, drawing to himself those warriors whom the preceptor sought to crush. There was no rule of single combat that day; heroes fought whomever they found before them, like wildfires meeting in the wind.
The tumult grew dreadful;
Warriors met warriors with shouts and laughter of wrath,
Swords clashed like iron striking adamant,
And men staked their very lives as though they were grains of dust.
Even the eldest men among the armies could not recall a battle such as this—so fierce, so desperate, so utterly heedless of death. The earth groaned beneath the weight of armies; dust and blood mingled, forming a mist through which the sun itself seemed to wade.
The Kaurava host, shaken by the foe, roared like the ocean in storm; the very sky shuddered with that sound, and its echo reached the heart of the Pāṇḍava army.
Then Droṇa, ever-moving and terrible, swept through their ranks like a forest fire among dry leaves. Thousands fell before his arrows, and wherever his golden chariot turned, the field darkened with death.
But Dhṛṣṭadyumna, burning with vengeance, checked the preceptor’s advance. The clash between those two—Droṇa, the aged lion of war, and Dhṛṣṭadyumna, born for his slayer—was a sight beyond measure. I hold it, O King, as the most wondrous encounter ever witnessed upon the earth.
Then arose Nīla, radiant as fire itself, his arrows the flames, his bow the blazing core. He fell upon the Kuru ranks, consuming them like dry grass in summer wind. Seeing his soldiers perish, Aśvatthāman, son of Droṇa, his eyes cold and bright as a serpent’s, spoke to him with a calm and cutting voice:
“Why dost thou waste thy wrath, O Nīla,
Upon these lesser men?
Turn thy flame upon me alone—
If courage fills thy heart, strike here!”
Thus challenged, Nīla, whose face shone like a full-blown lotus, bent his bow and pierced Droṇa’s son with shafts swift and shining.
But Aśvatthāman, enraged, severed his foe’s bow, his standard, and his umbrella with three keen arrows. Then Nīla leapt from his car, sword and shield in hand, and rushed to strike off the Brahmana’s head, as a hawk strikes down its prey.
Before he could reach him, Aśvatthāman loosed a single arrow, barbed and bearded, which flew singing through the air and struck Nīla’s neck.
His head, graced with earrings and a noble brow,
Rolled from his shoulders and fell upon the earth;
His body—tall, lotus-hued, and radiant—
Sank down like the moon fading into dawn.
When that hero of blazing energy fell, grief seized the Pāṇḍava ranks, and their lines trembled as though struck by thunder.
Then, O King, the great warriors of the Pāṇḍavas murmured to one another in despair:
“How shall Indra’s son rescue us now?
He is far away in the southern field,
Slaying the last of the Samsaptakas
And the fierce Nārāyaṇa host.”
Thus, as night neared and the dust thickened, fear crept through the hearts of men, and the name of Droṇa’s son echoed like a flame in the gathering dark.
Sañjaya said:
Vrikodara could not endure the slaughter of his men. He lashed out—sixty shafts at Vahlika, ten at Karna—only to be met at once by Droṇa’s keen, fire-hot arrows driven into his vitals, then again by more, and yet more from Karna, Aśvatthāman, and Duryodhana. Bhīma answered in kind, storming each of them with volleys and a great shout. Seeing him hard-pressed in a death-hungry melee, Yudhiṣṭhira sent help: the sons of Mādrī, Sātyaki, and other chiefs surged in to break Droṇa’s line. But the preceptor, unshaken, received every charger and chariot that came on, as veteran steel takes the hammer.
Then the field dissolved into brutal nearness—horse against horse, car against car, sword ringing on sword, axe on axe—while elephants collided like living hills. Men were hurled from backs of beasts and beds of chariots; some, fallen, were crushed under knees and tusks; others were pinned and torn by maddened trunks bristling with arrows. Armed kings, their time arrived, lay down upon vulture-strewn earth; fathers slew sons, sons rushed at sires, and wheels shattered, banners tore, umbrellas toppled. Limbs flew, heads rolled, cars splintered under elephant-drawn drags; riders and mounts went down together. The air filled with a chaos of cries—“Father!” “Son!” “Stand!” “Strike!”—and with laughter, roars, and the iron hiss of arrows. Blood turned dust to paste; the timid lost all heart. Where cars locked axles too close for bows, men smashed skulls with maces; where weapons failed, they grappled hair to hair, clawing, biting, striking with bare fists. A huge tusker, arrow-riddled, fell like a summer-bared island; another, sweating like a rilled mountain, stamped men, steeds, and charioteers into the ground. Sight and sense went dim under the storm of dust; and through it all the Pandava commander cried, “Now!” and drove his line straight at Droṇa’s car.
A ring of Kuru champions—Droṇa, Kṛpa, Karna, Aśvatthāman, Jayadratha, Vinda and Anuvinda, and Śalya—threw themselves across that rush. Though scourged with shafts, the Pañcālas and Pāṇḍavas would not swerve. Droṇa, blazing with wrath, loosed by the hundreds, cutting down Cedis, Pañcālas, and Pāṇḍavas as the crack of his string and the slap of his bow-palm thundered on every side.
Then Jīṣṇu returned. Having crossed crimson “lakes” of Samsaptaka blood and ended their stand, Arjuna’s banner—Hanumān aflame—rose over the dust. Like the sun at time’s end, he scorched the Kuru ranks; tuskers, riders, charioteers, and footmen fell disheveled, crying out or falling silent under his rain. Yet he kept a warrior’s measure, striking neither the fallen, the fleeing, nor the unwilling. Reft of cars and wits, the Kurus turned, shouting “Alas!” and calling for Karna.
Adhiratha’s son came on, heartening them with “Do not fear,” and loosed the Agneya weapon; Dhanañjaya quenched it with his own storm, and Karna in turn shattered Arjuna’s flights—answer for answer, shout for shout. Then Dhṛṣṭadyumna, Bhīma, and Sātyaki reached Karna together and pierced him—but he sheared their bows to stubs, drawing a lion’s roar as they hurled darts like striking serpents. Karna chopped each missile mid-flight and pressed Partha hard—until Arjuna, with seven keen shafts, tore into him and in the same breath cut down Karna’s brothers: Śatrunjaya with six arrows, Vipātha beheaded, and a third struck down before the Dhṛtarāṣṭras’ eyes. Bhīma leapt from his car like Garuḍa, hewing fifteen of Karna’s supporters with his sword, remounted, and riddled Karna’s team and charioteer. Dhṛṣṭadyumna sprang likewise, cutting down Cārṇavarman and Vṛhatkṣatra, then climbed back aboard to riddle Karna with seventy-three and a roar. Sātyaki matched Indra’s sheen, cut Karna’s bow, and scored his arms and chest. Duryodhana, Droṇa, and Jayadratha then swam to Karna’s aid and hauled him from Sātyaki’s “sea,” while hundreds of Kuru foot, horse, car, and elephant crowded in to steady him.
At once Dhṛṣṭadyumna, Bhīma, Abhimanyu’s cousin, Arjuna himself, and Nakula and Sahadeva closed ranks to shield Sātyaki. The field became a whirl: foot with foot, car with car, steeds with steeds, elephants with elephants—and every crossing with every other—until the ground groaned and Yama’s halls swelled. Tongues lolled, eyes and teeth were forced from broken helms; men were crushed into the soil by hooves and wheels; the carrion flocked overhead.
At last, when both hosts lay mangled and red, the survivors stared at one another across a carpet of the dead. Then the sun slid down to his western chambers, and, slowly, both armies withdrew to their tents.
Here ends the tale of the preceptor’s glory and wrath,
Of Bhagadatta’s fall,
Of Arjuna’s blazing bow,
And of Bhīma’s unyielding might—
The earth trembling beneath gods and men alike.
So closed that day of carnage,
The sun sinking red upon the western hills,
While both weary hosts withdrew to their camps,
Their hearts heavy with the weight of victory and loss.
॥ iti Droṇābhiṣeka-upaparvaḥ samāptaḥ ॥
(Thus ends the Upaparva of Droṇa’s Consecration.)