Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 2 - Abhimanyu-Vadha Parva - Chapter 3 - Abhimanyu Pierces the Chakravuyha

Sanjaya said

Then the younger brother of Karṇa, uttering fierce roars and stretching his bow till it twanged like thunder, placed himself swiftly between Abhimanyu and the son of Rādhā. His eyes flashed with wrath; his chariot shone with pennons of gold.

With ten keen shafts he pierced the son of Subhadrā—his charioteer, his steeds, his standard, and his bright umbrella—smiling the while like one drunk with pride.

Beholding Abhimanyu thus struck, O king, though he had already wrought deeds beyond the reach of mortals, the warriors of thy host shouted aloud in joy. But that joy was short-lived.

He smiled—and from his bow there sped

A single shaft that struck and fled;

It cleft the air, it found the mark,

And left the field in silence stark.

For Abhimanyu, bending his bow with ease and laughter, let fly one feathered arrow winged with death. It cut clean through the air and severed the head of Karṇa’s brother. The lifeless head fell to the earth, rolling like a karṇikāra blossom blown down by the mountain wind.

Seeing his brother thus struck down and fallen, Karṇa, that foremost of bowmen, was seized with grief and wrath together. His heart quivered like a wounded lion’s; tears of rage burned his eyes. Yet before he could strike again, Abhimanyu’s arrows drove him from the field, forcing the mighty son of Rādhā to turn his steeds and flee.

Meanwhile, the son of Subhadrā, filled with wrath and glory, rushed upon the great bowmen who still resisted him. Then Abhimanyu, fierce as Rudra in wrath, broke that host of elephants, steeds, cars, and men as a storm breaks a forest. The Kaurava array wavered, shattered, and fled.

The sky grew thick with his shafts; they fell like swarms of locusts, like torrents of monsoon rain. Nothing could be seen—neither standard nor chariot, neither man nor beast—only the blaze of golden-feathered arrows filling the firmament.

Through dust and flame his arrows streamed,

As rain in molten sunlight gleamed;

And mid the storm, from shore to shore,

The hosts of Kuru stood no more.

Then, O monarch, save for Jayadratha, the ruler of Sindhu, none among thy warriors stood their ground. All others fled before the tempest of his arms.

The son of Subhadrā blew his conch—deep, sonorous, terrible—and rushed again into the trembling host. Like a flaming brand cast into dry grass, he consumed the Kaurava army as he sped.

Piercing their formations, he struck down chariots and elephants, steeds and men; the field grew thick with headless trunks, arms severed at the shoulder, and warriors crushed beneath the wheels. The Kaurava troops, panic-stricken, slew one another in their flight.

Arrows fell unending—bright, sharp, and deadly—till the ground was a carpet of slain arms decked with golden armlets, hands cased in leather, severed heads still crowned with wreaths and jewels, bows snapped, swords broken, shields shattered, and banners rent.

The earth, encumbered with wrecked chariots, crushed wheels, and the corpses of elephants and steeds, became impassable and dreadful to behold.

The dying princes, calling to one another in agony, filled the sky with a tumult like the cry of storm-driven seas. Their voices echoed through every quarter of the horizon, deepening the terror of the faint-hearted.

He blazed amid their ranks like fire,

Devouring sons and kings and sire;

The earth was red, the heavens dim—

No god shone brighter then than him.

None could follow the youth’s course through the press of battle. Dust and smoke veiled him; yet, wherever he moved, death followed. Steeds fell; elephants sank trumpeting to earth; men dropped like fruit in a windstorm.

Then, suddenly, as the storm clears and the sun reappears, Abhimanyu was seen again—his armour blazing, his hair streaming, his face radiant as the mid-day sun.

Equal to Indra himself in might, that son of Indra’s son shone in the midst of the vast, broken host—alone, unconquered, and terrible—his bow singing the hymn of heroes, his chariot blazing like the fire at the world’s end.

And all the heavens, O king, looked down upon him in awe.

Dhṛtarāṣṭra said

“A mere child in years, brought up in the softness of royal ease—yet proud in the strength of his arms, skilled in war, a lion of his race, and ready to lay down his life—when Abhimanyu entered the Kaurava host, borne upon his steeds of tender youth, did any great warrior of Yudhiṣṭhira’s army follow him into that dread array?”

Sañjaya said

Then, O king, Yudhiṣṭhira the just, Bhīmasena the mighty, Śikhaṇḍin the bold, Sātyaki the unyielding, the twin sons of Mādrī—Nakula and Sahadeva—and Dhṛṣṭadyumna, the slayer of foes, together with Virāṭa and Drupada, and the valiant Kekayas and Dhṛṣṭaketu, all aflame with wrath, rushed forth to battle.

Abhimanyu’s sires, and his uncles born of Kṛṣṇā’s house—those tigers among men—arrayed their divisions and pressed behind him through the breach he had made, eager to rescue that child of glory.

Beholding these heroes advancing like storm-clouds over the plain, thy son’s host wavered and turned from the fight. Then, O monarch, the Sindhu king, Jayadratha, son-in-law of the great Dhṛtarāṣṭra, seeing the army in flight, spurred his steeds and rushed to rally them. Alone, with all his followers, he stood before the Pāṇḍavas, barring their path, and by invoking celestial weapons, he resisted them like a proud elephant sporting in a floodplain.

Alone he stood, the Sindhu’s lord,

Against the five who drew one sword.

Like rock he faced their thundering tide,

And held the storm he dared not hide.

Dhṛtarāṣṭra said

“I deem, O Sañjaya, that a heavy burden was laid upon the ruler of Sindhu—that single-handed he should withstand the wrath of the Pāṇḍavas. Truly wonderful was his might and heroism! Tell me, what deeds, what gifts, what rites and vows had that high-souled warrior performed, that he alone could check the sons of Pāṇḍu in their fury?”

Sañjaya said

Hear, O king, the tale of his austerities. Once, long ago, when Jayadratha insulted Draupadī in the forest and was vanquished by Bhīmasena, he returned in shame to his kingdom. Burning with humiliation, he took upon himself fierce penances to gain divine strength.

He withdrew his senses from all pleasures, endured hunger, thirst, and heat, until his flesh wasted away and his veins stood out like cords. Living upon air and water, he uttered daily the eternal hymns of the Veda and worshipped the great Lord Maheśvara.

At length, Hara—the merciful One—appeared before him in a dream, radiant with serpents and moon upon his brow, and said “Ask, O Jayadratha, the boon thou desirest. I am pleased with thy devotion.”

Then the Sindhu king, bowing low, spoke with joined palms

“Let me, O Lord, alone on my chariot, be able to check in battle all the sons of Pāṇḍu, mighty though they are and fierce as gods.”

Śaṅkara smiled and answered

“I grant thy prayer, O amiable one. Save Dhanañjaya, the son of Pṛthā, none among the Pāṇḍavas shall overcome thee in war.”

The Lord of Gods, with crescent bright,

Bestowed his grace in dream-born light

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Save Pārtha’s self, none else shall stand—

The sons of Pāṇḍu in thy hand.”

Awakening from that vision, Jayadratha rejoiced, for his prayer had been fulfilled. Armed with that boon and strengthened by celestial weapons, he came to the field of Kurukṣetra and, single-handed, held in check the army of the sons of Pāṇḍu.

The twang of his bowstring and the slap of his palms resounded across the plain, striking fear into the hearts of the enemy, while joy filled the Kurus at the sight of his valor.

And when they beheld that the burden of resistance had been taken up by the ruler of Sindhu, the Kuru princes, shouting aloud, wheeled their chariots toward that part of the field where Yudhiṣṭhira’s host pressed on—thus began the next tide of that dreadful war.

By Śaṅkara’s grace his courage burned,

And all the sons of Kuru turned.

One man, one vow, one god’s decree—

He stemmed a tide as vast as sea.

Sanjaya said

Thou askest me, O king, of the prowess of the ruler of the Sindhus. Hear now in full, O monarch, how he fought that day with the sons of Pāṇḍu, and how his valour shone, upheld by the boon of the mighty Śiva.

Borne upon steeds of the Sindhu breed—high-spirited, fleet as the tempest, and perfectly obedient to the reins—Jayadratha came forth like a storm from the mountains. His chariot, radiant and well-equipped, seemed a cloud-built palace moving across the sky.

Above it gleamed his silver standard bearing the device of a great boar; white umbrellas rose over him, yak-tails waved on either side, and his banners flamed in the wind. He shone thereupon like the moon surrounded by its halo in the firmament. His car-fence, made of iron and inlaid with gold and gems, glittered like the starry heavens at night.

Drawing his great bow, the ruler of the Sindhus filled again those breaches in Droṇa’s array where the son of Arjuna had passed. And loosing countless arrows, he poured his wrath upon the advancing foes. He struck Sātyaki with three shafts, Vṛkodara with eight, Dhṛṣṭadyumna with sixty, Drupada with five, and Śikhaṇḍin with ten.

Upon the Kaikeyas he rained twenty-five keen arrows; each of the five sons of Draupadī he smote with three; and upon Yudhiṣṭhira he showered seventy shafts that shone like serpents in sunlight. Around him the air darkened with his volleys; the firmament itself seemed filled with fire.

Swift as wind, his arrows sped,

A silver storm o’er armies spread;

Each shaft a sunbeam’s searing flame—

The host stood dazed before his aim.

Then the valiant son of Dharma, undismayed, raised his own bow. Smiling calmly, Yudhiṣṭhira struck and severed Jayadratha’s bow with a single polished shaft of steel. Yet even as the weapon fell, the Sindhu lord snatched up another and loosed ten arrows upon Yudhiṣṭhira, striking his brothers each with three.

Beholding such swiftness of hand, Bhīma grew furious. With three broad-headed arrows he shorn away Jayadratha’s bow, his standard, and his white umbrella. But instantly, the Sindhu king took up yet another bow and, stringing it like lightning, struck Bhīma’s standard, bow, and steeds to earth.

Deprived of horses, the mighty Bhīmasena leapt from his shattered chariot and sprang onto Sātyaki’s car, roaring like a lion springing up the crag of a hill.

The bowstrings sang, the lances gleamed,

The world a whirling chaos seemed;

Yet still that Sindhu lord withstood

The sons of Pāṇḍu drenched in blood.

At this, the Kaurava host burst into loud shouts of joy—“Excellent! Excellent!” they cried, applauding the ruler of the Sindhus who, alone, withstood all the five Pāṇḍavas aflame with wrath. The very gods, they said, could scarce perform such a feat.

Where Abhimanyu had carved a passage through Droṇa’s array, Jayadratha now filled the breach, standing like a wall of iron against the sons of Pāṇḍu and their allies—the Matsyas, the Pāñcālas, and the Kaikeyas. Though they pressed on with burning hearts, none could endure him.

By the boon of Maheśvara, the Sindhu lord—single-handed and steadfast—checked every warrior who sought to pierce the circular formation guarded by Droṇa.

Blessed by Śiva’s dread command,

Alone he stemmed the hero-band;

A silver banner, bright and high—

He stood, and none might pass him by.

Sanjaya said

When the ruler of Sindhu had checked the sons of Pāṇḍu, striving for victory, the battle that followed became a storm upon the earth, dreadful beyond compare. The invincible son of Arjuna, of sure aim and blazing energy, had entered the Kaurava host and stirred it like a makara thrashing the sea.

Against that slayer of foes—Subhadrā’s son, who rained arrows unceasingly and shook the very heart of the army—the foremost warriors of thy host advanced, each in his rank and pride of strength. The clash that ensued—one youth on one side and a multitude of princes on the other—was a sight to terrify gods and men alike.

The son of Arjuna, ringed by chariots, elephants, and horses, rushed upon the nearest foe. With swift shafts he slew the charioteer of Vṛṣasena and shivered his bow. Then he smote the steeds of that prince, and they, maddened by pain, fled with the speed of the wind, bearing their master from the field. Seizing that instant, Abhimanyu’s own charioteer wheeled his car free from the press and drew him again into open ground.

The warriors of thy army, struck with awe yet thrilled by courage, cried aloud “Excellent! Excellent!” as they beheld the lion-hearted youth carving a path through their lines. Then the mighty Vasatiya, burning with wrath, rushed forward to stem his fury

Sixty arrows bright as flame,

Vasatiya loosed with deadly aim

“While I yet live, thou shalt not flee—

My wrath shall drink the life of thee!”

Thus crying out, he struck the son of Subhadrā, whose mail flashed like a sunlit mountain. But Abhimanyu, unmoved, raised his bow and sent a long shaft, keen and gleaming, that pierced Vasatiya through the chest. The prince fell lifeless upon the earth, his armour ringing as he sank like a felled tree.

At that sight, many Kṣatriya lords, enraged, closed round Abhimanyu, vowing his death. Bows were stretched by the hundreds; the air darkened with arrows. Then flared up again the great battle—fierce, vast, and without equal.

The son of Pṛthā, filled with wrath, scattered them like leaves in a tempest—cutting their bows and shafts, severing limbs and heads wreathed with garlands and gems. Arms, bright with gold and still clutching maces, swords, and axes, fell writhing to the dust, their fingers yet cased in gloves.

The ground was soon heaped with fallen standards, crushed wheels, shattered yokes, broken chariots, and the wreck of elephants and steeds. Mail and shields, diadems and umbrellas, chains of gold and ornaments, lay scattered like stars torn from the sky.

The field became a jewelled shore,

Where blood and rubies mixed and poured;

And golden limbs in crimson flame

Marked out the road of Abhi’s fame.

That battlefield, strewn with kings of many realms—each valiant, each once proud—presented a fearful sight. None could withstand the son of Subhadrā, who whirled through the field like the wind-driven fire through dry forest.

So swift were his movements that his form was scarcely seen; only the gleam of his golden mail, his ornaments, and the flash of his bow marked his presence. Like the sun blazing in mid-sky, he scorched his foes with arrows, each shaft a ray of death.

None among the warriors, blinded by dust and dazzle, could gaze upon him face to face. His splendour seemed that of Indra amid the storm of battle—the youthful son of Arjuna, radiant, irresistible, and alone like destiny itself.

Bright mail, swift hands, a sunlit flame—

He moved, and none could speak his name.

The hosts were ashes in his path—

The storm of youth, the god of wrath.

Sañjaya said

Engaged in the slaughter of heroic warriors, the son of Arjuna shone that day like Kāla—the great Destroyer—when Time devours the worlds at the end of an age. Possessed of splendour and prowess equal to that of Śakra himself, that mighty son of the wielder of the thunderbolt, Abhimanyu, burned amidst the Kaurava host like the sun blazing through a tempest-cloud.

Piercing deep into the Kaurava array, that chastiser of foes, terrible as Yama, seized Satvasravas by the hair like a maddened tiger clutching a trembling deer. Beholding him taken, many valiant princes rushed together, each eager to be first to strike the son of Arjuna. With shouts of “I shall go first! I shall go first!” they closed round him, their bows drawn, their ornaments flashing.

But as a mighty whale swallows up a shoal of lesser fish, so did Abhimanyu swallow that division of rushing warriors. None among those Kṣatriyas turned back; each pressed forward, unflinching as rivers flowing into the sea. Yet as they met his shafts, the whole army reeled like a ship caught in the grip of a storm.

Then the valiant Rukmaratha, son of the ruler of the Madras, seeing his troops shaken with fear, stood forth, crying aloud—“Ye heroes, fear not! While I live, what is Abhimanyu to us? Behold! I shall take him captive alive!”

Proud words he spoke—his banner high,

A lion’s roar beneath the sky;

But fate had marked that warrior bold,

To fall ere yet his speech was cold.

Then, urging his splendid steeds, Rukmaratha rushed upon Abhimanyu. With nine keen shafts he struck him—three in the breast, three in the right arm, three in the left—and roared aloud in pride. But the son of Arjuna, smiling slightly, drew and loosed. His arrow flashed like a lightning stroke—shearing Rukmaratha’s bow, then both his arms, and lastly his fair head adorned with eyes like lotus petals. Head, arms, and weapon fell upon the earth together, shining like stars that fall from heaven.

Seeing the prince of Madra slain, his friends—kings of great strength and golden standards—rushed forward in wrath to avenge him. With bows six cubits long they hemmed in the son of Subhadrā, pouring upon him a storm of shafts.

That youth, alone against a host of seasoned warriors, stood unmoved, radiant in his armour. The clang of their arrows upon his mail was as rain on a cliff of steel. Duryodhana beheld it from afar and rejoiced, thinking Abhimanyu already doomed—“He shall go this day to the halls of Yama!” thought the king.

In a moment, O monarch, those princes filled the sky with arrows of golden wings. Abhimanyu’s car, his standard, his charioteer—yea, his very form—were lost to sight beneath that tempest, like a hill wrapped in monsoon rain.

Pierced by their countless shafts, he became inflamed with wrath, like an elephant struck by the goad. Then the son of Arjuna invoked the Gandharva weapon, taught to his father by the heavenly minstrel Tumburu. That divine illusion bewildered his foes for as he moved, he appeared one, then a hundred, then a thousand warriors at once.

They saw him blaze on every side,

A circling flame they could not bide;

A thousand forms the youth assumed,

And with each form a hundred doomed.

Confounded by the illusion of his chariot and the speed of his arms, the princes were struck down like trees shorn by the gale. Abhimanyu’s shafts cut bodies and banners alike; the air was filled with severed heads, bows, and glittering weapons. The ground was strewn with kings of tender years, raised in splendour and pride, now fallen like young mango groves laid low by storm.

Their souls ascended to the other world; their crowns, garlands, and armlets lay scattered upon the dust. Duryodhana, beholding the flower of his youth thus cut down by one alone, felt his heart quake with fear.

Chariots were crushed, elephants reeled and fell, horses sank dying beneath their riders, and the Kuru army broke like a banked river in flood. Then Duryodhana himself, his heart on fire, drove against Abhimanyu.

For a brief but furious instant, they fought—king and youth, wrath against wrath. Arrows met like thunderbolts; the field blazed between them. But soon, pierced and overborne by Abhimanyu’s shafts, the son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra turned his steeds and fled the fight.

A boy he seemed, yet godlike shone,

Where kings and armies stood o’erthrown;

And Time himself in form of flame,

Was Abhimanyu’s dreadful name.