novelraw Arc 2 - Abhimanyu-Vadha Parva - Chapter 9 - Arjuna’s Dread Vow
Arc 2 - Abhimanyu-Vadha Parva - Chapter 9 - Arjuna’s Dread Vow
Sañjaya said
When the sacred tale of kings—those sixteen sovereigns of old renowned for virtue and sacrifice—had been spoken by the divine Nārada, silence, deep and reverent, fell upon Śṛñjaya. His heart, once drowned in sorrow, was still as the surface of a holy lake at dawn.
Then the illustrious Vyāsa, sage of sages, said
“Hearing this sacred history, O King, which lengthens life and purifies the soul, Śṛñjaya sat unmoving, overwhelmed by wonder. Beholding him silent, Nārada, smiling gently, addressed him
‘O thou of radiant countenance, hast thou understood the meaning of these histories? Or have they passed thee by like offerings cast into a sacrificial fire kindled without the priest’s sacred word? Speak, O ruler of men, what dwells now in thy heart.’
Thus questioned, Śṛñjaya, bowing low with joined palms, replied
‘O holy one, thy words are like the rays of the rising sun that drive away the darkness of grief. Hearing of those mighty kings who ruled with justice, who performed vast sacrifices and bestowed uncounted gifts, my sorrow has vanished. I am cleansed, my heart is calm. Tell me, O sage, what should I now do?’”
Like dawn that breaks the night of pain,
Thy words restore my soul again;
My tears are stilled, my heart is free—
What path remains now shown by thee?
Then the celestial sage Nārada said
“Blessed art thou, O King! Thy grief hath fallen from thee like withered leaves in spring. Choose now a boon; whatever thou shalt ask shall be granted, for we, O ruler of men, never utter falsehood.”
Śṛñjaya answered humbly
“O best of the twice-born, thy satisfaction is boon enough for me. He in whose heart the great ascetics are pleased lacks nothing in heaven or on earth.”
At these words, Nārada, filled with compassion, said again
“I shall grant thee thy son—thy child who was slain like a sacrificial beast by robbers—restored from the realms of torment.”
From hell’s dark gate thy son shall rise,
Reborn beneath his father’s eyes;
Such grace the gods in mercy send,
When sorrow meets its holy end.
Then, said Vyāsa, “At Nārada’s word, that son of Śṛñjaya—radiant as the child of Kuvera—appeared once more before his father. The king, beholding him alive, rejoiced exceedingly and performed many noble sacrifices, distributing gifts in boundless measure.
But know, O King, that thy son had not fulfilled the higher purposes of life. He had neither fought in righteous battle nor performed sacrifice nor begotten offspring; destitute of courage, he had perished ingloriously, and for that reason he could return to life.
Not so was Abhimanyu, the son of Arjuna and Subhadrā. Brave and heroic, he fulfilled the duty of a warrior and met death in battle after slaying thousands of foes. He has attained those high regions which only the pure in penance, the steadfast in yoga, and the sacrificers of spotless faith may reach.
By the force of his valor and his death in dharma, he shines now with a divine body of lunar essence—radiant, immortal, and freed from pain.”
Not lost is he whose valor’s flame
Consumes his life yet crowns his name;
For heaven’s own gates to heroes yield,
Who die triumphant on the field.
“Therefore, O Yudhiṣṭhira,” continued the sage, “lament not. Thy nephew hath reached the eternal goal. For the dead who dwell in heaven need not the tears of mortals; grief burdens only the living.
The wise grieve not, knowing that sorrow increases sin and that remembrance of virtue alone aids the departed. Think not of loss but of the glory he has won. Rise, then—stand firm in thy dharma, and strike down thy foes.
Thou hast heard of the origin of Death, of her impartial nature, of her vow of righteousness. Thou hast heard of kings and sages who ruled well and passed away. All wealth is unstable, all life is brief, but virtue alone endures.
Therefore, let peace dwell within thee. Be steadfast, and perform thy duty.”
The dead are stars in heaven’s deep dome,
The living still must build their home;
Grieve not for those who rest above—
But act, O King, in truth and love.
Having spoken thus, the holy Vyāsa, his body radiant like a raincloud lit by lightning, vanished from sight. And when that sage of boundless wisdom had gone, Yudhiṣṭhira, consoled by the words of divine truth, pondered long upon the deeds of the ancient monarchs—those who had gained wealth through righteousness and ascended to celestial realms.
Yet, as his heart softened once more, he murmured to himself in sorrow’s echo
“What shall we say unto Dhanañjaya?”
Sañjaya said
O King, when that terrible day—heavy with the slaying of multitudes—had passed away, and the sun slipped down like a wounded lion behind the western ridge, the soft twilight spread her saffron veil upon the field. Both hosts, exhausted and ash-stained, withdrew to their tents. Then Jishnu of the ape-banner, having shattered the Samsaptakas with the fire of celestial weapons, turned his chariot homeward. Yet as he rode, his voice grew rough and trembled, and he spoke to Keśava
Dark omens throng the darkening sky,
My heart shakes like a stricken cry;
My breath is glass, my limbs are stone—
What storm, O Mādhava, is sown?
“Why doth fear take the string from my voice? Why are my limbs like water?” he said. “Ill signs, Keśava, rise on every side—birds shriek athwart their paths, jackals cry from the open road; my thoughts break like foam. Tell me—are the king and our kinsmen safe?”
And Vāsudeva, ocean-calm, answered “It is well with thy elder and the friends that stand about him. A trifle of evil moves elsewhere. Master thy heart.”
So speaking, the two—having bowed to the sacred twilight—rolled on, their talk returning to the day’s burning work. Yet when they neared the Pandava camp, silence met them no trumpets braided with drums, no conchs bright as moonlight, no lutes clapping time to song—only faces hung like withered leaves. Arjuna’s spirit sank.
No cymbal sang, no paean rose,
No palm-beat paced the bardic prose;
Where laughter sat, long shadows lay—
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The camp had lost the heart of day.
“Where is Subhadrā’s boy?” cried Pārtha. “He who springs like a young lion to greet me—where is the gazelle-eyed child? I heard the preceptor arrayed the field in a cakra-vyūha today. None among us knew its exit save the boy. I taught him not the return—did you, in your wisdom, send him in?”
Memories broke like a monsoon in his chest “O beloved child—tender, tall as a young śāla, locks soft as the raincloud’s fringe, speech sweet as the vīṇā—obedient, fearless, grateful, unretreating—if I behold thee not, I shall follow thee to Yama’s hall. Thy face, a lotus bright with dawn; thy voice, the kokila’s honey—without these, how shall the heart be whole? He who merited umbrellas and hymns sleeps tonight on the bare and blood-soaked earth; where maidens fanned him once, the jackal prowls. Alas, if I do not see him return, I shall descend to Night.”
He spoke of Duryodhana’s roaring pride, and Yuyutsu’s bitter rebuke—how the Kauravas, baffled by Vibhatsu yet boasting of a child’s slaughter, shouted like lions drunk on brine. “Had I known,” said Pārtha, “that the Panchālas and our brothers could not shield him, I would have burned that wheel with Gandiva’s fire. Why did you not speak, O Kṛṣṇa, even as the deed was done? I would have swept them from the earth.”
Then Keśava, lotus-eyed, bound up the warrior’s breaking heart “Yield not, O tiger of men. This is the ordained way of kṣatriyas to meet death facing the foe and climb to the regions the righteous covet. Thy son, having mown down princes like ripe reeds, has gone by the warrior’s path. Comfort thy brothers and the king. Speak the words that bind the wounded ship.”
He fell with face to flashing steel,
He drank the draught that heroes feel;
Where lions dine on death and fame,
He shares their everlasting name.
But Arjuna, sitting as a thunderhead on the mountain brow—breaths deep, eyes rain-filled—answered “Tell me then, O King, O brothers—how fought Abhimanyu? How did those large-lotus eyes blaze in the press? I will cut the root from this proud forest the slayers of my son, with their kin and trains and elephants, I shall harvest in a single dawn.
You were mailed, and your bows were strung—how came the child to fall? Are your harness and hard words but ornaments and air? Or shall I chide myself—for I, knowing your weariness and the snares of fate, departed after the Samsaptakas?”
None dared address Vibhatsu then, save Vāsudeva or Yudhiṣṭhira—for reverence opened only those two paths to his flame. And Dharmarāja, lotus-eyed, beholding his brother scorched by grief and raised in wrath, spoke softly, as one pours cool water upon iron
O son of wind and thunder’s ring,
Hear, Partha, what the day did bring;
From dharma’s depth receive this thread—
And rise, to crown the fallen dead.
Thus did Sanjaya, thy servant, declare, O King the twilight of omens, the lion’s lament, the ocean-calm counsel, and the vow that gathers night into the arrow’s dawn.
Sañjaya said
O King, hear now how Dharmarāja spoke, and how the storm rose in Pārtha’s breast.
Yudhiṣṭhira, mighty-armed, addressed his brother with a steady voice that carried grief beneath its solemn tread “When, O scorching son of Pāṇḍu, thou didst speed against the Samsaptakas, the preceptor Droṇa surged upon me like a mountain-river in spate, resolved to seize me for the sake of the Kauravas’ hope. We bent our array to meet him, wheel for wheel, wing for wing. Yet his arrows were like iron rain; we could not even look upon his host, so bright and bitter were his shafts.
Then we said to Abhimanyu, thy son by Subhadrā—equal to thee in vigour, taught by thee in the science of arms ‘O child, break through the preceptor’s wheel!’ Like Garuḍa cleaving the ocean’s crest, the boy took up the burden others dared not bear. We pressed behind to follow his path; but Jayadratha, lord of Sindhu, fenced by a boon from Rudra, barred us as a stone bars a mountain-pass.
Meanwhile six great car-warriors—Droṇa, Kṛpa, Karṇa, Aśvatthāman, Vrihadbala of Kosala, and Kṛtavarman—circled thy lion-cub. They stripped him of his car; yet he, on foot and furious, smote down thousands—men, steeds, elephants by the hundred, eight thousand cars, and again nine hundred tuskers, two thousand princes, and the king Vrihadbala he sent to heaven. At last, by cruel chance, Duḥśāsana’s son found the opening of fate and struck him down. Thus the tiger-cub of the Pāṇḍavas ascended to the realms of heroes.”
At these words the bow slipped from Arjuna’s hand; “O my son!” he cried, and fell, the earth receiving him as a mother receives a storm-ruined branch. Around him the Pāṇḍava lords sat silent, eyes unblinking, faces ashen. Then Vāsava’s son rose as from a fever; tears burned his lashes; his chest laboured like a bellows; he clenched his hands till the veins were cords. His gaze was that of a madman, and he spoke.
A wheel of doom has ground my line,
A viper’s boon has barred our sign;
By Sindhu’s gate my child lay slain—
O Dharma, witness now my pain.
Arjuna said “Hear my vow. Tomorrow I shall slay Jayadratha. If he do not flee the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, or sue for refuge at Keśava’s feet, or thine, O King, I swear upon my bow, I shall hew him down in the sight of all. Forgetting former friendship, he wrought what pleased the Kaurava’s heart; he is the hinge upon which my child’s death turned—therefore he shall fall.
Let Droṇa stand before me, let Kṛpa and Karṇa mass their storms—my arrows shall roof them into night. If I fail in this resolve, may the most dreadful worlds—the due of parricides and faith-breakers, of slanderers, ingrate tongues, and eaters who do not share—be mine to tread. If after tomorrow’s sun has set and Jayadratha yet breathes, I shall walk into fire before this host. Gods and Asuras, Pitṛs and serpents, birds of the mid-air and all that moves or stands—none of you shall save him. Let him dive to the nether dark, let him climb the vault of heaven—still will I, when this night expires, strike off the head of my son’s destroyer.”
So he spoke, and seized Gāṇḍīva. He bent it till sky and camp were one thunder. The sound rose like the last hour of the yuga. Then Janārdana blew Pañcajanya, and Pārtha answered with Devadatta; their conchs poured out a tempest that shook the quarters and the caves beneath the world. From the Pāṇḍava lines there leapt a thousand instruments and lion-shouts, for the oath had lit a sacrificial fire.
Let night keep watch, let dawn draw breath—
Between them walks the oath of death;
If Sindhu’s lord outlive the day,
Then Pārtha’s life is fire and clay.
Then Keśava, master of calm, spoke low to the storming archer “Yield not to grief, O tiger among men. The sages opened this path for kṣatriyas—to meet death facing the foe and mount to righteous realms. Thy son has taken that high road, his fame the chariot, his valour the steeds. Comfort thy brothers and the king; speak courage into their bones.”
But Pārtha, voice broken by love and flame, said only “Tell me, O King, how fought that great-eyed hero—tell me all. For I shall reap tomorrow’s field so clean that none who hunted him shall remain.”
Thus, O Bhārata, in the camp of sorrow, the vow was sown like a thunder-seed; and the night listened, holding its breath, for the sun it must deliver to the edge of Gāṇḍīva.
Sañjaya said
O King, when the spies of thy son heard the uproar of the Pāṇḍava camp—an uproar born of vow and vengeance—they hastened to report it to their lord. Hearing that sound, fierce as the call of the world’s end, the Sindhu king Jayadratha was stricken with dread. His heart, already sinking like a man in the mid-ocean of despair, fluttered in his breast as he rose trembling and made his way, step by slow step, to the royal assembly.
There, in the presence of the kings, his face pale and his spirit shaken, he stood for a time reflecting. Fear of Abhimanyu’s sire, shame at his own deed, and the burden of an oath not yet fulfilled pressed heavily upon him. At last, folding his hands, he spoke
“O lords of earth, he whom Indra begot in Pāṇḍu’s line, he whose arrows are thunder and whose vow is death—that fierce one hath sworn my doom! The son of Subhadrā is gone, and I am the mark of Pārtha’s wrath. Blessed be you all! I would turn my steps homeward. Life is dear to all that breathe. Yet if you deem it fit, O heroes, protect me with your arms!
Can it be that when Drona, Kripa, Karna, Śalya, Bhūriśravā, and mighty Duryodhana stand by me, I should still fear one man? But alas! I have heard the shouts of the sons of Pāṇḍu, and my limbs are powerless. Surely the wielder of Gāṇḍīva hath uttered an oath for my destruction. The very gods cannot shatter his vow. Let me go hence, O kings—let me flee unseen. For if Arjuna seeketh me, no creature in the three worlds may save me.”
His voice was thin, his colour fled,
Fear’s shadow round his spirit spread;
For he had roused the lion’s breath,
And heard afar the oath of death.
But Duryodhana, ever thinking first of his own cause, rose and answered with stern assurance
“Why speak of fear, O Sindhu lord? Who shall touch thee when thou art ringed with kings? Behold—myself, and Karna, the son of Vikartana; Śalya, the Madra prince; Bhūriśravā, Vinda and Anuvinda of Avanti; Drona and his son; Kṛpa, Kṛtavarman, and Sakuni—these, and a host of others, shall guard thee as the sky guards the sun. Eleven akṣauhiṇīs of war will fight to shield thee. Thou art thyself a warrior of renown—how can such a one tremble? Cast off this fear like dust from thy armour.”
Thus spoken to by thy son, the Sindhu lord took heart again, though his heart beat still as a snared bird. Together they went by night to Drona, the master of all weapons.
Touching the preceptor’s feet, Jayadratha seated himself in humility and said
“O foremost of Brāhmaṇas, tell me truly in strength of arm, in keenness of aim, in firmness of hand, how stand I beside Pārtha? What is the measure of the gulf between us?”
And Drona replied, his tone calm and grave
“Of learning, O king, ye two have had equal share. But by yoga, by ceaseless discipline and the austerity of the forest, Arjuna hath outstripped thee. Yet fear him not. My arms shall ward thee from harm. The gods themselves cannot prevail against one protected by me. I shall form such an array that none may pierce it. Stand firm in the dharma of thy order. Thou hast studied the Vedas and performed sacrifice—why dread death, which is the gate of glory for the kṣatriya? All of us—Kauravas, Pāṇḍavas, Vṛṣṇis, and I myself—are but guests in this fleeting world. Time slays us one by one. Only our deeds follow us beyond the pyre.
Know this the realms ascetics gain by penance are won by warriors through valour. Seek that fortune, O Sindhu lord, without fear.”
“Fight on,” the aged master said,
“For none can flee the path they tread;
The brave by death to heaven go—
So falls the sun to make it so.”
Thus comforted by the son of Bharadvāja, Jayadratha’s trembling ceased, and his heart turned again to battle. His fear of Pārtha he laid aside, though faint embers smouldered still within.
When word spread through the host that Sindhu’s king would stand and fight, joy kindled in the Kaurava lines. Loud were the drums, bright the conchs; banners streamed like tongues of fire, and the roars of thousands rose to heaven—shouts that were soon to meet the silence of dawn.