novelraw Arc 2 - Abhimanyu-Vadha Parva - Chapter 10 - Formation to Defend Jayadratha
Arc 2 - Abhimanyu-Vadha Parva - Chapter 10 - Formation to Defend Jayadratha
Sañjaya said
When Pārtha, his heart burning with grief, had uttered his dread vow—
when he, the thunder of Indra’s line, had sworn that Jayadratha should fall ere the morrow’s sun—
then Vāsudeva, ever calm amid tempest, turned to him and spoke.
“O Dhanañjaya,” said he, his eyes deep as the evening sea, “thou hast spoken rashly, though thy wrath be just. Without my counsel, and moved only by the fire of thy brothers’ grief, thou hast taken upon thyself a vow that bends the stars. Think—if we fail, what laughter shall break from the world!
My spies have returned from the Kaurava camp. They say that when thou didst swear thy oath, the sound of conches, drums, and lion-cries thundered from our ranks, and the hearts of the Dhārtarāṣṭras froze with dread. In their tents, confusion burst like storm elephants screamed, horses reared, men ran with drawn swords, crying, ‘Surely Dhanañjaya comes this night to avenge his son!’
Then, as the clamour reached them, they learned thy vow—that Jayadratha, son of Sindhu, was doomed before sunset. The Kaurava princes paled; their counsellors whispered in fear, and even proud Jayadratha, the Sindhu lord, sank into despair. He gathered his ministers, his heart a dry leaf in the wind of death, and said,
‘Dhanañjaya, believing me the slayer of his child, comes tomorrow to cut me down. None among gods or men can break his vow. Protect me, O kings, from the fire of Pārtha’s wrath! Or, if protection there is none, give me leave to flee and save my life!’”
His words were wind upon the flame;
The Kauravas heard and shrank in shame.
For none might stand where Arjuna trod—
A lion armed with bow and God.
Hearing him thus lament, Suyodhana drooped his head like a banner in rain. Seeing his king’s spirit faint, Jayadratha, seeking some comfort in despair, spoke again
“I know no archer on this earth who can withstand the storm of Gāṇḍīva. Who shall face Arjuna, the friend of Keśava, when the wheel of fate turns with them? Even Śakra, Lord of the Devas, might falter before that pair! Did he not on foot, in the snows of Himavat, strive with Mahādeva himself and prevail? Did he not slay a thousand Dānavas of Hiraṇyapura? Now that hero is one with Vāsudeva—the bow in his hand, the thunder in his soul. He could unmake the worlds if he willed. Either grant me leave to return home, or let Droṇa, with his son, stand as my fortress. Otherwise, do as thou deemest fit.”
Thus he spoke, and Suyodhana, trembling within, turned to the old preceptor Droṇa, and said humbly
“O master of celestial arms, protect the Sindhu king! Let him not fall to Arjuna’s vow.”
And the wise Bharadvāja’s son answered, “So be it.”
Then was planned the array for the coming day— half in the shape of a śakata (a cart), half in that of a lotus, with a needle-pointed mouth. In the centre of that lotus, where no shaft could find entry, Jayadratha was placed, shielded by six pillars of might Droṇa, Kṛpa, Karna, Aśvatthāman, Śalya, and Vṛṣasena, each a lion among men, each invincible in bow and arm.
Six suns to guard the Sindhu’s crown,
Six storms to beat the thunder down;
Who dares the lotus’ heart to find
Must break the blades of such a wind.
Then Kṛṣṇa, hearing this from the spies, said gravely to Arjuna,
“Consider, O son of Kuntī, what thou must face.
Those six are walls of iron. None may reach Jayadratha without piercing their pride.
Let us therefore counsel well before the dawn,
for the oath thou hast sworn is the edge of destiny.”
And Arjuna, eyes burning like twin meteors, bowed to his friend and said nothing—
for the night itself trembled, awaiting the sun that would rise on Jayadratha’s last day.
Sanjaya said
When Arjuna, the peerless Pāṇḍava, had risen in wrath and grief, his voice like a thunderbolt that rends the sky, he declared before all the warriors and before Keśava himself that he would on the morrow slay Jayadratha, the ruler of the Sindhus. Sanjaya perceived the fire that burnt in that son of Kunti — a vow born of a father’s anguish and of Kshatriya dharma — and related it straightway to the monarch. Arjuna spoke with the steadiness of one who measures destiny; his words were oaths, his oaths the cutting of fate.
By Gandiva’s string the world shall reel,
By Gandiva’s wrath the false shall feel.
If dawn should set and Jayadratha live,
May fire and fate my final home give.
Arjuna proclaimed that even though gods and Asuras, the Pitris, the Maruts, the Vasus, and the twin Asvins—yea, all mobile and immobile beings—should rise to shield Jayadratha, yet with his shafts, fleet as wind and keen as reason, he would cleave that protector’s head in the sight of Droṇa and all the Kaurava hosts. He swore by Truth and by his weapons; he took his vow upon Gandiva, and his voice became the trumpet that shakes the firmament. He vowed not a boast but a binding of his own soul that if he failed before the sun’s set, he would accept the direst penalty and forswear the regions of the righteous.
Keśava then, who sits serene amid frenzy, rebuked him gently. He told Arjuna that the vow was rash—taken in grief, without counsel. His spies, said Krishna, had brought news the uproar from the Pandava camp had reached the Kuru tents; at the sound of loud rejoicing and conches they grew anxious and prepared. Even now Jayadratha, stunned with fear, had sought the protection of Duryodhana; the Sindhu-king would not be left undefended. Therefore prudence and plan must go with valour, else the world would mock the vow if its fulfilment miscarried.
Wisdom girds the thunderbolt’s hand;
Fury alone makes boasters stand.
O hero, temper fire with craft —
So shall the vow not be a shaft.
Filled with anguish, Jayadratha rose at the voice of the spies and went before the council of the Kauravas. He confessed that Partha’s oath had swallowed his courage like the sea swallows a river. “If Arjuna comes,” he said, “who can save me? Even Śakra’s self might waver where Gandiva sings.” Duryodhana calmed him with promises — Karṇa and Droṇa, Kripa and Aśvatthāman, Śalya and Vr̥ṣasena should stand as bulwarks. Jayadratha, shamed and fearful, implored protection or leave to flee.
Droṇa the preceptor, dark as the rising sun of battle, answered with the steadiness of his art Arjuna’s excellence was born of fierce discipline; he, too, had been well taught; yet Droṇa would array the host so that Partha’s path might be barred. He devised an array — half śakata, half lotus, with a needle-pointed throat — and placed Jayadratha safely in the heart of it, defended by six mighty car-warriors, pillars of the Kuru line. Thus was the Sindhu-king made the centre of a ring of death.
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Lotus-guard and iron gate,
Six-fold walls to bar his fate.
Set the king in lotus’ heart —
Let the bowmen play their part.
Arjuna heard of this counsel and the strength that guarded Jayadratha. He answered not in doubt but in magnified resolve. He declared to Keśava that the united might of those six heroes — be they Droṇa, Kr̥pa, Karṇa, Aśvatthāman, Śalya, or Vr̥ṣasena — was not equal to half the force of his arm; he swore that at the very outset he would face Droṇa himself, pierce through the van that Droṇa commanded, and reach Jayadratha. He invoked the weapons of the gods and the terrible Brahma-weapon; he spoke of rivers of blood and the earth strewn with heads as the sure consequence of his onslaught. To Krishna he entrusted his chariot and his vow, and bade preparation be made ere night fell, for the hour at hand was grievous and momentous.
If heaven should rise to shield the wrong,
Yet Gandiva shall sing its song.
Let Dawn be witness to this dread
By truth and bow the false shall bleed.
Thus Sanjaya told, O monarch, how the man who is Arjuna bound himself to a destiny of reckoning, and how Krishna, calm as cosmic counsel, entreated measure but stood ready as charioteer and friend. The camp that night was a furnace of vow and counter-vow fear in the Kaurava heart, a vast resolve in the Pandava breast. Sanjaya, seeing these currents of fate, left the tale suspended like the breath before battle and reported to Dhṛtarāśtra the storm that would break on the morrow.
Sanjaya said
Both Vasudeva and Dhananjaya passed that night sleepless, sighing one to another like two coiled serpents. The heavens themselves took note the gods, watching Keśava and Nara in their rage, grew anxious and murmured among themselves. Fierce, dry winds began to blow and ominous signs filled sky and earth — a headless trunk and a mace were seen upon the disk of the sun; though no cloud hung there, thunder crashed and lightning flashed; mountains, waters, and forests trembled; the seas rose in unrest; rivers ran contrary to their courses. Men, steeds, and elephants quivered; lips trembled; the very creatures on the field expressed ill omen by cries and by casting forth urine and excreta, as though celebrating a coming harvest for Yama. Everywhere those dreadful tokens made the hair stand on end.
In that hour of portent and of Partha’s fierce vow, all thy hosts, O Bharata, grew exceeding agitated. Then the mighty-armed Vasudeva bade Keśava go and comfort his sister Subhadra and her daughter-in-law. With a heavy heart Krishna went to the house of Arjuna and found Subhadra bowed under sorrow for her son.
Do not let tears take root, O sister; Time has one decree
A Kshatriya’s end in battle is the crown of his bravery.
He who fell by arrow and by mace has gone where heroes dwell —
Grief is for the living; the valiant child has won immortelle.
Krishna spoke to Subhadra with measured comfort her son had achieved the end that noble Kshatriyas covet — a death facing foes, amassed with merit, and a passage to the eternal mansions of the righteous. The murderer, the wretch of the Sindhus who struck down a child, shall not escape Partha’s wrath; even should he reach Indra’s court, he shall not be beyond Arjuna’s hand. Drive away thy sorrow, Krishna counselled keep the duties of the house and of kinsmen; the vow of Partha is set — it cannot fail. Even if gods, Asuras, serpents and wanderers of the night should rise to guard the Sindhu-king, yet on the morrow he shall be cut off.
Thus did Keśava seek to steady the grief of those in the camp, proclaiming both the solace of heaven for the fallen and the sure vengeance that the dawning day would bring.
Sañjaya said
When Keśava’s words fell like gentle rain upon the burning heart of Subhadrā, she could not yet be soothed. Grief, swollen like a tide, broke from her breast in waves of lamentation. Her voice trembled like the wind among dry reeds, and her eyes—twin lotuses withered by sorrow—poured tears unceasing.
Oh son of my wretched self!
O thou who wert a mirror of thy sire’s might,
How couldst thou, child of prowess divine,
Lay down thy life upon the dust of battle?
That face of thine—blue as the lotus at dawn,
Soft with laughter, framed in shining locks—
How doth it lie now, O child, shrouded in the dust of war?
Alas, those lips that spake sweetly, that smiled so rarely—
they are silent beneath arrows and earth.
.
She wept, thinking of his youth, his beauty, his lineage divine—born of Arjuna, nephew to Vāsudeva, beloved of Draupadī and of all the princes. “How,” she cried, “doth he sleep, whose couch was once of silk and white linen, now laid upon the hard earth, pierced by arrows? The hands once decked with golden bracelets lie motionless; the arms that embraced me are torn with steel. Beasts of prey circle his body where once the bards sang his glory!”
Her lament grew fierce, turning against destiny and the living alike.
“Fie on the might of Bhīma! Fie on the bowmanship of Arjuna!
Where were the Panchālas, the Matsyas, the Vr̥ṣṇis, when my child fell?
The earth is empty to me now. O Abhimanyu, I see thee no more!”
Then she blessed him, her voice trembling between curse and prayer.
Let thine end, my son, be the end of the brave,
of those that fall but never crave;
Let thine ascent be the heroes’ height,
Where dharma burns with deathless light.
Let thine end be the saints’ repose,
the gift-givers’, the vow-keepers’ close;
Let heaven’s gates for thee expand,
O son, thou jewel of this land.
Thus she invoked every blessed destiny—of kings who ruled justly, of ascetics who fasted long, of scholars, of warriors, of givers of kine, of women faithful to one husband, of the compassionate, of those that forgave, of those who looked upon all beings with mercy. “Let that eternal peace, that untainted goal, be thine, my child!”
And while the dark-haired Subhadrā thus poured her soul in tears, Draupadī, the princess of Pāñchāla, entered, accompanied by Uttarā, the maiden-queen, stricken yet silent, her womb heavy with Abhimanyu’s unborn son. Together they fell upon the ground like vines rent by wind, wailing and fainting for the dead hero.
The night was dark, yet darker still
Was the grief that shadowed the Pandava hill;
Three queens lay low on the blood-soaked plain,
While heaven itself seemed to weep in rain.
Then Vāsudeva, the Lotus-Eyed, took water in his hand and sprinkled it upon Subhadrā’s brow, upon Draupadī’s cheeks, upon the trembling Uttara who clung to her mother’s arms. With a voice deep as the conch at dawn he spoke words that steadied the hearts of the bereaved.
“O Subhadrā, grieve not. O Pāñchālī, console Uttara. Thy son, O fair one, hath won the most glorious of ends. Let the men of our race who yet live win that same heaven which Abhimanyu hath attained. In this field of righteousness, may we, too, achieve that which he hath already achieved—victory eternal.”
Thus speaking, Vāsudeva, the chastiser of foes, consoled the women of the house of the Kurus and returned to Arjuna’s side. Entering the warrior’s tent, he saluted the assembled kings and friends, and they, each bearing the weight of the coming day, withdrew to their abodes.
That night, O King, was long as an age—
A night of vows, of widows’ tears,
Of warriors sleepless in resolve;
And over all, the murmur of destiny—
the sound of Gandiva waiting for the dawn.
Sañjaya said —
That night in Arjuna’s pavilion was kept holy and wakeful. Keśava—lotus-eyed, calm as a river in its depth—entered and laid water, then spread a bed of Kusa grass, blue as lapis, on the even floor. He placed shining weapons about it, garlanded the spot with flowers and fried grain, and made the nightly offering to the Three-eyed. Partha too performed his rite, and, soothed by the little ceremony, smeared Madhava with perfumes and garlands. Vasudeva blessed him with a faint, comforting smile “Sleep, O Partha; I go.” Then he set sentinels at the doors and, followed by Daruka his charioteer, withdrew to his own tent.
A bed of Kusa, like the sky in hue,
Weapons round it gleamed as morning dew;
By flowers, rice, and libation blest,
Arjuna slept—yet sleep he could not rest.
Arjuna’s sorrow had kindled a vow that would not be put out by night. None of the Pandavas closed their eyes. The camp was restless hearts weighing the oath and the doom it called down. Jayadratha’s strength and the protective array around him were terrible to contemplate; Drona and his six chosen champions stood like a living rampart. Yet in that sleepless hush the friends of the sons of Pandu spoke one thought and one hope if ever man could keep such an oath, Arjuna could.
Toward midnight Kesava rose within his meditation. He spoke to Daruka of what must be done the vow, its terrible vow, must be fulfilled, but not left to chance. He would go forth in the morning and do that by which Arjuna might attain his aim. “Arjuna is half of me,” he said; “he is dearer than all my kin. If the world must be shaken, I will shake it to save him.”
He that is half of thee, O Lord, I claim,
By word and deed I guard his name;
Today the chariot of resolve shall turn,
And by my arm the Sindhu’s doom shall burn.
Daruka answered with loyalty fixed as iron the chariot shall be readied, the steeds decked, the mace Kaumodaki and every celestial implement placed upon it. The foremost steeds—Valahaka, Meghapushpa, Saivya, Sugriva—would be yoked and shod and cased in golden mail. Daruka would be prepared to speed at the blast of Panchajanya. Thus the plan was set Krishna would bear the weight of action, so that Arjuna’s oath might not founder.
All through that long night the camp kept watch; anxious winds moaned, omens stirred, and every warrior’s mind turned to the morrow, to the terrible reckoning that would either wash away a crime or heap guilt upon the land. Yet in the inner tent, while Arjuna lay wronged by grief and vow, Kesava’s resolve wrapped him like armor he would stand with him, and by any means—by discus, by dart, by word, by might—would see the vow fulfilled.
Thus by the night, with resolve and prayer,
They made their weapons bright and fair;
At dawn the drum, the conch’s cry,
Will bid the judgeless world reply.
Krishna ministers to Arjuna’s grief, conducts the nightly rites, and then plots actively to secure Arjuna’s sworn vengeance. He readies his own chariot, weapons, and charioteer Daruka so that when dawn comes he can intervene to ensure Jayadratha falls before sunset—turning divine resolve into mortal action.