novelraw Arc 3 - Jayadhratha-Vadha Parva - Chapter 1 - Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s Lament
Arc 3 - Jayadhratha-Vadha Parva - Chapter 1 - Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s Lament
Then the blind king, his heart torn by grief, spoke to Sañjaya, his faithful charioteer and seer of distant fields. His voice trembled like wind over dry leaves, for sorrow had entered the very roots of his being.
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:
“After the cruel slaughter of Abhimanyu, O Sañjaya, when the next dawn broke upon that field of Kuru’s fame, what did the sons of Pāṇḍu, crushed with grief and flaming with vengeance, resolve to do?
Who among my warriors faced them, knowing full well the might of Savyasācin—he who is death itself in battle?
Tell me, O Sūta, how could the Kauravas, having committed such a wrong, remain unshaken and unafraid?
How dared they gaze upon Arjuna, the tiger among men, as he advanced like Time that ends all things—his heart burning in the fire of his son’s death?”
And thus, lamenting like one who has lost the sun of his lineage, the old monarch’s voice fell heavy with remembrance and dread.
“He whose banner bore the image of the celestial ape,
He whose arms held the bow that rends the sky—
Beholding him, grief incarnate and terrible,
What did my sons and warriors do, O Sañjaya?
Alas! I hear no longer the sound of joy,
No music from the camp of Sindhu’s lord.
The bards and dancers that once sang their praise—
Their songs are now but echoes of lamentation.”
Dhṛtarāṣṭra, heavy with the memory of former splendour, continued in sorrowful prose:
“In the dwellings of Jayadratha, of Vivinsati, of Durmukha, Chitrasena, and Vikarna, once the air was full of song and laughter. Now all is silent. The bright torches of my lineage have been dimmed by the storm of fate.
In the house of Droṇa’s son, once filled with the hum of students, of learned Brahmanas and disputing sages, of music and the praise of kings—no sound is heard now. The seat of the preceptor’s heir lies abandoned, its sacred fire grown cold.
The camps of the Kaikeyas, the halls of Vinda and Anuvinda, once resounded with the clash of palms and the beat of song. Now they are as silent as houses of the dead. The priests who once recited the Vedas for Somadatta’s son, and the chant of sacrificial hymns—they too are stilled.”
“O Sañjaya,” said the old king again,
“I hear no twang of bow nor sacred song,
No rattle of wheels nor trumpet’s cry—
Only the sound of mourning long.
The halls where bards their praises told,
Are hushed beneath misfortune’s weight.
Where joy had blossomed manifold,
There grows the fruit of fated hate.”
He paused, recalling the moment when peace might still have been bought. His words turned bitter as ashes.
“When the wielder of the conch and discus, Janārdana of unfading glory, came from Upaplavya for the sake of peace, I said to Duryodhana—‘Seek peace through Keśava, O son. With him as thy ally, the earth will be thine in righteousness. Set not aside the counsel of that divine scion of the Daśārhas.’
But my son, blinded by arrogance and wrath, rejected the words of Govinda, who came for the good of all. He chose instead the path of ruin, listening to Duḥśāsana, Karṇa, and the deceitful Śakuni. He turned from wisdom as one possessed by Death himself.”
“I forbade the game of dice,” said the king in anguish,
“As did Vidura, Bhīṣma, and the Sindhu lord.
Yet he heeded not, choosing the crooked path,
Till ruin came like night across the world.”
He lifted his sightless eyes as if searching the heavens.
“Had my son followed the counsel of the wise—Bhīṣma, Droṇa, Kṛpa, and the rest—he would have lived in peace with his kinsmen. The sons of Pāṇḍu are virtuous, ever speaking what is sweet and just. They are destined to inherit happiness. The man who keeps his gaze on dharma finds joy in both worlds, while unrighteousness devours its own.
The earth girdled by the sea is as much theirs as ours. In strength and lineage, they are our equals. In righteousness, they surpass us. Yudhiṣṭhira, lord of truth, will never turn from the path of virtue.”
“O Sañjaya, many among us the Pāṇḍavas would still hear—
Śalya, Somadatta, venerable Bhīṣma and Kṛpa.
Had my son but listened to these pure in age and honour,
The race of Kuru might have known peace and grace.
But the will of Time is harsh and cold,
And Fate laughs in the face of kings.
The hearts of men are nets of gold,
Yet Time cuts through their shining strings.”
Again the king sighed deeply.
“I know, O Sañjaya, that Kṛṣṇa of the Vṛṣṇis will never forsake righteousness. The sons of Pāṇḍu obey his word as they would the law of the Veda itself. When I spoke words of peace and restraint, they too honoured them. But my son, doomed by destiny, would not listen.”
With sorrow choking his throat, he spoke on:
“Now, where stand the sons of Pāṇḍu—there stand Bhīma and Arjuna, Sātyaki the Vṛṣṇi lion, the Panchāla warriors Uttamaujas and Yudhamanyu, Dṛṣṭadyumna the unconquered, Śikhaṇḍin the avenger, the Kekayas, the Chedis, and Drupada their king. There too are the sons of Draupadī, the twin princes, and Kṛṣṇa himself holding counsel.
Who in this world can oppose them and hope to live? Only my son Duryodhana, with Karṇa, Śakuni, and Duḥśāsana—four against the sea of heroes! Who else would stand before Arjuna, whose chariot bears Viṣṇu, the eternal driver, armoured and serene? Defeat cannot touch those who have Keśava as their guide.”
“Do they now remember, Sañjaya, the words I once spoke?
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That folly breeds fire which none can quell.
The tiger Bhīṣma is fallen and still—
His silence echoes like a curse in their hearts.
Beholding their hosts by Arjuna consumed,
Their banners shattered, their chariots bare,
I know my sons now wail and mourn,
The harvest of their pride and despair.”
Then, breathing heavily, the blind monarch concluded:
“Tell me, O Sañjaya, all that befell after that evil deed—the slaying of Partha’s son in the evening. What did Duryodhana resolve with Karṇa and Śakuni? What counsel did Duḥśāsana give?
For truly, O Sūta, the ruin that has overtaken all my children is born of Duryodhana’s own deeds—of greed, anger, folly, and avarice. Tell me, therefore, whether his measures were wise or born of blindness, for my heart trembles to know.”
Sañjaya said:
“O king, I shall tell thee all, for I have seen it with mine own eyes. Listen calmly, O descendant of Bharata. Great, indeed, is thy fault.
Even as an embankment is useless once the flood has passed, so too, O monarch, are these lamentations now of no avail. What has been ordained by Time cannot be undone by tears.”
“Weep not, O lord of men, for fate is firm,
Its threads are woven none may break.
The hand of Death is vast and stern,
And all must move where Time doth take.”
“Marvelous and inexorable are the decrees of the Destroyer. Grieve not, O bull of the Bharata race, for this is not new. Hadst thou, in earlier days, restrained Yudhiṣṭhira and thy sons from that fateful game of dice, this calamity would never have arisen. Hadst thou, when wrath inflamed both houses, checked them with a father’s firmness, this ruin would not have befallen thee. Hadst thou urged the Kurus to strike down the disobedient Duryodhana when there was time, the seed of this destruction would never have taken root.”
“The fire was small, yet left to spread,
It burned the house from base to head.
A single spark, through folly nursed,
Becomes the blaze that lays a world accursed.”
“If thou hadst placed thy son upon the righteous path and compelled him to walk it, O king, this disaster would never have overtaken thee. Thou art wise beyond all men—how, then, forsaking the eternal law, didst thou hearken to the counsels of Duryodhana, Karṇa, and Śakuni?
Thy lamentations now, O monarch enamoured of wealth and kingdom, are like honey mixed with poison—sweet upon the tongue, but deadly in their truth.”
“He who in greed deserts the right,
Shall reap his tears in later night.
The fruit of folly, ripe and red,
Is bitterness when hope hath fled.”
“Formerly, O king, Keśava himself regarded thee above all—beyond Yudhiṣṭhira or Droṇa. But when he beheld thy fall from the duties of a ruler, when he saw thee blind not only in sight but in judgment, his reverence waned.
Thy sons, puffed up with pride, spoke cruel words to the sons of Pṛthā, and thou, O wielder of sovereignty, didst remain indifferent. Behold now the harvest of that indifference—the field of Kurukṣetra red with the blood of thy race.”
“O sinless one,” continued Sañjaya with steady tone, “thy ancestral sovereignty trembles on the brink of ruin. If thou wouldst save it, then let it pass wholly to the sons of Pāṇḍu who have earned it through virtue and valour. The glory of the Kurus was born of Pāṇḍu’s sons, and the fame they built thou hast undone through covetous desire.
That heritage, once bright as the sun, has turned to ashes in thy hands. And now, when the tide of war has risen high, thou reproachest thy sons—what folly is this? It is not fitting for a Kṣatriya.”
“The lion mourns not for the slain,
Nor warriors weep mid battle’s flame.
The sons of Kuru, though doomed to pain,
Still fight to guard their house and name.”
“Those princes, O king, plunge into the arrays of the Pāṇḍavas with no thought for their lives. Who else but they—save the Kauravas—would dare confront that invincible host guarded by Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna, by Sātyaki the lion-hearted, and Vṛkodara whose might is mountain-born?
They who have Arjuna for warrior and Janārdana for guide, they who have Sātyaki and Bhīma for protectors—what mortal could stand against them save the deluded followers of thy son?”
“When Kṛṣṇa holds the reins of fate,
When Arjuna’s bow divides the sky,
What king may hope to conquer late,
Or dream to live when heroes die?”
“All that can be done by kings devoted to their Kṣatriya duty, fearless and steadfast, is being done, O monarch, by the warriors of thy host. Yet know, all efforts crumble when destiny has spoken.
Therefore listen, O king of men, and I shall tell thee everything that has transpired in that terrible battle between those tigers among men—the Kurus and the Pāṇḍavas.”
Sañjaya said:
“After the fierce slaughter of the previous day had subsided, O king, Droṇa—foremost among wielders of celestial weapons—once more began to array his vast divisions for battle.
The field of Kurukṣetra, though drenched in blood, came alive again with the dreadful hum of warriors. From every quarter rose the clamour of heroes shouting in wrath, eager to slay or be slain.
Some stretched their mighty bows till they sang like thunder. Some rubbed the strings with their palms until sparks of sound burst forth. Others drew deep breaths, their hearts swelling with vengeance, crying aloud—‘Where is Dhanañjaya?’—their voices rolling like the sea.”
“Swords were flung to the sky and caught again,
Their steel flashing blue as the mid-day rain;
Maces whirled like planets in the air,
As wrathful men called death their share.”
“Thousands of skilled warriors performed the evolutions of swordsmen and archers with the ease born of long practice. Maces decked with bells and polished with sandal paste glittered in their grasp.
Some, their arms like iron pillars, swung spiked clubs that darkened the heavens, resembling a forest of standards raised in honour of Indra. Others, adorned with garlands and golden ornaments, took their stand upon the field, calling out in pride and challenge:
‘Where is Arjuna? Where is Govinda? Where is Bhīma the terrible? Where are their allies today?’
Thus, intoxicated with the madness of battle, the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra roared.”
Then, blowing his mighty conch and urging his horses with swift command, Droṇa moved across the field like a storm. His chariot rolled like the voice of the firmament as he marshalled the legions into order.
When all divisions had taken their appointed stations, Bharadvāja’s son turned to Jayadratha and spoke words meant to steady his heart.
“Take courage, O Sindhu lord, and stand thy ground;
Behind me lies thy fortress strong and sound.
No god nor man shall break this line today—
Not Indra’s hosts can force this wall away.”
“Thou, O Jayadratha, together with Somadatta’s son, the mighty Karṇa, Aśvatthāman, Śalya, Vṛṣasena, and Kṛpa, with a hundred thousand horsemen, sixty thousand chariots, fourteen thousand tuskers with rent temples, and twenty-one thousand mailed footmen, take up thy position behind me at a distance of twelve miles.
There, even the gods with Vāsava at their head would find no entrance—what need, then, to fear the sons of Pāṇḍu? Take comfort, O ruler of the Sindhus.”
“Thus spoke Droṇa, calm yet fierce,
His words like arrows none could pierce;
And Jayadratha, with hope restored,
Took station near the preceptor’s sword.”
“Obeying the teacher’s command, Jayadratha advanced to the spot appointed for his defence. With him marched the Gandhāra warriors, their spears flashing like rivers of light. Around him stood many heroes of renown, their armour glittering with gems, their hearts fixed on battle.
The steeds that drew his chariot were of flawless Sindhu breed, swift and obedient, decked with yak-tails and ornaments of gold. Seven thousand such steeds and three thousand more followed in his wake, neighing like thunderclouds that herald doom.”
“Thy son Durmarṣaṇa, eager for battle, placed himself at the vanguard of the host, surrounded by fifteen hundred elephants—huge beasts clad in mail, maddened by the scent of blood, their riders urging them with goads of steel.
Duḥśāsana and Vikarna, thy other sons, took up their position in the forward divisions to protect Jayadratha, their hearts set upon the purpose decreed by fate.”
“Then Droṇa shaped the field once more,
A wheel of war, a storm of roar;
Forty-eight miles its length was spread,
Twenty miles deep its columns led.”
“The master of weapons formed his array—a vast configuration, part in the shape of a cart (śakata), part in that of a circle. Within it countless kings stood at their posts, with chariots, horses, elephants, and footmen as numerous as the waves of the sea.
Behind that formation he raised another, impenetrable as destiny itself, shaped like a blooming lotus. And within the lotus lay yet another dense design, sharp as a needle’s point, terrible to behold.
At the mouth of that needle Droṇa placed Kṛtavarman, the great bowman of the Bhojas. Next to him stood the ruler of the Kāmbojas and the valiant Jalasandha. Beyond them stood Duryodhana and Karṇa, blazing with pride, surrounded by hundreds of unreturning heroes ready to die for the Kuru name.”
“And in that fortress of spears and shields,
Jayadratha waited—his fate concealed;
Behind the lines, with warriors vast,
He stood like night that hides the past.”
“At the entrance of the Śakata formation stood Droṇa himself, radiant as the sun at noon. Behind him, guarding the rear, was Kṛtavarman, chief of the Bhojas, watchful and stern.
Clad in spotless white armour, his brow bound with a bright headpiece, broad-chested and long-armed, Droṇa stood upon his car stretching his great bow—an image of Rudra himself in wrath.
His chariot was adorned with a crimson altar and a black deer-skin, and above it flew a golden standard. Beholding that resplendent car, the Kaurava ranks burst into shouts of joy.”
“Like clouds before the tempest drawn,
The hosts of Kuru swelled at dawn;
The teacher’s banner rose in flame,
And glory crowned the Kuru name.”
“Seeing that mighty array, which rolled and heaved like the ocean stirred by storm, even the Siddhas and Cāraṇas looked on in wonder. They thought, ‘This formation shall consume the very earth with her mountains, forests, and seas!’
And king Duryodhana, beholding Droṇa’s formation—vast, roaring, and radiant as a whirlpool of destruction—rejoiced greatly, his heart swelling like the tide beneath the moon.”