novelraw Arc 3 - Jayadhratha-Vadha Parva - Chapter 10 - Sātyaki Advances towards Arjuna
Arc 3 - Jayadhratha-Vadha Parva - Chapter 10 - Sātyaki Advances towards Arjuna
Sañjaya said—
“Having crushed the Yavanas and the Kamvojas, the mighty Yuyudhāna pressed forward through the midst of thy army, eager to reach Dhanañjaya. Like a hunter scattering frightened deer, that tiger among men slew the Kaurava ranks as he came—his armour gleaming, his teeth bright as pearls, his banner streaming like fire.
He brandished his great bow whose golden back was studded with moons, whose string sang like thunder when drawn. His arms shone with golden armlets, his helm blazed like the sun, and his coat of mail was radiant as dawn. Gold gleamed upon his chariot, his weapons, and his standard, till he seemed the very peak of Meru rising amid the Kaurava host.
As the sun in autumn, cloudless, bright,
So Sātyaki blazed in battle’s light;
His form, his tread, his gaze of flame—
A bull among men who none could tame.
The Kaurava warriors pressed toward him from every side—like lions rushing on a wild elephant in must, their tusks dripping, their roars shaking the air. But that bull among the Sini clan, strong as an elephant and terrible as a storm, received their onset unshaken.
He had already broken Droṇa’s oceanic array, crossed the Bhoja and Jālasandha divisions, scattered the Kamvojas, escaped the snare of Hṛdika’s son, and pierced through hosts as deep as seas. Now he was hemmed in once more by Duryodhana, Duḥśāsana, Chitrasena, Vivingsati, Śakuni, Duḥsaha, Durdharṣa, Kratha, and many princes skilled in arms and aflame with wrath.
The earth trembled beneath the thunder of their wheels, the heavens shook with the cry of their horns and drums, and the field resounded like an ocean in tempest. Beholding their approach, Sātyaki laughed and said to his charioteer:
“Hold the reins firm.
This swelling sea of Kurus—its waves are elephants and steeds,
its foam the flash of arrows—
I shall resist it as the land holds back the tide at full moon.
Behold, O driver, the power that rivals Indra’s own!
My arrows shall consume this host like fire devouring dry reeds.”
Even as he spoke, the foremost warriors of thy line closed upon him, shouting—“Slay! Rush! Wait! Strike!”—but their cries ended in silence. In a breath Sātyaki’s arrows cut down three hundred horsemen and four hundred elephants.
His shafts flew thick, a ceaseless rain,
Till men and beasts lay piled amain;
The field was red, the sky was loud,
As gods once fought the titan crowd.
That sea of men and beasts—cars, elephants, and steeds—halted as if turned to stone before the fury of his bow. Wherever he shot, warriors fell like leaves in storm. The host, panic-stricken, reeled and broke; elephants wheeled about trumpeting in fear, steeds ran wild, and chariots crashed together.
So terrible was the carnage that not even Arjuna, O King, had wrought such ruin on that day as Sātyaki wrought upon thy troops. His movements were swift as thought; his bowstring never slackened. In dexterity and grace he seemed to surpass even Pārtha.
Then Duryodhana, pale with wrath, shot three shafts at Sātyaki’s charioteer and four at his steeds, and pierced the hero himself with eleven arrows. Duḥśāsana followed with sixteen, Śakuni with five and twenty, and Chitrasena with five more. Duḥsaha struck with ten arrows that hissed like serpents.
But the tiger-hearted Sātvata, though pierced, smiled proudly and answered each with triple force. His shafts tore their armour like flame through silk. He cut Śakuni’s bow and the guard from his hand, smote Duryodhana thrice in the chest, Chitrasena a hundredfold, Duḥsaha with ten, and Duḥśāsana with twenty arrows.
His wrath was swift, his hand was sure,
No armour stood, no heart was pure;
Where Sātyaki’s arrows found their mark,
The sun went out, the sky grew dark.
Again Śakuni, trembling, took another bow and loosed thirteen arrows; Duḥśāsana added three more, and Durmukha twelve. Then Duryodhana, mad with anger, pierced Sātyaki with seventy-three arrows and struck his charioteer with three. But the Sātvata answered in kind, his bow flashing like lightning.
With a single broad-headed shaft he struck down Duryodhana’s driver; the lifeless body fell to the earth, and the king’s horses, panic-struck, bore him from the field with the speed of wind.
Seeing their lord’s car swept away, the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra and their followers broke and fled in disarray. Sātyaki’s arrows, whetted and winged with gold, fell like burning rain upon their backs. None dared turn again.
Then, his path cleared by ruin, Yuyudhāna urged his horses toward Arjuna’s car.
And even thy warriors, O King, beheld that sight in awe and reverence—
for though he was their foe, they bowed in their hearts to the dauntless hero
who fought alone amid thousands, shining like the midday sun,
the invincible Sātyaki, the pride of the Vṛṣṇis and the flame of war.”
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said—
“When the mighty grandson of Sini pressed onward, grinding my vast host as he went, what did my sons, O Sañjaya, do?
When Yuyudhāna, equal in prowess to Pārtha himself, blazed before them like the fire of dissolution, how could those shameless wretches, already touched by Death, still dream of battle?
How could Sātyaki, alone, pierce through the ranks of so many mighty car-warriors? Surely, Fate itself stands against my sons, since one man, inflamed with wrath, scatters them as the wind scatters clouds.
Even Droṇa, skilled in every weapon, could not stop him; nor could Hṛdika’s son or the hosts of the earth. Truly, the bull among the Vṛṣṇis will devour my sons like a lion among deer.”
Sañjaya said—
“O King, this ruin is born of thy counsel and thy son’s folly. Hear now, attentively, what befell.
At Duryodhana’s command the Samsaptakas, rallying in fury, gathered again to fight. Three thousand bowmen followed him, joined by Śakas, Kāmbojas, Vālhikas, Yavanas, Paradas, Kalingas, Tāṅgaṇas, Amvaṣṭhas, Piśāchas, Barbaras, and fierce mountaineers. Maddened with rage and armed with stones and darts, they rushed upon Sātyaki like moths into flame.
Five hundred warriors advanced beside them; behind came a thousand cars, a hundred lords of chariots, a thousand elephants, two thousand heroes, and countless footmen—
all urged by Duḥśāsana, crying ‘Slay him! Surround him!’
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Then was seen a sight most marvellous: the lone hero of the Vṛṣṇis, surrounded by a host like a sea of men, standing unmoved as a mountain peak resists the storm.
He loosed his arrows like serpents of fire, and the multitude fell like dry leaves in wind.
The field shone red with blood and gold,
With broken wheels and banners rolled;
Elephants huge as mountains died,
And horses fell with shattered pride.
The carcasses of tuskers, their heads cleft and mail torn, lay strewn like hills split by thunder. Sātyaki’s shafts pierced steeds of every breed—Vānāyu, Kāmboja, and Vālhika alike—and cut down foot-soldiers by the thousand, born from many lands and tongues.
Seeing their flight, Duḥśāsana shouted angrily,
“Fight, ye cowards! Stand your ground!”
But they heeded him not. Enraged, he turned to the mountain tribes, saying—
“Ye dwellers of the heights, ye who hurl stones as others hurl arrows—
now is your hour! The Sātvata knows not your art.
Rush upon him! Hurl down death! He cannot reach you!”
Obeying his call, the Khaśas, Tāṅgaṇas, Daradas, Lampākas, and Pulindas,
uplifted stones as large as elephants’ heads and advanced roaring toward Sātyaki,
while others, armed with lances and swords, closed in from every side.
But the grandson of Sini, calm as the sky before storm, strung his bow and loosed showers of keen shafts that glittered like serpents in flight. Each stone that hurtled down was cut mid-air into splinters; and the fragments fell blazing like meteors among their ranks, crushing men and beasts in their descent.
Stones met arrows, sparks met flame,
Till earth and air became the same;
Blood and dust and thunder’s cry—
A storm of death beneath the sky.
Five hundred mountaineers fell with their arms lopped off, stones still clutched in severed hands. Then a thousand, then a hundred thousand more, dropped lifeless beneath his rain of fire. The survivors fled shrieking, but some, driven by pride, returned and cast their weapons again.
Their stones, their blades, their javelins— all were shorn to dust by Sātyaki’s whetted shafts. The air was filled with the crash of shattered rock; elephants fled in panic, men and horses reeled as if stung by hornets. The few elephants that yet lived, their heads split and temples bleeding, turned tail and fled bellowing from Yuyudhāna’s wrath.
The roar of thy routed host rose then like the ocean at full tide. Hearing that tumult, Droṇa said to his driver—
“That warrior of the Sātvata line is tearing our army to shreds!
Drive toward the sound of battle—
Yuyudhāna rages like Time himself.
See how our men, weaponless and wounded,
are trampled by their own mad steeds!”
But the charioteer replied—
“O Brāhmaṇa of mighty vows, the Kaurava troops are in flight!
The Pāñcālas and the sons of Pāṇḍu rush upon us from every side.
Decide, O preceptor—shall we turn to meet Sātyaki,
or hold against the oncoming Pāṇḍavas?
Behold, the grandson of Sini is far ahead!”
Even as he spoke, Yuyudhāna came into view, his bow a blazing wheel,
slaughtering warriors by the hundred.
Thy troops, driven like leaves before the storm,
fled towards Droṇa’s division,
and those that had followed Duḥśāsana
joined them in terror,
their arms weary, their hearts undone,
while the Vṛṣṇi hero still shone afar—
solitary, invincible, and radiant as the midday sun.”
Sañjaya said—
Beholding Duḥśāsana’s car draw near, the son of Bharadvāja spoke, his words sharp as barbs: “Why flee, O prince? Is the king unhurt? Lives the Sindhu-lord? Thou who once vaunted in the dice-hall—calling Kṛṣṇā slave, scorning the sons of Pāṇḍu—why turnest thou now from one Sātvata alone? The dice thou fondled became serpents; their fangs are in thy host. If thy heart bends to flight, then yield the earth to Dharma’s son and sue for peace before Pārtha’s shafts—snakes shed of slough—enter thy breast. Yet if thou art Kuru-born indeed, wheel back and stand; without thee this army melts.”
Thus stung, Duḥśāsana answered not, but urged on a mass of Mleccha warriors and rushed at Sātyaki, while Droṇa himself, wrath-enkindled, moved with measured speed upon the Pañchālas and Pāṇḍavas. Entering their press, the preceptor proclaimed his name and hewed down companies by hundreds.
Pride once tossed in a gambler’s hand,
Returns as iron across the land;
The word that curdled dharma’s stream
Comes back a shaft with poisoned gleam.
Viraketu, young lion of Pañchāla, sprang first—five straight shafts at Droṇa, one to his banner, seven to his charioteer. Marvellous it seemed that the aged master could not at once draw near. The Pañchālas ringed him, loosing fiery darts and lances. Droṇa’s arrows, many and manifold, swept their storm aside as wind drives riven cloud; then, bow full-drawn, he launched a sun-bright shaft that passed through Viraketu’s breast and bit the earth red as flame. The prince fell like a campaka torn from a mountain ledge.
Chitraketu, Sudhanvan, Citravarman, Citraratha—four princes, grief-maddened—closed like monsoon squalls. Struck from every quarter, the Brahmana-bull gathered his wrath; his shafts bewildered their senses, then shore away drivers, steeds, and cars; last, with razor heads, he took their crowns like flowers from a bough. They dropped upon the dust like Dānavas at the gods’ first dawn of victory.
Four bright helms fell in a row,
Like moons unstrung from night’s dark bow;
The bow of gold in Droṇa’s hand
Sang ruthlessness across the land.
Dhṛṣṭadyumna beheld his kinsmen fall; tears burned in the fire-born’s eyes. He stormed upon Droṇa and wrapped him in a woven rain of arrows. The teacher, smiling, endured; but when the Pañchāla prince, rage-lifted, drove barbs into his chest, Bharadvāja’s son swooned upon the terrace of his car. Seeing him loll senseless, Dhṛṣṭadyumna flung aside his bow, leapt to Droṇa’s chariot with sword upraised—his gaze red to sever vow and life at once.
But Droṇa woke like fire from embers. In close-press measure he plucked short-span shafts—arrows for grappled war that only he well knew—and, loosing them point-blank, bit the fire-born hard. Dhṛṣṭadyumna sprang back to his own car, seized again his great bow; the duel renewed—teacher and destined slayer coursing the field in spirals, each clouding earth and sky with arrows, each rending the other’s mail.
Two thunderheads in season meet,
And heaven groans beneath their beat;
The bowstrings’ chant, the chariot’s glide—
A storm where will and weapons ride.
Then Droṇa, keen and quick, plucked down the head of Dhṛṣṭadyumna’s charioteer; the steeds, masterless, fled bearing the fire-born far from the press. Seizing the moment, the unsurpassed archer broke the Pañchāla–Śṛñjaya ranks once more, and, Pandus checked, returned to hold the Kuru gate of war. The sons of Pāṇḍu, beholding the teacher blaze again, ventured not to force his stand.
Dharma’s tide still seeks its course,
Yet meets the elder’s iron force;
Fate delays but does not fade—
The hour walks on through smoke and blade.
Sañjaya said—
Meanwhile, O King, Duḥśāsana rushed against the grandson of Sini, his bow singing like a storm-wind, his shafts falling like monsoon rain. Thousands of arrows poured from his hands, shrouding the firmament, as if a thundercloud burst upon the field.
Piercing Sātyaki with threescore shafts and then with sixteen more, the prince found that hero unmoved—
for Yuyudhāna stood firm as Maināka, unshaken by wind or wave. Surrounded by warriors from many lands, Duḥśāsana roared aloud, his voice deep as rumbling clouds. But when Sātyaki advanced, radiant as lightning, his arrows blazed forth, veiling the Kaurava’s van like mist before dawn.
Those that led Duḥśāsana’s charge turned and fled in terror under the arrow-rain, while the Kaurava prince, alone and wrath-inflamed, held his ground, striking fiercely. He smote Sātyaki’s steeds with four arrows, his charioteer with three, and the Vrishni hero himself with a hundred keen shafts, and uttered a great roar of triumph.
Then Sātyaki, blazing like the sun at dawn, hid Duḥśāsana—his chariot, banner, driver, and very form—within a storm of straight arrows.
As a spider with silken threads
Enmeshes the gnat that near it treads,
So Yuyudhāna’s shafts entwined
The son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s fevered mind.
Seeing his brother’s plight, Duryodhana cried aloud and loosed upon Sātyaki the Trigarta host—three thousand fierce car-warriors sworn to die rather than retreat. They rushed like waves upon a rock.
But Yuyudhāna met them with wrath.
In the first crash of battle he struck down five hundred of their chiefs; his arrows fell thick as locusts in the sun, and warriors toppled like trees torn from cliffs by tempest.
The field shone red—strewn with mangled elephants, shattered standards, and golden trappings soaked in blood. It glimmered, O King, like a grove of kiṃśuka trees in bloom. The Trigartas broke and fled, sinking as elephants sink in mire; those that lived turned toward Droṇa’s car, seeking refuge as snakes fleeing Garuḍa’s wings.
Having slain that vanguard, the Sātvata pressed on slowly toward Arjuna’s path. But as he went, Duḥśāsana, stung with shame, shot nine sharp arrows that struck the hero’s breast.
Unmoved, Sātyaki replied with five keen shafts, feathered with gold and vulture-plume, and smiled. Duḥśāsana laughed in turn, sending eight more; yet the Vrishni’s bow flashed again, five arrows biting his foe’s armour and cutting his bowstring clean.
Mad with rage, the Kaurava prince hurled a dart of iron, heavy and barbed. But Sātyaki’s arrow severed it mid-air, its halves falling harmless. Taking up a new bow, Duḥśāsana pierced him once more and roared defiantly— till Sātyaki, his eyes aflame, loosed shafts that struck his chest like fire.
Eight iron arrows, each keen as flame-tongues, sank into Duḥśāsana’s mail. The Kaurava answered with twenty,
but Yuyudhāna’s next three found his heart. Then, with swift precision, the Sātvata slew his steeds, his charioteer, and cut his bow once more.
With a broad-headed shaft he sheared away the prince’s hand-guard,
with two more he struck down his banner and splintered his chariot-frame,
and with many swift arrows he slew both rear guards that shielded him.
Carless, bowless, driverless, Duḥśāsana stood alone amid ruin— till the Trigarta chief took him upon his car and bore him from the field.
Sātyaki raised his bow to strike again—then stayed his hand, remembering Bhīmasena’s oath sworn in the assembly hall:
“By these hands will I slay all Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s sons in battle.”
So the Vrishni hero spared the fleeing prince. Having vanquished Duḥśāsana utterly, he turned once more upon the crimson plain and advanced along Arjuna’s track, his golden chariot rolling like a sun-disc through the smoke of war, while the cries of the routed Kauravas faded behind him.”