Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 3 - Jayadhratha-Vadha Parva - Chapter 11 - Yudhiṣṭhira’s Worry for Sātyaki

Dhṛtarāṣṭra said—

“O Sañjaya, were there no heroes among my sons’ vast array who could check or slay that lion of the Vṛṣṇis, Sātyaki, as he sped toward Arjuna?

Alone, he seemed as Indra among the Dānavas, scattering my legions as wind scatters clouds.

Or was his path empty, the ranks fled before his face?

Alas, that one man has crushed countless warriors!

Tell me, O Sañjaya, by what miracle the grandson of Sini passed through my army, fierce and struggling in its wrath?”

Sañjaya said—

“O King, the tumult of that battle, where elephants, steeds, and men clashed together, was like the convulsion of the world’s end. Thy host, mustered beneath Droṇa’s eye, shone vast as the ocean at flood, and the gods themselves, beholding it, said—

‘This, indeed, is the last great muster upon earth.’

Never, O Bharata, had there been such an array as Droṇa formed on that day of Jayadratha’s doom. The noise of warriors rushing in wrath, of conchs and drums and neighing steeds, of wheels and shouts, was like the roaring sea lashed by tempest.

Steel flashed like lightning,

Banners burned like flame,

The sky was lost in arrows’ rain,

The earth forgot its name.

Then the sons of Pāṇḍu and the Panchāla chiefs, beholding Arjuna and Kṛṣṇa vanish into the enemy’s sea, raised their voices aloud:

‘Strike! Advance!

Make way for Dhanañjaya and the Dark-Hued Lord!

Tear open this ocean of Kauravas as wind cleaves cloud.

If Sātyaki and Arjuna fall, all is lost.

If they prevail, the sun of victory shall rise.’

So cried Bhīma, Dhṛṣṭadyumna, Yudhiṣṭhira, Nakula, and Sahadeva, urging their men who, reckless of life, fought like spirits seeking heaven through death. Each warrior, in fiery zeal, smote the foe with a smile, glory his only breath.

Thy soldiers too, O King, proud and resolute, met them in equal fury, eager for fame, scorning to retreat.

There, in that fierce encounter, Sātyaki—unbaffled in prowess—vanquished all who opposed him and pressed onward toward Arjuna.

The light of the sun fell on the flashing armour of kings and steeds until men turned their eyes away, blinded by the blaze.

Meanwhile, Duryodhana, resolute and fearless, pierced through the Pandava ranks like an elephant charging through reeds. His arrows fell thick as rain, smiting down men and beasts.

Beholding this, the Panchālas and Bhīmasena rushed together to meet him. Then Duryodhana, like a whirlwind of steel, struck Bhīma with ten arrows, each twin with three, and king Yudhiṣṭhira with seven; Virāṭa and Drupada with six; Śikhaṇḍin with a hundred; Dhṛṣṭadyumna with twenty; and the five sons of Draupadī each with three.

His bow bent like a golden wheel,

His shafts fell fast as hail;

The earth grew red beneath his heel,

And heroes waned and pale.

With unbroken motion he drew and loosed, his bow forever arched into a circle of light. But Yudhiṣṭhira, calm and firm, cut that bow in twain with two keen shafts and smote Duryodhana with ten more. Yet those arrows, striking the Kaurava’s mail, broke like reeds on iron.

Then the sons of Pāṇḍu surrounded their brother, praising him as the gods once praised Indra when he felled Vṛtra.

But Duryodhana, seizing another bow, shouted “Wait, O son of Dharma!” and rushed again to combat. Seeing him advance, the Panchālas, elated, pressed forward in hope of victory. Droṇa, swift to rescue his king, moved against them, like a mountain fronting storm-laden clouds.

There the clash of gods and demons seemed renewed,

The ground ran crimson,

And the cries of battle rose like Rudra’s laughter at the end of time.

Beyond, where Arjuna thundered through the host, an uproar greater still was heard—deeper, vaster, shaking the earth and heart alike.

So raged three fires at once upon the field: Arjuna’s at the front, Sātyaki’s within the host, and Droṇa’s at the gate of the array.

Each blazed apart, yet their flames were one—

The burning of the Kuru world beneath the sun.

Sañjaya said—

In the afternoon, O King, when the sun’s disk reddened like a wound, Droṇa, mounted on red-maned steeds, advanced with measured wrath. The son of Bharadvāja, might in a pot-born frame, sported amid death—his keen, gold-feathered shafts cutting down foremost warriors of the Somakas, as though he culled dry reeds along a riverbank.

Then Vṛhatkṣatra, eldest of the Kaikeya five, irresistible, hurled a dark monsoon of arrows upon the preceptor, like Gandhamādana taking rain. Droṇa, anger awakened, answered with fifteen stone-whetted shafts; the Kaikeya prince, smiling, cut each one with five of his own. The Kuru ranks murmured in wonder to see such hand and eye. Droṇa applauded the youth and summoned the Brahma-weapon; the Kaikeya, steadfast, loosed a Brahma-weapon to meet it, and the two radiances cancelled like suns in opposing mirrors. Then Vṛhatkṣatra struck with sixty iron hearts; Droṇa, serpent-swift, drove a single dreadful shaft through corslet and flesh, down into the earth—like a black cobra entering an anthill. The prince swayed, eyes rolling, and fell from his car like a felled champaka.

Steel spoke where counsel failed,

Boons met in burning light;

Brahma’s edge on Brahma’s edge—

Fate chose the elder’s right.

The son of Śiśupāla, Dṛṣṭaketu of the Cedis, rose blazing with resolve: “Drive to Droṇa!” he cried, and came on with Kāmboja steeds. Sixty arrows smote the master—car, steeds, and banner shivered—then more, as one who pokes a sleeping tiger. Droṇa’s razor-head severed the Cedi’s bow in its middle. Another bow leapt to the prince’s hand; peacock-feathered flights struck true; Droṇa slew his four steeds with four clean darts, lopped down the charioteer’s head, plucked banner and umbrella from the sky, and pierced the Cedi in the chest. Dṛṣṭaketu leapt earthward with a mace like adamant and whirled Death toward the Brahmana; a cloud of barbed flame shredded it to glittering dust. A lance flew—cut in five; a gold-bright dart—hewn to sparks. Then one long, low shaft from the teacher’s hand slid through armour and heart and buried itself in the blooded soil, like a swan vanishing in lotus water. The Cedi fell; his son, weapon-wise, leapt forward to bear his father’s burden—Droṇa smiled and sent him after, as a forest-tiger takes the tender deer.

O fire-born rage, O filial vow—

The bowstring’s breath was brief;

Where wisdom walks with iron hand,

Love melts like morning leaf.

Jarāsandha’s mighty son next cloaked Droṇa in a thicket of shafts, sun blotted by cloud. The grinder of Kṣatriyas answered with hundreds and thousands, and the Magadhan prince sank before him in sight of all. Then Droṇa proclaimed his name and made a net of arrows over the Pandava ranks—men, elephants, steeds fell in heaps; on each shaft the engraver had cut the teacher’s name, as if Fate itself inscribed the hour.

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Pañchāla hearts shivered; a long moan rose like winter from a chilled herd. Scorched by sun, seared by steel, the Somakas felt their thighs caught by unseen crocodiles; they called upon the Cedis, Śṛñjayas, Kāśis, and Kosalas, who rushed crying, “Droṇa is slain! Droṇa is slain!” They fell upon him with all their might—he sent the forest-chiefs of Cedi to Yama’s hall with orderly shafts, and the rest in terror reeled back.

When a Brahmana’s tapas burns,

The mail of kings is straw;

His gaze a sacrificial flame,

His arrows Vedic law.

Kṣatradharman, the fire-born’s own son, hearing the lament, remembered kṣatra-dharma and with a crescent shard cut Droṇa’s strung bow. The old lion took a tougher bow, drew to the ear a rank-breaking dart, and the prince fell transfixed—the earth drank an heir.

Chekitāna of the Vṛṣṇis charged, lodging ten in the master’s frame and one deep in his chest; four in the driver; four in each bright steed. Droṇa’s answering storm tore Chekitāna’s right arm, riddled his standard, slew the charioteer; the steeds bolted, dragging the empty car. Around that whirling wreck the Pañchālas faltered; Droṇa routed them on every side, dark of skin, white of hair, eighty-five years upon him, yet circling like a youth of sixteen. Enemies, beholding his fearlessness, thought Indra himself had come with vajra in his hand.

Age is ash upon the brow,

Yet youth is fire within;

Where vow and weapon fuse as one,

Time’s teeth cannot begin.

Then Drupada, king and father, grief-tempered, spoke: “Like a hungry tiger he slaughters the Kṣatriyas. For Duryodhana’s sin this earth is strewn with mangled bulls—food for dogs and jackals. This wicked covetousness will cast him into miserable worlds.” And the king of Pañchāla, commander of an Akṣauhiṇī, placed the Pārthas at his fore and rushed like a river in spate toward the preceptor.

Rise, O sons of Dharma’s line,

Where yajña-fire meets storm;

Stand as mountain, strike as thunder—

Let justice take its form.

Thus, O Monarch, in that reddening hour, Droṇa’s bow wrote ruin upon the Somakas; yet Drupada’s cry gathered the Pāṇḍavas again for the gate where destiny itself stood waiting.

Sañjaya said—

When the army of the Pāṇḍavas was shaken on all sides, when the Pāñcālas and Somakas reeled back like waves struck by storm, then arose a battle dreadful as the twilight of Time’s end. Droṇa’s lion-roars resounded above the clash of arms, and his shafts fell thick as rain from monsoon clouds. The sons of Pṛthā were driven afar, their hearts sinking as the teacher’s fury grew unbridled.

Then Yudhiṣṭhira the Just,

bereft of refuge amidst that storm of steel,

looked to every quarter for Savyasāchin—

but nowhere saw he the ape-bannered one,

nor Keśava, nor the white horses that shone like the moon.

He heard not the deep note of Gāṇḍīva.

His heart quailed; his brow burned;

the earth itself seemed void of light.

“Where art thou, Dhanañjaya?

Where is that roar of bowstring that shakes the worlds?

Hath night fallen upon dharma’s house,

or hath the sun of the Kurus set?”

Not seeing also the banner of Sātyaki, his faithful friend of the Vṛṣṇis, Yudhiṣṭhira’s mind grew doubly torn.

He thought:

“Sātyaki, the lion of the Sātvatas,

my comrade in danger, my pillar in war,

I sent him after Arjuna through the churning sea of Droṇa’s host.

If aught befalls him, who shall not reproach me?

Shall men not say:

‘The son of Dharma inquired only for his brother,

but left the Vrishni hero to his fate’?

Love binds me to both alike—

to Arjuna of the Gāṇḍīva,

and to Yuyudhāna of the golden heart.

Yet both are gone into the serpent’s coil.

I must send another in their wake—

and who else but Bhīma, my fortress and my wrath?

The son of the Wind can bear the weight of mountains;

he can strike down hosts as the tempest smites forests.

By his arms we returned from exile;

by his strength we have never known defeat.

Let Bhīma go forth—

for where he stands, no shadow of fear can dwell.”

Having resolved thus, the son of Dharma spoke to his charioteer:

“Take me to Bhīma.”

The gold-decked car rolled through dust and blood to the lion-hearted son of Pāṇḍu.

The king, grief-heavy and trembling like a stricken tree,

stood before Bhīma and said with tear-dimmed eyes—

“O Bhīma, I see not the banner of that Arjuna who alone vanquished gods, Gandharvas, and Asuras. The blast of Pāñcajanya rolls across the field— and methinks Keśava blows it in wrath above his fallen friend. Surely, Dhanañjaya lieth slain, and Vāsudeva wars alone.

The world stood upon his strength—

he was our refuge as the gods in peril call to thousand-eyed Indra.

He went forth to find Jayadratha,

but returneth not.

Dark of hue, broad of chest,

long-armed as the elephant,

of copper eyes and the gait of a king of beasts—

that brother of thine, Bhīma,

even his loss consumes me like fire fed by ghee.

Nor do I see the standard of Sātyaki. Surely he too hath fallen, that lion-hearted Satwata who went for my sake into the track no mortal may tread. Go then, O son of Kuntī, if thou deemest it thy dharma. Seek out the two Kṛṣṇas and the noble Yuyudhāna. If thou findest them living, let thy roar proclaim it across the field, that I may know joy again.”

Bhīmasena, hearing those sorrow-fraught words, bowed low before his elder and replied with fire in his voice:

“Never before, O King, have I seen thy spirit so cast down.

When grief touched us in the past, thou wast our beacon.

Rise, son of Dharma!

Command me!

There is nothing I cannot do.

Bid me strike, and I shall move as thunder obeys the storm.”

Then, sighing like a serpent roused, Yudhiṣṭhira answered softly—

“Remember, Bhīma, he is our brother,

yet Sātyaki is no less dear.

Go to them—

where the lion’s roar of Keśava and Arjuna mingles with battle’s cry.

Behold them safe,

and let thy voice proclaim it to me—

a leonine roar that shakes the heart of grief.”

So spoke the son of Dharma, and Bhīmasena, tightening his armour, bowed and raised his great bow in vow. The earth quaked beneath his step as he departed, following the fiery path of Arjuna and Sātyaki through the blood-red plain where destiny still awaited its hour.

Sañjaya said:

When the two Kṛṣṇas—Kṛṣṇa Vāsudeva and Kṛṣṇa Dhanañjaya—had mounted that celestial car which once bore Brahmā, Īśāna, Indra, and Varuṇa to battle, Bhīmasena, son of the Wind-god, spoke to the king.

“That chariot, O King, which once carried the lords of heaven, bears them now.

They can meet no peril. Yet, taking thy command upon my head, I go forth.

Grieve not. When I have met those tigers among men, I shall return with tidings.”

Having spoken thus, the mighty Bhīma bowed to his brother and began his preparations. He entrusted Yudhiṣṭhira to the care of Dhṛṣṭadyumna and the princes of the Pāñcālas.

Turning to the son of Pṛṣata, he said:

“Thou knowest well, O mighty-armed one, how Drona seeks ever to seize our king.

I cannot rank my duty to hasten to Arjuna above the guarding of Yudhiṣṭhira.

Yet the king commands me—his word is law.

Therefore I go, leaving him in thy protection.

Of all tasks today, none is higher than this—shield the son of Dharma from the preceptor’s snare.”

Dhṛṣṭadyumna replied with firm voice:

“I shall do as thou hast said, O son of Pṛthā.

Go without fear. So long as I live, Drona shall not humble the king.”

Then Bhīma, bowing low, took his elder’s blessings.

Yudhiṣṭhira embraced him, placed his hand upon Bhīma’s head, and uttered auspicious words. The son of the Wind circumambulated the Brahmanas, made offerings, touched sacred articles of good omen, and drank Kairātaka honey. His strength seemed to double; his eyes, reddened like copper, blazed with the fury of battle. Favourable omens flashed around him—winds from the right whispered triumph, and banners trembled joyfully in the air.

As he stood upon his chariot, clad in shining mail, there burst again the thunder of Pañcajanya. The sound rolled across the heavens, shaking the quarters of the world.

Hearing it, Yudhiṣṭhira spoke anxiously:

“There, the Vrishni hero blows his conch in wrath.

That lord of shells fills earth and sky with terror.

Surely Arjuna, hemmed in by peril, battles now beside Mādhava.

O Bhīma, go swiftly! For my heart sees only emptiness till I behold them both.”

Obedient to his elder’s word, Bhīma grasped his bow. He blew his own conch in reply and roared like a lion. Drums thundered, and the hearts of the Kurus trembled.

“Like the storm-wind breaking through cloud and forest,

He rushed, terrible as Death himself;

The red of his banner shone like flame,

His chariot’s wheels sang like thunder.”

Visoka held the reins of those steeds—swift as thought, neighing like clouds in tempest. Behind Bhīma followed the warriors of the Pāñcālas and Somakas, even as the gods follow Maghavat in battle.

Then came Duhśāsana and Citraseṇa, Kundabhedin and Vivinsati, Durmukha and Duhśaha, Vinda and Anuvinda, Sala and Sudarśana, and many others of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s sons. With banners unfurled and hearts inflamed, they surrounded Bhīma like wolves about a lion.

He gazed upon them—his eyes red as the rising sun—and rushed forward, scattering them with arrows like a tempest hurling stones upon a mountain.

“The air grew dark with shafts like rain,

Yet through that storm his chariot came;

His bowstring sang, his anger flamed,

The sons of Kuru fled in shame.”

He broke through their host and fell upon Drona’s division, rending the ranks of elephants before him. His arrows struck the beasts till they fled screaming like deer at the roar of a Śarabha. Swiftly he crossed that ground and came before Drona himself.

Then Drona, smiling, stopped him as the continent stays the surging sea. He struck Bhīma on the brow with a shining arrow, and the son of Pāṇḍu glowed like the sun with rays upturned.

Believing Bhīma might honour him as Arjuna had done, Drona said:

“O Bhīmasena, thou shalt not pass this host unless thou canst vanquish me.

The younger ones entered by my grace; but thou—thou shalt not succeed so.”

Wrathful, Bhīma answered:

“O false Brahmana! Think not Arjuna entered with thy leave.

He would break the host of Indra himself!

He honoured thee only as a son might honour a father.

But I, O Drona, am Bhīma—thy foe.

We held thee as father, preceptor, friend;

Yet if thou deemest thyself our enemy, so be it.

I shall act towards thee as toward a foe.”

Saying this, Bhīma whirled his mace like Yama’s rod and hurled it.

Drona leapt from his chariot, and the mighty weapon crushed the car, steeds, and standard into the earth. Rising upon another chariot, Drona resumed the fight, while Bhīma, roaring again, scattered his sons.

Duhśāsana, inflamed with rage, cast a sharp iron dart, but Bhīma clove it in twain mid-flight—a marvel to behold. Then, with swift shafts, he slew Kundabhedin, Sushena, and Dirghanetra; next Vrindāraka, Abhaya, Raudrakarman, and Durvimochana—all sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra.

“They fell like trees beneath the storm,

Their banners torn, their trumpets dumb;

The earth grew red, the heavens dim,

And Bhīma’s laughter rolled through war.”

Seeing their brethren slain, the remaining princes closed in, pouring arrows thick as rain upon the mountain of Bhīma. Yet he stood unshaken. Smiling, he slew Vinda, Anuvinda, Suvarman, and Sudarśana, felling them like stars from the sky.