novelraw Arc 3 - Jayadhratha-Vadha Parva - Chapter 12 - Karna Retreats from Bhima
Arc 3 - Jayadhratha-Vadha Parva - Chapter 12 - Karna Retreats from Bhima
Soon the Kaurava ranks broke and fled, their hearts consumed by fear.
The mighty Bhīma pursued them, slaying as he went, and the field echoed with his roars and the thunder of his palms upon his arms. Frightened warriors scattered like deer before the storm, and through the chaos he drove on toward Drona’s line, radiant as the blazing fire of dissolution.
Thus, O King, the son of Vāyu, terrible in wrath, cleft through thy army like a comet tearing the night sky. The sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra fled from him as darkness flies the dawn. His shouts shook the firmament; the chariot of Bhīma blazed like a mountain of fire moving through a sea of trembling men.
Sañjaya said—
When Bhīmasena had burst through that sea of chariots, Droṇa, smiling in his craft, loosed upon him a thousand shafts, drenching the air with fire. Bhīma, roaring like a storm, drank those arrows as rain upon a mountain. Then, calling on illusion as his veil, he bewildered the Kaurava host and rushed upon the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra. Urged by fear, many kings—each a master of the bow—pressed in upon him at their command.
But Bhīma only laughed, and with a cry that shook the sky, he lifted a mace of adamant, bright as Indra’s thunderbolt. With a whirl of might, he hurled it upon the foe. That mace—flaming, shrieking, flashing like a bolt of lightning—crashed through chariots, steeds, and men alike. The earth itself trembled at its sound. Warriors fled before it; some fell senseless where they stood, others dropped lifeless from their cars. In terror of that weapon’s roar, the Kaurava ranks broke as deer before a lion.
His mace was the wrath of heaven,
His arm, the rod of Time;
The ground he struck grew red with fear,
The air with battle’s chime.
Routing the Kauravas, Bhīma strode through them like Garuḍa tearing through clouds of serpents. Then Droṇa, son of Bharadvāja, came upon him once again, his bow singing like a swarm of bees. With arrow-rain he checked the Wind’s son and roared aloud—a sound that made the hearts of the Pāṇḍavas tremble. Between teacher and pupil the earth groaned, as gods and asuras had once clashed in the first war of the world. Droṇa’s shafts flew thick as rain upon a rock, and warriors fell in hundreds and thousands, slain by his tireless hand.
Then Bhīma, springing from his chariot, shut his eyes against the storm and ran forward on foot. Arrows pierced him like a river’s spray, but he advanced unshaken, grasped Droṇa’s car by its shaft, and with a shout heaved it up and flung it down upon the ground. The preceptor, light as thought, leapt aside and mounted another car, fleeing swiftly to the gate of the array.
That feat, O king, seemed a marvel even to the gods. Bhīma climbed again to his own car, his breath like thunder, his arms terrible as maces, and charged the host. Chariots splintered before him; trees of warriors were uprooted by his passing; the Bhoja divisions fell apart, and the Kāmbhojas too. The Mleccha hordes scattered like dust in the storm. Striking his palms and shouting his terrible cry, he broke through them all and came upon Sātyaki still battling at the front.
Then Bhīma, the lion of men, sped on—his heart set on seeing Dhanañjaya. He pierced through the waves of Kuru warriors and at last beheld Arjuna’s banner flashing like the sun in war. Beholding his brother amidst the slaughter of Jayadratha’s guard, Bhīma roared aloud; the earth answered, and the sky rolled with sound like thunder over oceans.
That roar reached Arjuna and Vāsudeva. Hearing the voice of Vṛkodara, both heroes shouted back in joy. Like twin bulls bellowing across the field, they called to each other through the din of death. Yudhiṣṭhira heard it too—the roar of Bhīma, the cry of Arjuna—and his heart found peace.
Two thunders met across the plain,
And hope was born anew;
The king, who feared the sun’s decline,
Saw dawn in battle’s hue.
Then, smiling faintly, the son of Dharma thought to himself—
“O Bhīma, thou hast done as thou didst vow; thy voice itself is victory. Fortunate is it that Arjuna yet lives—the lion who conquered Śakra, who slew the Nivātakavacas, who humbled the Kauravas at Virāṭa’s gate, who overthrew the Kalakeyas, who vanquished the Gandharvas for Duryodhana’s sake. Fortunate that Sātyaki too endures, and Keśava, the soul of all, still breathes.
By thy cry, O Bhīma, I know they live. That bow which subdues the three worlds still sings; that chariot with white steeds and golden diadem still rides the field.
Will Arjuna, burning with grief for Abhimanyu, fulfil his vow before the sun descends? Will the Sindhu king fall beneath his hand? And will Duryodhana, beholding his slain ally, seek peace at last?”
So pondered Yudhiṣṭhira, his heart divided between hope and pity, while around him the storm of battle still howled—Bhīma thundering through Droṇa’s host, Arjuna advancing upon Jayadratha, and the day racing toward its fated end.
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:
“When the mighty Bhīmasena, O Sanjaya, uttered those shouts—deep as thunder, terrible as bursting clouds—what heroes of our host stood around him? I behold not, in the three worlds, one who can withstand the son of Vāyu when his wrath is kindled.
Who, bearing love for my son Duryodhana, dared to stand before Bhīma—Death himself in human form—armed with his mace, destroying a car with a car and an elephant with an elephant?
Who faced that storm of slaughter, that fire which consumed my sons as a forest-conflagration devours dry grass?
I fear not Arjuna so much, nor Keśava, nor Sātyaki, nor the fire-born son of Drupada, as I fear Bhīmasena. Tell me, O Sanjaya, what heroes dared to rush against that blazing conflagration, Bhīma, while he consumed my sons like the fire of Time?”
Sañjaya said:
“At the roaring of Bhīmasena, Vikartana’s son Karṇa, unable to endure the sound, rushed forth, stringing his bow with violence and uttering a cry like a lion’s challenge. Standing before the Pandava like a mountain before the wind, he checked Bhīma’s course and shone like a tall tree defying the tempest.
Then the wrath of Bhīma blazed forth; his eyes flamed red, and he showered arrows keen-edged and whetted on stone upon Karṇa. The Sūta’s son received them on his mail and answered with his own volley.
When the clash of their palms and bowstrings resounded, the limbs of all warriors trembled—car-fighters, horsemen, and footmen alike.
The roars of Bhīma filled the field, shaking earth and sky together. Bows dropped from the hands of heroes; steeds neighed in terror and voided fear; elephants shrieked and fled, while birds of prey circled ominously in the blood-red sky.”
“Thunder clashed upon thunder,
Bow met bow in storming flame;
The wind was filled with Bhīma’s roar—
And terror seized the host of fame.”
Then Karṇa pierced Bhīma with twenty shafts and struck Visoka, his charioteer, with five. But Bhīma, smiling in fury, answered with four and sixty arrows that flew like lightning. Karṇa retaliated with four keen shafts, but Bhīma, with flawless aim, cut them into fragments mid-flight, showing the lightness of his hand.
Then Karṇa veiled his foe beneath a dense rain of arrows.
Bhīma, unmoved, cut off his bow at the handle and pierced him with ten straight shafts. The Sūta’s son, undaunted, took another bow and struck Bhīma on the breast with shafts that hissed like serpents.
The son of Pāṇḍu then, seizing his great bow, struck Karṇa thrice upon the chest. Blood flowed from those wounds like streams of red chalk upon a mountain’s breast, and Karṇa shone still more radiant—terrible, beautiful, and wrathful, like a hill of gold tinged crimson at sunset.
“Blood like rivers down him rolled,
Arrows gleamed like mountain peaks;
The earth beneath their fury shook,
The sky grew dim, the daylight weak.”
Agitated but not broken, Karṇa fixed a new arrow and pierced Bhīma again, then showered shafts by hundreds and thousands. But Bhīma, smiling, cut the bowstring with a single arrow and, with a broad-headed shaft, struck down Karṇa’s charioteer—sending him to Yama’s abode. Then he slew the four steeds of Karṇa, leaving his foe’s chariot shattered.
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The son of Radha leapt down quickly and mounted the car of his son Vṛṣasena.
Thus vanquished by Bhīma, Karṇa trembled like a mountain smitten by the storm, while the mighty son of Pāṇḍu roared—a sound deep as the thunder of the clouds.
Hearing that roar, Yudhiṣṭhira’s heart swelled with joy, knowing that Bhīma had overcome Karṇa. The Pāṇḍava host, exultant, blew their conches from every side. Arjuna twanged his great bow, and Keśava sounded the Pañcajanya, but all those sounds were drowned beneath the single, dreadful roar of Bhīmasena.
“The conchs of heroes filled the sky,
But Bhīma’s voice rose mightier still;
As thunder drowns the storm-bird’s cry,
So roared the son of Pāṇḍu’s will.”
Then again the two mighty warriors met—Karna and Bhīma—each striking the other with straight shafts. Yet, O King, mark the difference!
The son of Radha, though skilled and strong, shot his arrows with measure and restraint; but Bhīmasena, urged by fury, sped his like the bolts of Indra—swift, unerring, and filled with the fire of vengeance.
Thus, O Dhṛtarāṣṭra, did Bhīma’s roar shake the Kurus’ heart, and thus did Karṇa, pride of the Sūtas, bow before his might for that moment on the field of destiny.
Sañjaya said:
After the Kuru army had been broken and scattered, while Arjuna and Bhīmasena sped like flames toward the Sindhu king, thy son, Duryodhana, turned his chariot toward Droṇa. His heart burned with wrath and shame, and yet, in its depths, he pondered duty and fate.
His single car, driven like the wind, flashed through the wreckage of battle until he reached the preceptor, whose bow still shone with unspent fire.
With eyes red like embers, Duryodhana spoke:
“O grinder of foes!
Arjuna, Bhīmasena, and the unvanquished Sātyaki—
those heroes have pierced through our ranks
and reached Jayadratha.
O foremost of Brahmanas,
thou who art the ocean of arms,
how hast thou been passed—
by Satwata, by Arjuna, by Bhīma?
Men whisper in wonder,
‘How could Droṇa, master of war, be overcome?’
Their words sting me like poison,
and despair rises like smoke in my breast.
The great sea itself seems drained of water—
such is thy defeat, O teacher of heroes.
Yet what is past is past.
Tell me what remains to be done!
The stake before us is Jayadratha;
speak the counsel by which he may be saved!”
Droṇa replied in grave voice, his brow calm as the sky before the storm:
“Listen, O king of men,
to words born of thought and experience.
Only three warriors among the Pāṇḍavas have passed me—
Arjuna, Bhīma, and Sātyaki.
The danger before us equals the peril behind;
yet the greater fear lies where Keśava and Dhanañjaya stand.
The army is assailed in front and rear—
a tide of fate surging from both directions.
Therefore, our foremost task is clear:
the protection of Jayadratha.”
Droṇa then turned his gaze upon the field, his voice deepening as he spoke words heavy with destiny:
“Afraid of Arjuna’s vow, the Sindhu king stands
like a deer trapped in the hunter’s snare.
Yuyudhāna and Bhīma have gone against him—
warriors who shake even the gods.
Know, O king, that all this ruin is born
from that deceitful game of dice
which Śakuni once conceived.
In that hall of play no victory was gained,
no defeat endured.
Now, in this vast gaming-board of war,
we shall win or perish.
Those ivory dice once thrown by Śakuni— they were not dice but arrows, sharp, fatal, and ordained to drink the blood of kings.”
Then the preceptor’s tone grew solemn, as though he uttered a mantra:
“Here the warriors are the players;
the arrows, the dice;
and Jayadratha, O monarch,
the stake for which the game is cast.
Reckless of life itself,
let all men protect the Sindhu lord,
for upon this single throw
hangs the fortune of the Kuru race.”
Having spoken thus, Droṇa raised his hand in command:
“Go thou swiftly, O Duryodhana,
to where Jayadratha stands guarded by our best.
Protect the protectors!
I shall remain here
to hold the line and send reinforcements
against the Pāñcālas and the sons of Pāṇḍu.
There, at the gate of fate,
our victory or destruction shall be decided.”
Thus commanded, Duryodhana, resolute and fierce, sped forth with his followers.
At that very time, the two Pāñcāla princes—Yudhamanyu and Uttamaujas—those guardians of Arjuna’s chariot-wheels, were advancing along the fringes of the Kuru host.
Remember, O King, how earlier they had been checked by Kṛtavarman when Arjuna broke through the array. Now, seen again by Duryodhana, their chariots came like twin meteors. The Kuru prince, losing no moment, attacked them both in rage.
The clash was instant and furious.
Yudhamanyu pierced Duryodhana with twenty arrows and his steeds with four.
Duryodhana, unmoved, cut down his banner with a single shaft and then his bow with another. With a broad-headed arrow, he slew the prince’s charioteer, and with four swift shafts, he struck his horses down.
Yudhamanyu, enraged, shot thirty arrows straight into the Kuru king’s chest.
Then Uttamaujas, his brother, pierced Duryodhana’s charioteer with golden-tipped shafts, sending him also to Yama’s abode. The Kuru king retaliated fiercely, slaying the four steeds and both rear-guards of the Pāñcāla prince’s car.
Bereft of steeds and driver, Uttamaujas sprang onto Yudhamanyu’s chariot.
Together they struck Duryodhana’s steeds until they fell slain upon the earth. Then, with swift precision, Yudhamanyu cut off Duryodhana’s bow and suvarṇa-fenced armour with gleaming shafts.
The Kuru lord leapt down, mace in hand, his wrath blazing like Agni rising from a forest fire. The two princes, fearless, also sprang to the ground to meet him.
“Mace met mace,
and earth shook under foot;
gold-armoured heroes clashed like mountains;
their cries were thunder in the dusk.”
In that grim encounter, Duryodhana struck their chariot to the ground, crushing its golden frame, steeds, and standard with the might of his weapon.
Then, his own car lost, he mounted that of the Madra king—ever steadfast in battle—and sped away, resolved to reach the field where Jayadratha still awaited fate.
Meanwhile, the two Pāñcāla brothers, regaining new chariots, turned once more toward Arjuna, guarding his flanks as the sun guards its light.
Thus, O King, thy son, impelled by both courage and fear, strove to stem the tide of destiny. Yet Droṇa’s words echoed like prophecy through the din of war:
“The players are warriors,
the arrows the dice,
and Jayadratha the stake.
Today, O King,
the game of death is cast—
and fate alone will claim the prize.”
Sañjaya said:
When that dreadful battle raged on, O King, making the hair stand on end, and all creatures trembled beneath its roar, the son of Rādha, that mighty car-warrior, advanced once more against Bhīmasena—like a maddened elephant rushing against another in the forest, each seeking to break the other’s tusks.
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:
“O Sanjaya, tell me truly—how raged the combat between those two lions among men?
Once before, Karṇa had been overthrown by Bhīmasena; how then could he face him again?
And how could Bhīma stand before Karṇa—the mighty archer, foremost of men, whose very presence strikes terror into warriors?
My son Yudhiṣṭhira fears him most of all.
He wakes at night thinking of Karṇa’s bow.
How then could Bhīma, fierce though he be,
Confront that hero who conquered the earth alone?
Karṇa, born with his golden earrings, endowed with divine armour, compassionate toward the Brāhmaṇas, and mindful of Kuntī’s words—how could he fight his own brother?
And Bhīma, remembering his humiliation in the hall and the laughter of the Sūta’s son, how could he not burn with wrath?
Tell me, O Sanjaya, who prevailed in that duel near Arjuna’s chariot? For my son’s hope rests upon Karṇa alone.”
Sañjaya said:
Leaving the field strewn with Duryodhana’s slain kin, Bhīmasena pressed onward toward Arjuna and Keśava. But Karṇa, perceiving him, wheeled his car and rained upon him a storm of arrows, as a monsoon cloud pours torrents upon a mountain peak.
The face of Rādha’s son, bright as a lotus in full bloom, glowed with a smile as he shouted his challenge:
“O Bhīma, dost thou flee toward Arjuna?
I deemed thee a warrior, yet thou showest me thy back!
Stay where thou art, son of Kuntī—
Prove by thy arrows the truth of thy name!”
The words stung Bhīma’s heart like fire. Turning his car, he faced Karṇa squarely, his bow flashing like lightning in a storm. The son of the Wind poured clouds of arrows upon his foe, striving to end the feud by Karṇa’s death.
“Arrow answered arrow;
Thunder answered thunder.
Two fires met,
Feeding on wrath and pride.”
Karna, the preceptor of weapons, smiled as he fought—calm, precise, consuming Bhīma’s shafts in midair. That mocking smile fanned the Pandava’s fury. His eyes blazed red, and drawing his bow to the ear, Bhīma struck Karṇa on the breast with countless shafts sharp as tiger’s teeth.
Again he loosed three-and-seventy arrows tipped with gold, each shaft hissing like a serpent and glinting like sunlight on mail. Karṇa, unperturbed, enveloped Bhīma in a cloud of returning shafts till neither car nor standard could be seen.
Then Karṇa pierced Bhīma’s mail with four-and-sixty arrows.
But Bhīma, unshaken, advanced through the storm, his wounds pouring blood like rivers on a red mountain. He looked terrible and splendid, glowing crimson beneath the sun.
“Like the Aśoka in spring he stood,
Bathed in red yet full of bloom;
Death circled him, but could not touch
The fire that fed on doom.”
Rolling his eyes in wrath, Bhīma struck Karṇa with five-and-twenty shafts, and again with fourteen more. Each arrow shone like flame against Karṇa’s white armour, so that the Sūta’s son seemed a silver mountain garlanded with venomous snakes.
But Karṇa fought gently, mindful of his promise to Kuntī—not to slay any son of hers save Arjuna. His shafts came swift but restrained; while Bhīma, remembering insult and bondage, fought like one possessed by Rudra’s spirit.
“Karna smiled—the calm of knowledge.
Bhīma roared—the storm of vengeance.
Between them hung the sky itself,
Trembling with wrath and pity.”
Bhīma’s arrows fell thick as rain, striking every limb of Karṇa’s body.
Golden-winged and keen, they covered him like bees swarming around a flame. Karṇa in turn shot his fierce shafts, but Bhīma’s hands moved faster; he cut them down in flight with broad-headed arrows, cleaving thunderbolts before they struck.
At last, the mighty Bhīma pierced Karṇa again and again—two and thirty broad shafts, then six, then eight more—and finally with a single keen arrow, he cut off Karṇa’s bow. Smiling grimly, he slew Karṇa’s four steeds, and the charioteer beside them.
Then, drawing with full strength, Bhīma struck Karṇa’s chest with arrows that blazed like the sun’s own rays. They passed clean through the Sūta’s son, glimmered for an instant, and vanished into the earth below.
“Through breast and harness the arrows sped,
The dust drank blood like rain;
Karṇa stood, wounded yet proud,
A banner of pain and disdain.”
His bow destroyed, his steeds slain, his driver fallen, the son of Rādha, though burning with pain, did not waver. Descending from his ruined chariot, he mounted another and returned to the fight—undaunted, his spirit unbroken.
Thus once more, O King, did Bhīma humble Karṇa on the field of Kurukṣetra.
Yet though wounded and driven back, the son of Rādha still blazed with courage, for destiny had not yet decreed his fall. Their enmity, born of pride and bound by fate, burned on beneath the sun—till the hour when Arjuna’s vow would be fulfilled, and the west wind of Bhīma’s wrath would meet the storm of Karṇa’s end.