novelraw Arc 3 - Jayadhratha-Vadha Parva - Chapter 13 - Bhima’s Rampage
Arc 3 - Jayadhratha-Vadha Parva - Chapter 13 - Bhima’s Rampage
Sañjaya said:
When that battle raged on, O monarch—fearful, tumultuous, making the hair stand on end—when men and gods looked down in awe, the mighty son of Rādha, filled with wrath, returned again against Bhīmasena. He came like a tempest-shaken ocean leaping toward a shore of stone, eager to crush it with his waves.
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:
“O Sanjaya, tell me truly—what said my son Duryodhana when he beheld Karṇa turn back from battle, in whom he had placed all hope of victory?
And what did Bhīma do, that lion among men, swelling with fury and pride? How fought they, those two whose fame fills the three worlds?
For Karṇa is the greatest of archers,
a friend to the Brāhmaṇas,
born with celestial armour,
merciful to his kin.
Yet Bhīma remembers every wound,
every insult hurled upon the sons of Pāṇḍu.
How could compassion dwell with vengeance?
How did fate weave their meeting once more?”
Sañjaya said:
Then, O King, the son of Adhiratha, mounting another car bright as fire, came once more upon Bhīma, furious as the ocean under storm. Beholding Karṇa advance in wrath, the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra rejoiced, deeming the son of Pāṇḍu already consumed in the fire of his arrows.
“The string of Karṇa’s bow twanged like thunder,
his palms struck loud as storming clouds;
torrents of shafts poured forth—
a monsoon of steel upon the field.”
Again, those two heroes met—each terrible, each swollen with rage—like twin mountains hurling fire upon each other. Their eyes were red as burning coals, their breath came hissing through clenched teeth like the breath of serpents. The air between them seemed to tremble beneath their wrath.
Then Bhīma, tiger-hearted, recalled all the sorrows of his life:
the mockery of the dice hall,
the long exile in the forest,
the stolen kingdom, bright with gems;
the attempt to burn Kuntī and her sons within the house of lac;
the shame of Draupadī in the Kuru court,
her hair seized by Duhśāsana,
and the cruel laughter of Karṇa,
saying—“Seek another husband, for thine are dead.”
“He remembered the cries, the tears, the fire,
The dice that rolled like fate’s own breath;
He remembered the hall of shame and ire,
And swore within—this day bring death.”
Thus burning with vengeance, Bhīma cared no more for life. Drawing his great bow, its golden back shining like a serpent, he rushed upon Karṇa like Time upon creation at the world’s end. His arrows fell thick, shrouding even the light of the sun. But Karṇa, smiling gently, shattered every shaft with his own keen arrows, whetted and winged, his bow singing like a lyre of war.
Then the son of Rādha pierced Bhīma with nine swift arrows.
Struck, the son of the Wind roared like a tusker pricked by the iron goad and charged once more. Karṇa met him midway, their chariots crashing together, their drivers guiding steeds fierce as hurricanes.
“Conch answered conch,
thunder met thunder;
the sky itself seemed rent apart,
as hero clashed with hero.”
The blast of Karṇa’s conch, shrill and mighty as a hundred trumpets, shook the armies of the Pāṇḍavas. Elephants swayed, horses reared, and the hearts of men quailed. But Bhīma advanced still, his chariot flying like a storm through broken ranks, covering Karṇa in another torrent of arrows.
Their steeds—Bhīma’s dark as bears, Karṇa’s white as swans—mingled together, black and white in fierce motion.
Cries of “Alas!” rose from the ranks of thy sons, for the mingling steeds looked like dark and bright clouds entangled in the heavens before the lightning strikes.
“Black cloud and white cloud joined in strife,
thunder in each, and death in the rain;
So rushed Bhīma and Karṇa in life,
each the other’s doom again.”
Beholding both warriors burning in wrath, the great car-fighters of thy host trembled. The earth shook beneath their wheels; the sky glowed with the gold-winged shafts they loosed. It seemed, O King, as if the domain of Yama had descended upon Kurukṣetra.
Neither prevailed. The field became an arena of death—
men, steeds, and elephants fell like stalks before the wind;
the ground ran red with mingled streams of blood;
and the watchers saw, not victory, but two blazing fires consuming life itself.
“The air was filled with arrows bright,
like meteors falling through the night;
And earth became a crimson sea—
the price of hate, of destiny.”
Thus, O Dhṛtarāṣṭra, raged the combat of Bhīma and Karṇa, born of wrath, bound by fate, while far off, Arjuna and Keśava pressed on toward Jayadratha, and the world held its breath beneath the thunder of their enmity.
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Sañjaya said:
When that dreadful conflict continued to rage, O King, the great and mighty Bhīmasena stood once more against Karṇa, like a mountain against the storm. Then did thy heart, O Dhṛtarāṣṭra, tremble with fear—for the field was lit with their wrath as by two suns at the world’s end.
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:
“O Sanjaya, my mind is shaken when I hear of Bhīmasena’s deeds. Wonderful is his prowess, for he fights unhumbled with Karṇa, that hero of divine weapons who can face even the gods, the Yakṣas, and the Asuras. Tell me, O son, how could Bhīma—blazing though he be—stand before Karṇa of unbounded energy?
I deem both equal in strength, each death to the other, each destined for pain.
Alas, hearing of Karṇa’s defeats at Bhīma’s hands, darkness seizes my eyes and a swoon comes over me.
My sons have placed their hope in Karṇa alone, and now that hope sinks like a stone in a stormy sea.
I know, O Sūta, that the sons of Prithā cannot be overcome,
Not even by the gods with Indra leading them.
Yet my blind love, my folly, and my son’s deceit
Have brought ruin to our race.
Bhīma now fights with the fire of all wrongs endured—tell me, O Sanjaya, how these two tigers among men contended, staking their very lives upon the field!”
Sañjaya said:
Hear now, O monarch, how that battle unfolded—terrible as the clash of two enraged elephants in a forest clearing. The son of Vikartana, his fury kindled, struck Bhīma with thirty arrows—keen, gold-feathered, and hard as thunder. Bhīma, unshaken, cut off Karṇa’s bow with three swift shafts and with another broad-headed arrow slew the charioteer outright, hurling him from his seat.
Then the son of Rādha, flaming with wrath, seized a dart bright as lightning, adorned with gold and lapis, and hurled it with all his might—like Indra casting the thunderbolt upon the mountains. The heavens shook at its flight.
“The sky was rent by the shriek of steel,
The air grew red with wrathful flame;
Death sped forth in golden gleam—
Karṇa hurled his fateful aim.”
But Bhīma, steady as a rock amid tempest, cut that dart in mid-flight with seven arrows fleet as thought. It broke apart like a serpent shedding its slough and fell harmless to the earth.
Then, O King, Bhīma’s fury grew. His bow flashed like the serpent of Time; his arrows fell thick as rain upon Karṇa’s shining mail. Each was feathered with peacock plume and winged with gold, whistling like the hissing of death itself.
Karna too took up another bow—its back gilded and radiant—drawing it to the ear with force and sending forth many shafts. But Bhīma, swift and fierce, cut them all with nine straight arrows, and roared like a lion amidst the battlefield.
“They roared like bulls in heat,
They struck like tigers at prey;
Each sought the other’s heart,
Each burned to end the day.”
They circled and clashed, their bows drawn to full curve, their arrows flying like comets through the air.
Sometimes they laughed in defiance, sometimes they mocked, sometimes the sound of their conchs rolled like thunder over the slain.
Once again Bhīma cut Karṇa’s bow at the handle, and slew his four white steeds—bright as conchs in moonlight—and his new charioteer fell pierced to the heart.
Bereft of car and driver, the son of Vikartana stood wounded, his mail torn, his mind confused by Bhīma’s relentless storm of arrows.
He seemed for a moment like a mountain stripped of its forest cover, glaring naked in the sun.
“Arrows bristled from his flesh,
His breath came hot and fast;
Yet the son of Rādha wavered not—
His courage held steadfast.”
Beholding Karṇa’s peril, thy son Duryodhana trembled with wrath and grief. He cried out,
“Go, O Durjaya! The son of Pāṇḍu is about to devour the son of Rādha! Slay that beardless Bhīma and restore Karṇa’s strength!”
Durjaya, saying “So be it,” rushed toward Bhīma and covered him with a rain of arrows—nine upon the hero, eight on his steeds, six on his charioteer, three upon his banner, and seven again upon Bhīma’s limbs.
But Bhīma, flaming with fury, pierced Durjaya through and through—driver, steeds, and warrior alike—with shafts that glowed like serpents of fire.
All three fell lifeless, struck down as by Death’s own hand.
Seeing his brother fallen, Karṇa, his eyes wet with grief, circled the corpse in anguish, even as a serpent coils around its slain mate. The sight darkened the hearts of the Kauravas.
Then Bhīmasena, smiling grimly, poured a fresh deluge of arrows upon Karṇa, making him look like a śataghnī—a spiked engine of death. Yet even so, the mighty son of Rādha did not flee. Pierced and bleeding, he still faced Bhīma, steadfast as a mountain peak against the storm.
“Blood like rubies shone on gold,
Dust rose like smoke of war;
Two suns blazed upon the field—
The Pandava and the Sūta’s star.”
Thus, O King, the two continued to rend each other, wrath for wrath, fire for fire. The field was strewn with slain horses and shattered cars; the earth herself groaned beneath their might. And still they fought—till the gods looked down from heaven, saying, “Lo, here battle the twin fires of destiny, and their flames shall consume the world.”
Sañjaya said:
Then, O King, the son of Rādha, carless and wounded, yet unbroken in spirit, mounted another shining chariot and turned again upon Bhīma. Like two wild elephants of equal strength striking with their tusks, they rushed together, shaking the field with their fury. Their bows were bent to the full, their shafts rained like storms, and the earth herself seemed to shudder beneath the tread of their wrath.
“Thunder answered thunder,
flame answered flame,
and the sky, choked with arrows,
forgot the sun’s name.”
Karna pierced Bhīmasena with showers of keen shafts and roared aloud, striking him once more upon the breast.
Bhīma, in return, pierced the son of Adhiratha with ten straight arrows, then with twenty more, and each shot struck true as a vulture’s dive.
Karna, his eyes flashing, pierced Bhīma nine times in the chest and struck down his banner with a shaft of gold. Bhīma, undaunted, answered with three and sixty arrows—driving them deep, like the goad upon an elephant’s hide.
Red with blood and wrath, Karṇa’s lips curled as he licked them in fury; his gaze blazed like the evening sun. Then he seized a shaft bright as lightning, deadly as Indra’s thunderbolt, and hurled it at Bhīma’s heart.
The arrow flew like death incarnate, piercing Bhīma’s armour and sinking into the earth. But the son of the Wind, eyes reddened by rage, rose in reply. Without a thought, he seized a massive mace—six-sided, four cubits long, gold-adorned, and heavy as fate itself—and hurled it with a roar.
“The wind-god’s son swung his mace,
the world shook at the blow;
the steeds of Karṇa, white as foam,
fell lifeless in a row.”
Struck by that thunderbolt-like mace, Karṇa’s horses collapsed, crushed and still. Then Bhīma, swift as thought, cut down the Sūta’s banner with razor-edged arrows and slew his charioteer outright. Carless, driverless, and bereft of standard, the son of Rādha stood alone upon the earth, drawing his bow and firing upward, his form radiant with defiance.
Even thus, O King, the prowess of Karṇa shone marvelously; though unhorsed, he fought on, holding his ground like a wounded lion surrounded by hunters.
Beholding him so cast down, Duryodhana’s heart trembled. He cried aloud to his brother Durmukha:
“Go, O hero! Bhīma hath stripped Karṇa of his car—
the son of Rādha stands weaponless before him!
Aid the Sūta’s son, lest the son of the Wind devour him alive!”
At his word, Durmukha spurred his steeds forward and covered Bhīma with swift-falling arrows.
But the son of Pāṇḍu laughed—a terrible laugh, licking the corners of his mouth like a lion sighting prey. Still keeping Karṇa engaged, he turned upon Durmukha, his bow moving like the wheel of time.
With nine long, keen arrows he struck the prince full in the breast, slaying him instantly.
Durmukha’s lifeless body, bright with ornaments, fell from his car like a star loosed from heaven.
“One arrow for his heart,
two for his reins of gold;
the rest for death’s dark art—
Durmukha’s tale was told.”
Seeing his comrade fallen, Karṇa’s heart broke with grief. His eyes filled with tears as he halted for a moment, circled the body, and sighed long and hotly.
“Even heroes fall,” he murmured, “and yet the battle burns on.”
For an instant, he knew not what to do. Then Bhīma, seizing the chance, drew fourteen arrows winged with gold and loosed them all at once. They flashed like lightning across the field and struck Karṇa square upon the breast, passing through his mail and drinking his life’s blood.
Those shafts quivered half-buried in the earth behind him, gleaming like angry serpents entering their holes—each red-tipped with the essence of fate.
Karna, undaunted, answered in kind. Fourteen arrows flew from his bow, fierce and golden-tipped. They pierced Bhīma’s right arm and sank into the earth, radiant as sunbeams sinking behind the western hills.
Blood streamed from the son of Pāṇḍu’s arms like water from the sides of a mountain after rain.
“Blood like rivers down his skin,
flowed bright upon his mail;
but still he stood, fierce and grim,
his will the storm’s own gale.”
Then Bhīma, his fury renewed, struck Karṇa’s charioteer with seven swift arrows, and the driver fell. Stricken sore, the son of Rādha swayed upon his car, his strength waning. The air grew thick with dust and blood; the cries of men and beasts drowned the clang of arms. Karna, pierced through and through, his steeds slain, his will shaken, turned his chariot aside and fled the field, borne away by his swift remaining horses.
Behind him, Bhīmasena stood, bow in hand, its limbs wreathed with gold, gleaming like the fire that ends an age.
“The son of Wind stood blazing bright,
his arrows like tongues of flame;
and Karṇa fled before his might—
thus perished Duryodhana’s claim.”
Thus, O King, once more was Karṇa driven from the field by Bhīmasena’s wrath. Yet even in retreat, the Sūta’s son blazed like a fallen star, bearing the weight of fate upon his wounded heart. The gods looked down upon the two and whispered—“This is not the end; destiny waits at twilight.”