Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 3 - Jayadhratha-Vadha Parva - Chapter 14 - Bhima’s Wrath

Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:

“Destiny, O Sanjaya, is supreme!

Fie upon human effort which is powerless before it.

Though Rādha’s son fought with might and mastery, he could not vanquish Bhīmasena.

I have heard my son Duryodhana praise Karṇa again and again—

‘If Vasusena fights for me, the very gods shall fall before my bow!

The sons of Pāṇḍu are weak of heart,

and Krishna’s wisdom shall not save them!’

Alas! All those boasts have perished with the wind. I see no warrior in the world like Karṇa, yet even he hath fled before Bhīma’s wrath! My heart sinks, O Sūta, thinking of my son’s ruin. He sent Durmukha—innocent, untested—to his death, like an insect cast into a fire.

Even Aśvatthāman, the ruler of Madra, and Kripa of many battles could not stand before Bhīmasena.

Who, indeed, can face the might of that hero, equal in strength to ten thousand elephants, who rages like Yama at the world’s end?

Foolish is he who provokes Bhīma’s wrath—

that slayer of hosts, fierce as Death himself,

armed with strength that is born of storm.

Alas, O Sanjaya, my son’s pride has destroyed him! Karna fought alone, scorning all aid, and was broken like an Asura beneath Purandara’s bolt. Who now shall withstand the son of Vāyu, that fire among men, who entered my host alone and crushed even Droṇa?

Men may return from the realm of the dead—but not from the wrath of Bhīmasena.

Those who rushed upon him were like moths into flame.

Surely my son recalls, even now, the words of that terrible vow Bhīma uttered in the Kuru assembly—

how he swore to drink Duhśāsana’s blood and break Duryodhana’s thigh.

Seeing Karṇa defeated, he must burn with grief, remembering Krishna’s rejected plea for peace.

Ah, blind was my love, blind my soul! For it was I who let this fire consume the world.”

Sañjaya said:

“O King, thou lamentest now for the ruin thou hast sown. Thou art the root of this destruction of the Bharata race! Thy sons sowed hatred, and thou didst water it with indulgence. Though warned, thou wouldst not turn back; now reap the poison thou hast brewed.

Thou drank the draught of deceit thyself,

and gavest the cup to thy sons;

what wonder if it burns thy throat,

and sears the world at once?

Still, O monarch, listen while I tell thee what followed.

When Karṇa fled vanquished, five of thy sons, mighty bowmen all—Durmarṣaṇa, Duhśāha, Durmada, Durdhara, and brave Jaya—could not brook the sight. Armoured in gold and driven by wrath, they rushed against Bhīma from all sides, their arrows clouding the sky like a swarm of locusts.

Bhīma saw them coming and smiled—a smile terrible as a lion’s before the kill.

Meanwhile Karṇa, regaining courage, turned back to aid them, loosing shafts bright as sunbeams.

Surrounded thus, Bhīma stood unshaken, drawing his mighty bow that thundered like the heavens at dawn.

The Kurus encircled him; Karṇa covered him with his shafts; but Bhīma, unrelenting, sent five-and-twenty arrows that struck each prince through heart and helm.

“Five brothers fell like trees in storm,

their banners torn, their armour rent;

The earth received their blood like rain,

the sky was loud with lament.”

Chariots crashed to the ground, horses rolled, and the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra lay dead, their lifeless bodies radiant with fallen ornaments.

Even while resisting Karṇa’s volleys, Bhīma slew them all, his form blazing like Rudra among the hosts.

The field shone red as dawn; and Karṇa, stunned by the slaughter, could only gaze at Bhīma with eyes wide and silent fury.

Bhīma too, eyes crimson with wrath, stretched his bow once more and fixed his fiery gaze upon Karṇa.

Thus, O King, surrounded by ruin, stood the two great warriors— Bhīma, wrath incarnate; Karṇa, pride wounded yet unbroken— while the Kaurava host, trembling as the earth in storm, looked on, and saw in their struggle the shadow of destiny itself.”

Sañjaya said:

Beholding thy sons lying slain upon the field, O King, Karṇa—mighty among men—was filled with fury and despair. His heart was pierced with grief, and he deemed himself guilty for their deaths. The Sūta’s son stood amidst the corpses of princes, his face dark with sorrow, his eyes red with rage.

Then Bhīmasena, recalling the long chain of wrongs—the laughter in the dice-hall, the insult to Draupadī, the words of scorn hurled by Karṇa himself—became inflamed with wrath.

He drew his great bow and, with deliberate care, poured his shafts upon Karṇa like a storm upon a mountain.

“Each arrow sang like thunder,

each shaft shone like flame;

the air grew thick with vengeance,

and Bhīma spoke no name.”

Karna answered, smiling grimly through his pain. With five sharp arrows he pierced Bhīma’s breast, and then with seventy more—each golden-feathered, stone-whetted, and swift as thought. But Bhīma heeded them not. In return he struck the son of Rādha with a hundred straight shafts, and once more five arrows drove deep into Karṇa’s vitals.

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With one broad-headed shaft, he then cut the Sūta’s bow clean in two.

Karna, cheerless yet undaunted, seized another and covered Bhīma on all sides with a rain of arrows. But Bhīma’s wrath knew no end—he slew Karṇa’s steeds, pierced his charioteer, and laughed aloud, a sound that chilled the hearts of all who heard.

“He laughed—a sound of breaking worlds,

of vows fulfilled and doom begun;

and Karṇa’s golden bow, unstrung,

fell shining like a fallen sun.”

Carless, driverless, and bereft of steeds, Karṇa took up a massive mace and hurled it, roaring like a tempest.

The weapon flew with fire in its flight, but Bhīma, seeing it come, shattered it mid-air with a storm of arrows.

Then the son of the Wind shot a thousand shafts—keen, bright, deadly—towards the son of Adhiratha, each seeking the breath of his life.

Karna, supreme in skill, parried them all; then with his own arrows cut through Bhīma’s armour and struck him five-and-twenty times, drawing blood that glistened in the sun.

Bhīma, his eyes aflame, loosed nine arrows that pierced Karṇa’s right arm and his mail, driving into the earth like serpents entering their holes.

Covered in shafts, blood flowing down his limbs, Karṇa turned his back again and fled on foot, staggering beneath Bhīma’s storm.

Then Duryodhana, stricken with horror, cried out to his brothers:

“Go quickly! Rally around the son of Rādha! The mighty Karṇa flees before Bhīmasena!”

At once six princes—Chitra, Upachitra, Charuchitra, Sārasan, Chitrāyudha, and Chitravarman—rushed forth with cries of war. They loosed volleys of arrows thick as locusts in a monsoon sky. But Bhīma, unmoved, met them with laughter and deadly aim. With one arrow each, he struck them down—six sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra falling as trees uprooted by a single wind.

“Six princes fell, their armour bright,

their banners torn, their spirits fled;

the field drank deep their royal blood,

and Karṇa wept for the dead.”

Beholding them slain, Karṇa’s eyes filled with tears. The words of Vidura came back to him—words of counsel spurned, words of fate fulfilled. Mounting yet another car, the son of Adhiratha rushed again against Bhīma. Their arrows met in mid-air, bright as lightning, golden-winged, piercing flesh and mail alike.

They fought like two masses of storm-clouds bursting upon one another, the sky echoing with the crash of their weapons.

Bhīma cut through Karṇa’s armour with six and thirty keen-edged shafts; Karṇa replied with fifty, and both stood streaming blood, their bodies shining red like molten gold.

They looked, O King, like two serpents newly shed of their sloughs—bright, fierce, and terrible to behold.

“Two lions roared upon one field,

their fury lit the sky;

their arrows sang like falling stars,

their glory would not die.”

They circled each other, cars tracing radiant arcs upon the ground. Arrows fell like rain, and their roars filled heaven and earth. Each struck, each bled, yet neither wavered; they fought as Indra and Prahlāda fought in ages past.

Then, O King, Bhīma drew his bow with both hands. His arms swelled like clouds, and the string thundered like the sky before rain. From that storm-cloud of the Pāṇḍava poured a thousand arrows—each a streak of lightning upon the mountain of Karṇa. The air grew red, the world darkened with their flight. The sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, beholding Bhīma’s might, grew pale and wordless.

“The Bhīma-cloud burst forth in flame,

the Karṇa-mountain burned;

and all who watched that storm of war

knew destiny had turned.”

Seeing the perseverance of Bhīma—undaunted, tireless, radiant as righteousness itself—Yudhiṣṭhira’s heart swelled with hope. Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna, hearing the cries of Bhīma’s bow, rejoiced in their hearts. Sātyaki smiled upon the field, and even the protectors of Arjuna’s chariot wheels felt new courage rise within.

But the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra—seeing Karṇa once more pressed down by Bhīma’s fire—fell into despair. Their faces lost their colour, their hearts sank like ships in a storm; and Sanjaya, gazing upon that scene, said softly to the blind old king:

“Thus, O Dhṛtarāṣṭra, rages the storm of fate—

Bhīma’s wrath, Karṇa’s ruin,

and the slow turning of Time’s wheel.”

Sañjaya said:

Hearing the fierce twang of Bhīmasena’s bow and the thunder of his palms, the son of Rādha burned with fury, like an elephant roused by the trumpeting of a rival.

Turning once, Karṇa’s gaze fell upon the bodies of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s sons, lying slain and broken upon the field.

Beholding them, his heart sank into grief. He sighed long and hard, his breath like smoke from the mouth of a furnace, and then, with eyes red as molten copper, he rushed again upon Bhīma.

Arrows rained from his bow like the sun scattering his rays, and Bhīma’s form was hidden beneath them. Feathered with gold and tipped with fire, they pierced his body in a hundred places, like birds seeking rest upon a forest tree. So dense was that rain that it seemed to come not only from Karṇa’s bow, but from his banner, his yoke, his chariot shaft, even the very sky.

“Arrows like sunbeams filled the air,

the firmament itself grew flame;

Bhīma stood in the storm of gold,

his face unchanged, his heart the same.”

Undaunted, the son of the Wind countered that downpour with his own storm of steel.

Twenty arrows, keen and whistling, he shot into Karṇa’s chest.

As once Karṇa had shrouded him, now did Bhīma shroud Karṇa,

till the field blazed with their flashing shafts.

Then from every side the warriors of both armies raised their cries.The Pāṇḍavas and the Kauravas alike shouted, “Excellent! Excellent!”

The sky rang with roars from Bhūriśravas, from Kripa, from Aśvatthāman, from Śalya, from Uttamaujas and Yudhamanyu, and from the two Krishnas, Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna. Their voices rolled like lions in a mountain cave, echoing Bhīma’s valor. Then Duryodhana, pale with fear, cried aloud:

“Hasten, ye kings! Save Karṇa!

Else Bhīma’s arrows will consume him as fire consumes the dry forest!

Protect the Sūta’s son!”

Hearing his command, seven of his brothers—mighty car-warriors all—rushed forth together, their bows drawn, their wrath like storming clouds. They poured their arrows upon Bhīma like rain on the breast of a mountain, each eager to quench the fire that had devoured so many of their kin.

But Bhīma, remembering every insult, drew his bow with a steady hand. Knowing them to be mortal men and nothing more, he loosed seven shafts, each gleaming like a ray of the sun. The arrows pierced their hearts and passed clean through, rising again into the sky, blood-bright and feathered with gold.

“They flew like crimson-plumed birds,

drunk with the blood they bore;

they left the bodies of thy sons,

and vanished to the heavens’ door.”

Pierced in their vital limbs, the seven princes fell from their cars like trees uprooted by a wind. Thus were slain Śatrunjaya, Śatrusha, Chitra, Citrāyudha, Dṛḍha, Citraseṇa, and noble Vikarna.

When Bhīma beheld Vikarna fall, sorrow rose within his breast, for that prince was dear to him— the only brother of Duryodhana who had spoken righteousness in the hall of dice.

And Bhīma said softly upon the field, his eyes wet though his hands were red with blood:

“Thus is my vow accomplished,

that all the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra shall fall by my hand.

O Vikarna, thou camest to battle remembering the law of the Kṣatriya.

Ever wert thou righteous, ever devoted to our good.

It is not meet that I should weep for thee,

yet my heart grieves for the just man slain among the unjust.”

Having spoken thus, he raised his face to the heavens and roared—a sound like the thunder of creation’s end. The cry of Vṛkodara echoed through the sky and over the field of Kurukṣetra, and all the Pāṇḍavas knew by that sign that victory had been won.

“His shout was the storm of dharma fulfilled,

the trumpet of wrath at rest;

even Yudhiṣṭhira heard and smiled,

for joy had entered his breast.”

King Yudhiṣṭhira, gladdened, answered with the blare of conchs and the beat of drums. That mighty sound rolled through the field like the laughter of the gods.

But Duryodhana, hearing of the death of thirty-one brothers, bowed his head and remembered the words of Vidura.

“Ah,” he murmured, “the wise man’s counsel ripens now.”

Sañjaya continued:

“All that your son once said in the dice-hall, all that Karṇa spoke to Kṛṣṇā before your eyes— those cruel words, ‘The Pāṇḍavas are lost, O lady, choose new husbands’— all that returns today, O King, upon your house like a curse fulfilled.

Bhīmasena, who held his wrath for thirteen years, now vomits forth that fire upon your sons. Vidura warned you; Kṛṣṇa sought your peace; but your pride was deaf, and now the fruit is ripe.”

“The seeds of insult sown in pride,

now bloom in fields of red;

the wind you raised has come at last,

to crown the storm of the dead.”

Vikarna hath fallen. Citraseṇa lies slain. Many others too—princes of thy blood—are gone, cut down in an instant by the son of the Wind. Bhīma sees no Kaurava before him whom he spares; all that comes within his sight he smites and ends.

And Sanjaya, turning to the blind king, spoke his last words with sorrow and truth:

“It was for thy sake, O monarch, that I beheld this ruin.

For thy fault alone the field is red.

The arrows of Bhīma and the fury of Karṇa

have become the fire and smoke of thy house.

And I, thy servant, stand witness to the burning of the world.”