novelraw Arc 3 - Jayadhratha-Vadha Parva - Chapter 16 - Arjuna Advances on Jayadrath
Arc 3 - Jayadhratha-Vadha Parva - Chapter 16 - Arjuna Advances on Jayadrath
Sañjaya said:
Beholding Sātyaki, invincible in battle and pressing toward Arjuna’s banner like a flame driven by the wind, Bhūriśravā, son of Somadatta and pride of the Kurus, advanced in wrath. “By fortune thou hast entered my sight, O bull of the Sini line,” he cried, “and my long-cherished vow stands ripe for fulfillment. If thou dost not flee, thou shalt not leave this field alive. I shall delight Suyodhana with thy fall; Keśava and Arjuna shall behold thee scorched by my shafts; and the son of Dharma, who sent thee through this host, shall hang his head in shame. As Śakra once sought Vāli, so have I sought thee. Today I send thee to Yama’s hall, as Lakṣmaṇa sent Indrajit to his rest.”
“Words are the wind of war,
deeds are the thunder’s core;
Let arrows answer boasts—
and settle this ancient score.”
Yuyudhāna laughed, the sound bright and fearless in the din. “I am not shaken by words, O Kuru hero. He who disarms me shall slay me; he who slays me slays his foes for all time. Boasts are autumn thunder with no rain—do the deed thou trumpet. Long hast thou desired this meeting; my heart burns to answer it. Till I have felled thee, I shall not leave the field.” Thus rebuking one another, they closed—two wrathful elephants in rut fighting for a she-elephant in season. Dense showers of arrows rushed between them like monsoon torrents; the son of Somadatta shrouded the Sātvata with swift flights, then sought to end his life with a storm of keen heads. Sātyaki, calm and terrible, clipped every shaft in mid-heaven, and in turn poured his own woven rain of iron. The fame of Kurus and Vṛṣṇis rose together in that blaze of skill, each prince a pillar of his race, each coveting the highest heaven of heroes.
“Claw answered claw as tigers,
tusk answered tusk as kings;
Blood ran down in rivulets,
and glory spread her wings.”
They lanced and mangled one another, life staked like dice upon the board. Each slew the other’s steeds; each cut the other’s bow. Car-less then, they leapt to earth, took bullhide shields and naked swords, and whirled in circling steps—high feints and side-thrusts, rush and recoil, blade-hiss and bright mail flashing. When shield met edge till both were shredded, they closed to wrestle—broad-chested, long-armed, their grips like spiked maces. They bound and broke, head-struck and hip-locked, legs twined round loins, palms smote armpits, nails bit flesh, and earth itself shook with their falling and their rise. Two and thirty wrestler’s turns they showed, and the watching ranks cried out at the thunder of their clash.
“Arm was an iron serpent,
breath was a furnace flame;
Earth was their rolling ocean,
heaven their witness and frame.”
When Sātyaki’s weapons were spent and his breath ran harsh, Keśava spoke to Pārtha: “Behold thy disciple, O Arjuna—carless, worn, yet steadfast—confronted now by Bhūriśravā, giver of great gifts and tireless in wrath. Protect the Sātvata; let not his name be falsified for thy sake.” Arjuna, gazing, answered with a half-smile, “The Kuru and the Vṛṣṇi sport like lion and tusker in a forest. Yet—” Even as he spoke, a cry of “Alas!” rose from the ranks, for the mighty Bhūriśravā had hurled Sātyaki to earth and, dragging him by the hair as a lion drags an elephant, set heel upon his chest. Steel flashed out of scabbard; the Kuru prince lifted his sword to sever the Sātvata’s head, and Sātyaki, whirling that arm by his matted locks as a potter spins the wheel, fought the inevitable with the last coil of strength.
“Edge stooped to holy neck,
fate stooped to hallowed breath;
Dharma looked down silent—
at the thin bright line of death.”
Once more Keśava urged, grave as law: “Behold, O Pārtha—thy disciple, not inferior in the bow, laid low and overborne by Somadatta’s son. If the righteous fall thus, what shall men say of dharma?” Then Arjuna, son of Pṛithā, saluted the Kuru’s prowess in his heart—“Truly, Bhūriśravā drags the Vṛṣṇi as a lion drags a tusker”—yet spake to Mādhava: “My eye was set upon the Sindhu; I saw not Sātyaki. For the Yādava’s sake, I shall perform a deed most hard.” He fitted to Gāṇḍīva a keen razor-head—meteoric, sun-bright—drew, loosed; the shaft leapt like Garuḍa stooping from the firmament and sheared away the Kuru’s sword-bearing arm, Angada and all, before the blow could fall.
“Steel grazed only the wind,
arm fell like a broken star;
The headsman’s hand lay severed—
and life returned from afar.”
Thus, O King, did the duel blaze to its fateful cut, destiny pausing upon a blade’s thin mercy. The Vṛṣṇi lion breathed again; the Kuru giver stood maimed; and the armies, gods and Gandharvas watching, trembled at the nearness of death and the deep, unsearchable counsels of dharma.
Sañjaya said: The arm of Bhūriśravā—bright with angadas, the sword still clenched within its noble grasp—spun down to the earth, and all creatures felt a tremor of grief. That arm, raised to sever Sātyaki’s head, fell, cut away by Arjuna unseen in the press, like a five-hooded serpent shorn of life. Beholding himself thus disabled by Pārtha, the Kuru chief loosed his hold on Sātyaki and, burning with wrath, reproached the son of Kuntī.
Bhūriśravā said: “Cruel and heartless is thy deed, O Pārtha! Not engaged with me, thou hast maimed me unawares. Wilt thou stand before Dharmarāja and say, ‘I struck Bhūriśravā while he fought another’? Who taught thee such usage—Indra, Rudra, Droṇa, or Kṛpa? Thou knowest the law of arms above all men: the heedless, the terrified, the carless, the suppliant, the distressed—these the righteous do not strike. Why then this low and sinful act for the sake of the Vṛṣṇi? It must be Keśava’s counsel—befitting the Andhakas and Vṛṣṇis, ever bent to crooked ways. Born of Kuru’s high line, how hast thou fallen from a kṣatriya’s duty?”
“The fallen should not be smitten,
nor he who begs his life;
the carless asks for mercy—
lay by the slaughter-knife.”
Arjuna said: “Age dims judgment, O lord; therefore thou speakest thus. Thou knowest Keśava and me, yet rebukest without measure. I would not knowingly transgress dharma. Kṣatriyas fight surrounded by their own—sires, sons, companions, friends—who rely upon their arms; therefore one protects not oneself alone. Sātyaki is my disciple, my kin, my very right arm—he fights for our sake with life held cheap. If, seeing him on the brink of death, I had stood idle, the sin of his fall were mine. Thou hadst cast him down, and sword in hand wouldst cut his head. Am I to watch the slaughter of one who trusts in me? Blame thyself, O hero, for guarding not thy life while seeking another’s.”
Then Pārtha’s voice sharpened: “And who among the righteous applauded the butchery of Abhimanyu—child, carless, weaponless—hemmed and slain as his harness fell away? Where was thy rule of war in that ring of death?”
“A vow stands guard like fire,
a friend like sheltering rain;
I broke the headsman’s hand—
not dharma’s golden chain.”
Hearing Pārtha, the stake-bannered prince bowed his head. Casting aside Sātyaki, Bhūriśravā spread a bed of arrows with his left hand and, resolved on prāya—holy death by steadfastness—stilled his senses to their gods. Fixing his gaze upon the sun, setting his purified heart upon the moon, mind turned to the great Upaniṣad, he entered yoga and became silent. Then many in the host blamed Kṛṣṇa and Dhanañjaya, praising Bhūriśravā the generous. The two Kṛṣṇas spoke no bitter word; the stake-bannered one felt no pride. But Arjuna, unable to endure the reproach, reminded all: “Ye know my vow—none on our side shall be slain while within my shafts’ pale. I cut the arm that lifted the sword over my unarmed ally. If ye measure dharma, tell me who lauded the slaying of Abhimanyu?”
“The child was slain in circle,
the law lay trampled there;
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who now will weigh my arrow
yet leave that balance bare?”
Arjuna’s heart then softened: “O elder of Śala, the love I bear thee equals that I bear Yudhiṣṭhira, Bhīma, Nakula, Sahadeva. Go, by my word and Kṛṣṇa’s, to the righteous realm where Uśīnara’s Śivi dwells.” And Vāsudeva: “Sacrifices and fires thou hast sustained; ascend my pure bright regions beloved of the gods. Equal to myself, be borne upon Garuḍa’s back.”
Then Sātyaki, freed and rising, caught up his sword. Passion surged: he would hew the head from the high-souled Kuru—sitting armless, senses withdrawn, already near to Brahman. Many cried out against it; Kṛṣṇa forbade, and Pārtha, and Bhīma, and the wheel-guards Yudhamanyu and Uttamaujas; even Aśvatthāman, Kṛpa, Karṇa, Vṛṣasena, and the Sindhu lord raised their voices. Yet while disapproval still rang, Yuyudhāna—reason overmastered—severed Bhūriśravā’s head.
“The vow sat hushed and shining,
the sword fell cold and red;
the trunk was like an elephant,
the altar bore the head.”
The hosts did not applaud the act; they honored the fallen Kuru, saintly in stillness, munificent giver whose thousands of gold had fed the sacred fires. The Siddhas and Cāraṇas, and even the gods, praised Bhūriśravā’s valor and vow, marveling at his deeds. Among the Kauravas men murmured, “No anger; what was ordained has come. Destiny appointed Sātyaki to be his slayer.”
Sātyaki answered their censure: “Ye cloak yourselves in virtue, yet where was that garment when Subhadrā’s son was butchered carless? I swore in pride: he who should cast me down alive and strike me with his foot, I would slay—even if he took an ascetic’s vow. Ye judged me dead while I yet struggled hale; folly was thine. My deed is just. Pārtha, in love, cut the headsman’s hand and robbed me of some glory, but fate has worked its will.” He cited the ancient verse: “Men must, with resolute care, accomplish that which pains their foes.”
“Dharma walks a razor’s edge,
sharp as the arrow’s gleam;
fate is the hidden archer,
whose shots fulfill the dream.”
So ended the duel. No cheer rose for the beheading; silently the armies honored the stake-bannered lord. His head, blue-locked, the eyes red as pigeons, shone like the horse’s head in a royal aśvamedha laid upon the altar. Sanctified by prowess and the death he chose, boon-giving Bhūriśravā, worthiest of boons, cast off his body in the great battle and rose to the higher regions, the sky bright with the track of his departing virtue.
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:
“O Sañjaya, tell me how it came to pass that Sātyaki, unconquered by Droṇa, by Karṇa, by Vikarna, and by Kṛtavarman, could yet be humbled by Bhūriśravā, thrown to the earth before all? He who, having vowed before Yudhiṣṭhira, crossed the ocean of the Kaurava host—how could that hero, whose strength had never failed, be overpowered in such wise?”
Sañjaya said:
“Listen, O king, to the tale of old, how the bloodlines of Sini and of Somadatta were joined by enmity and curse, and how that ancient feud flowered upon Kurukṣetra.
From Atri was born Soma, the moon; from Soma came Vudha; from Vudha, Purūravas—bright as Indra himself. Purūravas begot Āyu, Āyu begot Nahuṣa, and Nahuṣa, the royal sage Yayāti, lordly among men. Of Yayāti by Devayānī was born Yadu, the eldest. From Yadu sprang Devamidha; from Devamidha, Sura, famed through the three worlds; from Sura, that foremost of men, Vāsudeva, equal to the gods in might.
In that same line was Sini, radiant as his ancestor, a warrior of unbaffled energy. About that time, O Bhārata, there was held the svayaṁvara of Devaka’s daughter Devakī, whom all kings desired. To that assembly came Sini and Somadatta, son of Bāhlika, with their armies of splendor. In that hall of challenge Sini, conquering all, seized the princess upon his chariot for Vāsudeva’s sake.
Beholding Devakī thus borne away, Somadatta could not brook the sight. He rose like fire fed with ghee and challenged Sini before the eyes of kings. Their battle was of half a day’s span, fierce and beautiful, a wrestling of giants such as earth had seldom seen. In the end Sini, mightier in limb and swifter in wrath, threw Somadatta down. Seizing him by the hair, he struck him with his foot amid the shouting hosts. Then, moved by compassion, he said, ‘Live!’ and spared his foe.”
“Pride trampled pride that day,
and mercy followed wrath;
the seed of insult fell
to ripen in a future path.”
“Burning with humiliation, Somadatta turned his heart toward austerities. Standing upon one leg beneath the sun, he adored Maheśvara, the Lord of boons. And Śaṅkara, bow-crowned and moon-crested, appeared to him and spoke: ‘Choose, O king, the boon thy heart desires.’ Somadatta said: ‘Grant me, O Lord, a son who shall strike down Sini’s line in the sight of all kings and set his foot upon that fallen foe.’ Maheśvara, smiling, replied, ‘So be it,’ and vanished like a flash of lightning.
Through that boon was born to Somadatta his noble son Bhūriśravā—giver of gifts, generous in sacrifice, but carrying the shadow of his sire’s anger. Therefore, in battle long after, when Sini’s grandson met Somadatta’s son, the wheel of fate returned: Bhūriśravā threw Sātyaki down and set his foot upon him, even as his father had once been trodden by Sini. Thus the vow of Śiva’s boon was fulfilled.”
“The gods weave vengeance fine,
through blood of sire and son;
each deed, once sown, returns—
its harvest never undone.”
“Know then, O king,” continued Sañjaya, “that the Sātvata hero could not truly be vanquished. The humiliation arose not from weakness, but from destiny’s ancient debt. For the Vṛṣṇis, sprung from Yadu, are unmatched in valor. Their aim is unerring, their wisdom deep, their hearts self-restrained. They fight leaning upon none but themselves; neither gods nor Dānavas nor Yakṣas can subdue them. They covet not what is another’s, nor forsake one who has aided them. Devoted to Brahmins, truthful of speech, obedient to elders, they stand firm as mountains.
“The sea may be emptied,
Meru may be moved—
yet never are the Vṛṣṇis shaken,
nor their prowess disproved.”
“Thus have I told thee, O Dhṛtarāṣṭra, how the feud was born between the houses of Sini and Somadatta, and how in this war the fruit of that wrath was reaped. Yet know, O lord of men, that all which unfolds is the outcome of thine own policy. For destiny’s wheel turns upon the hand of choice, and the sin that was sown in Hastināpura now ripens upon Kurukṣetra.”
Sañjaya said: After Bhūriśravā had gone to the farther shore, the diademed Arjuna spoke low to Vāsudeva, urgency bright in his eyes. He said, “Drive on, O Kṛṣṇa of the silvery steeds. The sun droops toward the Asta hills and my vow must be made true. Jayadratha is ringed by many lords; I must reach him before the day dies.” Then Mādhava, master of the rein and the hearts of horses, leaned into the yoke; the white coursers gathered themselves like waves before a storm and flew toward the Sindhu king.
“Red sank the sun like a wound,
vows burned like brands in the air;
fate held her breath on the rim—
would justice arrive there?”
Duryodhana, seeing the ape-banner drawing near, cried to Karṇa, “Now is the hour, O son of Vikartana. Hold fast the circle! If the day expire, victory is ours. Guard Jayadratha till the sun goes down; then Pārtha, vow falsified, will seek the fire himself. After him, his brothers fall; then, unpricked by any thorn, the earth is ours.” Karṇa bowed, blood seeping through a hundred wounds from Bhīma’s earlier storm. “Every limb is fire,” he said, “yet while I live, Arjuna shall not touch the Sindhu king. Victory hangs on destiny’s thread, but my life is thine.” Thus pledged, he formed with Asvatthāman, Śalya, Kṛpa, Vṛṣasena, and the Sindhu lord a wall of iron about their prize.
But Pārtha came on like the year’s-end conflagration. Broad-headed arrows sheared away arms gleaming like elephant trunks; helms leapt; steeds screamed; axles broke; standards and yak-tails fell like withered palmyra leaves in a gale. The earth drank blood until she wore a dusk-red garment. Bhīma and Sātyaki flanked him—two thunderheads attending the lightning bolt—and the three cut a channel through the Kurus.
“Gāṇḍīva’s chord was thunder,
the shaft-shower, ceaseless rain;
the field became an ocean,
and Kurukṣetra, a plain.”
Then the Kuru chiefs closed like mountains marching: Duryodhana and Karṇa, the Sindhu king, Śalya the Madra, Kr̥pa of the high vow, and Drona’s lion-tailed son. They ringed the son of Pṛthā while the sun burned red in the west, and their arrows in hundreds ran at him like slanting rays. Arjuna clipped them to splinters—two, three, eight—before they touched his mail, and in the same breath set nine barbs in each fierce heart. Asvatthāman stiffened the gate, striking Pārtha and Keśava both; Kr̥pa and Vṛṣasena and Śalya added their hard music. The Kaurava line grew serried, bows shaking like serpent bodies in a trance, and the air turned black with iron rain.
Pārtha smiled a little and let Gāṇḍīva sing. He baffled every mystic dart with its proper counter, then loosed his own abundance until the very sky seemed sown with meteors. Karṇa flung a thousand keen ones in reply; Pārtha, as the wind scatters locusts, broke their flight. Back and forth the two great bulls roared—“I am Pārtha—wait!” “I am Karṇa—stand!”—their words like goring horns. Each hid the other behind a moving wall of shafts; each strode through that wall by will alone.
“Two storms crossed in heaven,
the firmament caught fire;
men saw the shape of courage,
and trembled with desire.”
Then the white-horsed Arjuna, measuring the moment, cut Karṇa’s bow, and nine arrows hammered the Sūta’s breast. A sun-bright shaft—fatal, straight—he set upon the string; but Asvatthāman’s crescent flashed and shorn it from the air. Karṇa, laughing low, seized another bow and poured a river. Arjuna widened his stance and turned that river into spray.
Duryodhana cried to his host, “Guard Vr̥ṣa! Without Arjuna’s death he will not withdraw.” Even as he spoke, four loud notes sounded from Gāṇḍīva’s string—four of Karṇa’s steeds fell as one; the charioteer toppled like a cut stalk; and Arjuna wrapped the Sūta-lord in such a drapery of arrows that the ground around him grew dark. Carless and stunned, Karṇa caught his breath; Asvatthāman drew alongside and took him up, and the fight rolled on.
Śalya struck Pārtha with thirty, Kr̥pa wounded Keśava with twenty and Pārtha with twelve, the Sindhu lord with four to each, Vṛṣasena with seven. Arjuna answered all: four-and-sixty stung the Brahmarṣi’s grandson, a hundred rattled on the Madra’s mail, ten broadheads made the Sindhu bleed, and shafts to mark the others as Gāṇḍīva laughed.
“Varuṇa’s noose went outward—
water closed on flame;
the ocean rose to meet them,
yet Pārtha was the same.”
For when the Dhārtarāṣṭras roared and rushed from every side to spoil the vow, Pārtha, remembering twelve years of wrong and one of hiding, spread the Varuṇa weapon in a ring. The field turned to a vast, bewildering deluge of sound and spray of steel; still the diademed one held center—mind bright, breath steady, hands tireless. Like Pināka’s lord among Dānavas, he hewed down kings that came with maces, clubs, and swords—hewed down the elephants behind them and the foot before them—until Yama’s city swelled with new citizens.
The welkin burned with streaking fire; crows dropped from the heavens to settle upon the countless fallen; and through it all the ape-bannered chariot moved, an island of will upon the darkening sea. Then, breaking the last cordon, the son of Pṛthā stood face to face with Jayadratha’s guard. The Sindhu’s eyes met the archer’s—terror saw destiny approach—and, on either flank, Bhīma and Sātyaki lifted their bows again.
“Sun to the mountain’s shoulder,
breath to the archer’s string;
vow like a whetted razor—
doom hovered, beating wing.”