novelraw Arc 3 - Jayadhratha-Vadha Parva - Chapter 17 - Arjuna’s Oath Fulfilled
Arc 3 - Jayadhratha-Vadha Parva - Chapter 17 - Arjuna’s Oath Fulfilled
Sañjaya said, O King, when the bow of Dhanañjaya sang—loud as Death’s own summons or the thunder of Maghavat—the sea of thy host heaved like waters at the world’s end, its fishes and makaras flung into mountain waves by the hurricane of fear. Swift as thought, the son of Prithā seemed everywhere at once, so light of hand that none might mark the moment of choosing, nocking, drawing, or release. Then, wrathful and vast in intent, he awakened the Aindra astra; from it poured blazing flights with fire-born mouths, mantrically empowered, till the sky itself—as if seeded with meteors—could scarce be seen. The gloom thy warriors had raised with their ceaseless shafts he scattered as the sunrise scatters night; and, like the summer sun that drinks the lakes dry, Pārtha drank the life-warmth of thy men with that radiant rain. Arms fell—braceleted and bright—as did diademed heads; elephant-goads, horse-lances, footmen’s shields, and charioteers’ whips, all were sheared away by the whetted will of Gāṇḍīva. In that circling dance of the car, with bowstring and palm resounding, the archer shone like the noon-sun—too keen to gaze upon—yet fair as a storm-cloud mantled with a rainbow of flaring points.
Arrows became his aureole,
sparks the rim of his crown;
where Rudra once made sport of death,
Pārtha trod all terror down.
The field, O Bhārata, grew like the gaming-ground of Yama. Trunks of elephants—razor-severed—lay like coiled serpents; fallen faces, lotus-crowned with crest and jewel, strewed the mire of marrow and blood. Standards and umbrellas rode the waves like froth; broken axles and spear-hafts made a snagging shoal; ravens, kankas, and jackals haunted that Vaitaraṇī of war. Seeing the Destroyer’s visage in Arjuna’s face, thy men were shaken with a panic unknown before; and when he burst the cordons of foremost cars, creatures could not even look upon him. Gāṇḍīva’s coursing shafts, flocking like autumn cranes, baffled and broke the missiles of thy lords as if they were chaff before the wind. So, scorching all quarters, Kiritin sped for Jayadratha, touching the Sindhu’s mail with four and sixty stings and roaring like a lion at bay. Thy captains—Drona’s son, Karṇa, Śalya, Kṛpa, Vṛṣasena, Duryodhana—closed in a ring, and the Sindhu king himself, boar-bannered, bristled toward Pārtha, striking Keśava and the white steeds. But Arjuna shore the standard’s stay and the charioteer’s head in one breath, so that the banner fell like a tongue of fire; and still the sun, copper-red, leaned hard to the western mount.
Day dimmed to a bleeding rim,
vows burned like brand and seal;
Time stood with a finger raised—
“Now!”—for the fatal wheel.
Then Mādhava spoke, “Behold, O Pārtha—the Sindhu stands mid six great cars and trembles no more, for he deems the sun has fled. I shall, by yoga, veil the light. Thinking the vow undone, he will lift his face from hiding; then strike, O Bhārata, and bind thy word to truth.” “So be it,” said Dhanañjaya; and Hari, lord of ascetics, drew a pall of darkness over the field. Thy men, O King, shouted in joy, fancying the day had died; Jayadratha, too, threw back his head to catch the last of dusk.
“Now,” said Keśava again, “the wicked-hearted looks skyward. Cut off his head, O mighty-armed; yet hear one more law. Vriddhakṣatra, the aged Sindhu, won long ago a voice from the air: ‘Thy son, among Kṣatriyas foremost, shall fall by a bull of men in wrath.’ To ward that doom he cast another: ‘Whoso makes my son’s head fall to earth shall have his own head shattered into a hundred shards.’ Therefore, shoot, O Pārtha, a god-begotten shaft—send the head aloft and beyond Samantapañcaka, into the father’s lap unseen as he prays. Let not earth receive it, lest fate rebound upon thy brow.” Hearing this counsel of subtle dharma, the son of Indra, licking the corners of his mouth, set to string a thunder-quick, mantra-fired arrow, worshipped of old with incense and flowers. From Gāṇḍīva it leapt like a hawk stooping on a smaller bird, seized Jayadratha’s crowned head, and bore it skyward. Pārtha shepherded it with stinging flights, driving it on through the mask of night until, far off, Vriddhakṣatra—deep in evening rite—received, unknowing, his son’s head in his lap. When he rose from prayer, it fell; and as it touched the ground, the elder’s own head split into a hundred pieces. All beings marveled; the Siddhas applauded Keśava and Vibhatsu.
A head flew like a star,
a curse like thunder broke;
fate’s knot was cut in heaven—
dharma spoke what none had spoke.
Then, O King, Hari withdrew the dark; thy sons learned that night had been but Yogamāyā. Eight akṣauhiṇīs the Sindhu’s will had spent; himself he fell to one lone shaft of inconceivable energy. Tears rained from the eyes of thy princes. Keśava sounded Pāñcajanya; Arjuna blew Devadatta; and Vṛkodara’s leonine roar leapt to Yudhiṣṭhira, who, knowing the vow fulfilled, drummed joy through the ranks and drove upon Droṇa. After sunset, the Somakas, drunk with success, pressed the son of Bhāradvāja; and Arjuna, vow accomplished, raged like Maghavat among Dānavas, hewing elephants with riders, horses with horsemen, cars with car-lords, till the road to Yama swelled with multitudes.
Thus did the vow take form,
thus did the net be torn;
truth, like an arrow loosed,
sped straight—and was reborn.
O King, when the Sindhu lord had fallen and Arjuna’s vow stood bright as a brand in the dusk, wrath surged again upon the field. Kripa, son of Śaradvat, loosed a close rain of arrows, and Drona’s son, leonine on his car, rushed from the other quarter. From two horizons their shafts converged upon Pārtha, stinging flesh and mail. Yet the son of Kuntī, mindful of the cords of dharma, would not break the teacher’s sanctity; he answered with gentle flights—shafts that struck but spared—parrying their weapons without seeking their lives. Under that tempered storm the aged Kripa swooned upon his terrace of wood, and his charioteer, thinking him dead, bore him off. Aśvatthāman, seeing it, fell back like a fire smothered by green boughs.
Arjuna’s heart grew heavy. “Alas,” he said to Mādhava, “Vidura’s clear word ripens—Duryodhana’s birth was a seed of ruin. Behold my guru felled by my own hand! Fie on the Kṣatriya way that pits disciple against preceptor; fie on my prowess that cannot keep pure what is reverend.” Tears stood in the archer’s eyes, for the son of Gotama had once warned the youth at his feet: Strike not thy teacher. And yet the wheel of war had turned; the vow-bound son of Pāṇḍu had met the vow of the house of Bhārata, and pity burned him like salt on a wound.
The bow can bruise as well as break,
a lotus blade still cuts the reed;
honor is a narrow bridge—
one misstep answers every deed.
Then Vrisha, son of a charioteer and lord of storms in battle, came raging toward Satyaki, for the stake-bannered Bhūriśravā had fallen and grief made him a blazing wind. The two Pāñcāla guardians of Arjuna’s wheels and the bull of the Sātvatas wheeled to meet him. “Turn me toward Karṇa, O Janārdana,” said Pārtha, “lest Satwata follow Bhūriśravā to the dust.” But Keśava smiled: “Yuyudhāna stands the equal of kings; and with the two sons of Drupada at his flank, he needs no second bow. Not now, O Pārtha—Karṇa keeps a god-given dart, bright as a falling star, vowed for thee. Let him spend it in its hour; I know that hour.”
So it was that Keśava, who knows the warp and weft of time, had already signaled Daruka. Hearing the R̥ṣabha-call of the conch, the charioteer brought up that lion-crested car whose coursers were Saivya, Sugrīva, Meghapuṣya, and Valāhaka, white as storm-foam and swift as thought. With Keśava’s nod, the grandson of Śini sprang to its yoke and flew at Karṇa, iron-headed reeds hissing from his string. The field grew still to watch: gods in the sky and men on earth marked Daruka’s art as he feathered the car through circles and halts, back-cuts and side-slips, wheel to wheel with Adhiratha’s son.
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Gold banners flared like sunset fire,
wheel-rims sang on iron stone;
two tigers met—claw into claw—
and every forest held its breath.
Shaft for shaft they traded. Sātvata’s iron barbs stitched Vrisha’s limbs; then with a moon-bladed stroke he smote the driver from Karṇa’s perch and dropped the four white steeds like swans struck midflight. A hundred arrows shattered the lofty standard—down it fell in splinters, and Karṇa stood carless before the eyes of thy son. A roar of “Alas!” ran through the Kuru sea. Vṛṣasena, the Madran king, and Aśvatthāman closed to cover; dust rose, cries tangled, and the compass lost its names.
Yet Satyaki remembered vows. Bhīma had sworn the slaughter of thy sons; Pārtha had pledged the fall of Karṇa. Therefore the Sātvata, stern in self-restraint, stripped chariots bare and left proud princes breathing—weaponless and shaken, but alive—lest he trespass on another’s destined work. Karṇa, pierced and shamed, climbed to Duryodhana’s car with a long sigh, thinking of boyhood bread and the promise of a kingdom he labored to make true.
Restraint within the roar of war,
a flint of justice in the flame;
the bow that could have finished all
chose honor over easy fame.
Then—such is the cunning of chariot-lords—Daruka’s younger brother brought Satyaki yet another car, bright with a thousand studs, lion-sign streaming, horses wind-swift and gold-arrayed. And for Vrisha too, a new car came: conch-white steeds, gold-yoked pole, engines for every weapon, a driver deft as a river’s bend. Once more the tide surged; once more wheels bit earth and banners cracked like the wrath of Indra.
Know, O King, that in that hour Saṅkrandana’s scion shone as the third crest-jewel among archers. In this world are but three whose aim is diamond-hard and tireless—Kṛṣṇa, Pārtha, and Sātyaki; a fourth is not beheld. And even as I speak the tally of thy woe lengthens: one and thirty sons, Durmukha their foremost, lie fallen to Vṛkodara’s iron. Bhagadatta fell as a thundered oak. Many a mailed lord went down beneath the vows of the two Kṛṣṇas and the hurricane hand of Bhīma.
Fate counts by vows, not years or gold;
the guṇa of a deed abides.
What seed was sown at dice’s board
now ripens red on Kurukṣetra’s sides.
Thus did the battle turn, O Bhārata, by counsel’s error and unbent pride. Thy captains fought like suns, thy sons like stars—yet Time, the archer, shot the hour; and vows, once loosed, flew to their mark.
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said, “When the battle had reached such fury, when heroes of both armies clashed like wild storms, what, O Sañjaya, did mighty Bhīma then do?”
Sañjaya said, “O King, when Bhīmasena had been made carless, stung by Karṇa’s mocking words, wrath flared in his breast like fire fed with ghee. Glaring toward his brother, he spoke, his voice quivering with rage:
‘In thy very sight, O Dhanañjaya, the son of a Sūta has hurled at me words of venom—
“Eunuch, fool, glutton, child unfit for arms.”
Such words, from any mouth, deserve but one end.
O Pārtha, thou knowest our vow: that neither my oath nor thine shall go unfulfilled.
Remember it, and act so that my word, and thine, may both be made true.’
Hearing Bhīma’s cry, Arjuna, with eyes like burning coals, guided by Keśava, wheeled his car toward Karṇa and spoke with terrible calm:
‘Thou boastest, O son of a charioteer, yet thine acts belie thy pride.
Know that in battle the fruit is twofold—victory or defeat—and both are uncertain even to Indra himself.
Made carless by Yuyudhāna, thy life hung by a thread;
yet for my vow’s sake, he spared thee.
It is true thou didst unhorse Bhīma—but thy abuse of that lion-hearted one is sin.
The truly brave, when they prevail, speak not evil of the fallen.
Therefore, this day shalt thou reap the fruit of thy folly.
For Abhimanyu, whom thou and others slew unrighteously, I shall destroy thee and all who stand beside thee.
Prepare thy soul, O Karṇa, for the hour of reckoning.’
Having spoken thus, Pārtha laid his hand upon Gāṇḍīva and vowed to slay Vṛṣasena before his father’s eyes. The sky shuddered with the roar of conches and the clang of armor, for even the sun himself, dimming his rays, hastened toward the western hill.
Then Hṛṣīkeśa, guiding the steeds through the crimson dust, embraced Arjuna and said: “By thy valor, O Jishnu, thy vow stands fulfilled. By thy hand have fallen Jayadratha and his sire. Even the general of the celestials would reel before such a host. None, O tiger among men, save thee could have wrought this—thou alone, who art as Rudra in wrath, hast stood against a world in arms.”
Arjuna bowed low and answered gently, “Through thy grace, O Mādhava, this deed—hard even for the gods—has been done. Victory belongs not to me but to thee. Through thy strength Yudhiṣṭhira shall win the earth; through thy mercy we endure. Thou art our guide, our refuge, our lord. This triumph is thine.”
Smiling softly, Keśava urged the horses onward and pointed to the field around them.
“Behold, O Pārtha,” he said, “the earth strewn with the pride of kings.
Mail and diadems glimmer like fallen stars;
elephants lie heaving like broken hills, their wounds pouring rivers of blood;
steeds, gold-trapped, stretch lifeless on the mire;
cars once bright as clouds now lie overturned—wheels shattered, banners torn.
Warriors, their bodies mangled by thy shafts, sleep clasping the earth they died to guard.
Behold the plain—strewn with bows, quivers, and crests,
with anklets and necklaces, standards and silken reins,
with tusks and yokes and shattered armor,
gleaming like the autumn sky with its countless stars.
The lords of men, who fought for the earth, now lie upon her breast,
embracing her as a beloved wife.
See, too, the wolves and jackals, the birds of night, rejoicing in this feast of valor.
Such a deed, O conqueror, none but thou—or Indra himself in his fury against the Dānavas—could have achieved.”
Sañjaya continued: Thus, showing the ghastly splendor of the field, Janārdana blew his conch Pāñcajanya; and the soldiers of the sons of Pāṇḍu answered with their own thunderous shells. Then, driving swiftly to Yudhiṣṭhira’s side, Keśava proclaimed with shining voice:
“Jayadratha lies fallen—slain by Arjuna’s vow!”
And the hearts of the Pāṇḍavas, long weighed with doubt, lifted like the dawn after endless storm.
Sañjaya said:
When the Sindhu king had fallen beneath Arjuna’s hand and the day’s red smoke still hung upon the field, Keśava turned his car toward Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Dharma. His face was radiant with calm delight as he bowed to the king and said, “By fortune, O ruler of men, thy prosperity grows! By fortune thy foe lies slain, and thy brother has fulfilled his vow.”
Yudhiṣṭhira, hearing these words, stepped down from his chariot. Tears glimmered in his eyes like dew upon a lotus. He clasped the two Kṛṣṇas—Vāsudeva and Dhanañjaya—to his breast, his voice trembling with emotion:
“By good fortune, I behold you both alive, your vow accomplished.
By good fortune the sinful Sindhu-lord is slain, and our enemies sink into grief as into a boundless sea.
O Keśava, Sovereign of all worlds, those who have thee for teacher can accomplish no impossible deed.
Through thy grace shall we triumph, as Indra triumphed over the Dānavas of old.
Wherever thou art pleased, O giver of honors, there sin fades, defeat flees, and glory abides.
Through thy favor Indra became king of heaven and lord of immortality;
through thy favor the moving and unmoving world keeps its ordained course.
When all was water and darkness, through thee arose creation;
thou art the source, the immutable, the eternal soul.
They that take refuge in thee, O Hṛṣīkeśa, never falter.
Thou art the ancient one, the Supreme, sung in the Vedas,
the unseen self of all beings, the God of gods.
I bow to thee, O universal soul, Lord of winged and earthbound creatures alike!
He who is thy friend, or strives for the good of Dhanañjaya,
attains thee also, and with thee, joy everlasting.”
As the son of Dharma thus poured forth his praise, Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna smiled gently and replied with joined hands:
“The Sindhu king hath perished in the fire of thy wrath, O mighty one.
Though Duryodhana’s host was vast and proud, it is withering like grass before a storm.
Thy anger, O king, is destiny itself—
for whomever thou regardest with ire, him even the gods cannot save.
The grandsire Bhīṣma fell first, struck down already by thy frown,
and the rest shall follow, caught in the wheel of thy righteousness.
For the kingdom, for life, for sons and all their joys—
there is no refuge now for the Kauravas,
since thou, O son of Dharma, hast turned thy eyes upon them in wrath.”
Then came Bhīma and Sātyaki, scarred with arrows, their armor dark with blood. Bowing low before their elder, they sat upon the earth encircled by the Pāñcālas. Yudhiṣṭhira looked upon them as a father upon sons returned from peril and said with a voice bright with relief:
“By fortune I see you both, heroes escaped from that ocean of foes
where Droṇa raged like an alligator and the son of Hṛdika like a shark.
By fortune all the kings are vanquished, by fortune Droṇa and Kṛtavarman are struck down,
and Karṇa himself wounded with barbed shafts.
By fortune Śalya turned away before your might, and ye have returned unbroken.
You have honored my command and faced the sea of war—
ye are my life, ye are my pride. By fortune, again, I behold you both!”
So speaking, the son of Pāṇḍu embraced Bhīma and Yuyudhāna and wept tears of joy. And seeing their king’s heart eased, the whole host of the Pāṇḍavas grew radiant and shouted aloud; their spirits soared like fire rekindled, and once more they turned their minds to battle.