novelraw Arc 4 - Ghaṭotkacha-Vadha Parva - Chapter 2 - Karna Insults Kripa
Arc 4 - Ghaṭotkacha-Vadha Parva - Chapter 2 - Karna Insults Kripa
Sañjaya continued:
Hearing those cold words of restraint, Ghaṭotkacha burned the hotter for his son. Grief made his eyes copper-red; wrath made his breath a bellows. He strode toward Aśvatthāman and spoke like thunder over hills: “Think me not base, O son of Droṇa, to be cowed by talk. I was begotten of Bhīma in Kuru’s famed line. I am a son of the Pāṇḍavas—who do not turn from war. I am lord of the Rākṣasas, in might the peer of the Ten-Necked. Stand, stand! Thou shalt not escape with life. Here, on this field, I uproot thy thirst for battle.”
Thus vowed the night-born, iron-browed;
He sprang—a lion toward an elephant proud;
His arrows fell like monsoon rain—
A sky of iron, a sea of pain.
He loosed long shafts, axle-thick, in volleys without count. Aśvatthāman broke that storm mid-flight with his own winged steel, and high above, in the welkin, arrow met arrow—sparks hissed and flickered like a swarm of fiery gnats. Seeing his first illusion shorn away, the Rākṣasa vanished, then rose anew as a mountain: crag and cliff and trees for hair, and from its cascading flanks poured spears and lances, swords and clubs—ceaseless cataracts of war. Aśvatthāman, unmoved, called the Vajra-weapon; the mountain shattered, crumbled, died.
Then Ghaṭotkacha became a bank of blue cloud, rainbow-fringed, and rained down stones and boulders in fury. The son of Droṇa aimed the Vāyavya; the cloud was scattered to tatters. Turning like the compass itself, he filled the quarters with arrows and dropped a hundred thousand car-warriors on the earth like fruit in storm.
Ghaṭotkacha came on again, fearless, the curve of his bow like a scimitar of night, and around him surged a host of Rākṣasas—lion-faced, elephant-strong—some on tuskers, some on cars, some whipping steeds to foam. Paulastyas and Yātudhānas marched mixed, their valor a match for gods; strange helms, stranger mail; brows knotted, eyes aflame. Thy son Duryodhana grew wan at heart. Then Aśvatthāman said, “Stand back, O King, and set the lords of earth aside. I slay thy foes; defeat shall not be thine. Hearten thy legions.”
Duryodhana answered softly, “It is no wonder thou speakest thus, son of Gautamī; thy heart for us is wide.” Then he sent Śakuni with a sea of men—sixty thousand cars and chosen chiefs—to hold Dhanañjaya, and named in line Karṇa, Vṛṣasena, Kṛpa, Nīla, the Northerners, Kṛtavarman, the sons of Purumitra, Duḥśāsana, Nikumbha, Kuṇḍabhedin, Pūrañjaya, Dṛḍharatha, Hemakampana, Śalya, Āruṇi, Indrasena, Sañjaya, Vijaya, Jaya, Purakrathin, Jayavarman, Sudarśana—foot by the tens of thousands. “O uncle,” he said, “strike down Bhīma and the twins and righteous Yudhiṣṭhira, as the wielder of the thunder smote the Asuras.” Thus charged, Suvala’s son sped like fate.
Meanwhile, the battle of the night grew terrible—like Śakra and Prahlāda in elder tales. Ghaṭotkacha, all fury, struck Aśvatthāman ten times in the chest with shafts like poison and flame. The son of Droṇa swayed upon the terrace of his car like a tall tree rocked in a gale; then the Rākṣasa, with a broad-headed arrow, cut his bright bow clean through. Swiftly the Brahmin-warrior lifted another, stout as a vow, and rained arrows like a cloud unburdening.
Gold-winged, sky-ranging, mantra-fired,
His shafts climbed where the storm aspired;
They found the night-born in his lair—
And lit the dark with scarlet air.
The Rākṣasa ranks quailed—broad-chested, tusker-led—like wild elephants harried by lions. Drivers, steeds, and might of men burned in his arrow-fire till he shone like Agni ending worlds. An Akṣauhiṇī of Rākṣasas he consumed alone, and stood resplendent as Maheśvara after Tripura’s fall.
Then Ghaṭotkacha, wrath redoubled, roared, “Slay Droṇa’s son!” and the fanged ones obeyed—bright teeth, great faces, mouths agape, long tongues, eyes like coals—roaring leonine, brandishing every wrought and wicked thing: darts and śataghnīs, spiked maces and aśanis, long lances, axes and scimitars, kampanas and kuṇapas, hūlas and rockets, stones and pots of boiling treacle, iron thūṇas and mallets. All the sky became a falling forge above Aśvatthāman’s head.
Thy warriors groaned to see it. But Droṇa’s son, unblinking, hewed that iron rain to dust with thunder-keen arrows, then loosed other charmed shafts and struck down hosts by the hundred—so that the Rākṣasa herd shrank like beasts lashed by storm. Their fury mounted and they surged again; yet alone and unsupported he burned them before their prince, a Samvartaka-fire devouring to the root.
Who could endure that solar blaze?
Not kings, nor clans, nor hero’s gaze.
Save Hiḍimbā’s son—grim, vast, and dread—
All turned the eye, all bent the head.
Ghaṭotkacha, eyes rolling with wrath, smote his palms and bit his lip. “Drive me to Droṇa’s son,” he ordered. His formidable car, bannered with triumph, rushed. Whirling a celestial Aśani hung with eight bells, he hurled it with a roar. Aśvatthāman leapt from his own car, left bow and standard, seized the whirling bolt, and flung it back. In the same breath the Rākṣasa had vaulted free—just as the Aśani struck and consumed to ash the iron chariot, steeds, driver, and flag, then pierced the earth and vanished into her womb. All creatures marveled to behold the feat.
Ghaṭotkacha mounted Dhṛṣṭadyumna’s car and took up a bow terrible to see—vast as Indra’s own. From there he and Prishata’s son rained arrows bright as serpents, and Aśvatthāman answered by the thousand; but the two lions—Rākṣasa and Pāñcāla—broke his shafts with arrows whose touch was fire. The battle grew fierce, gladdening warriors’ hearts even as it scythed them down.
Then Bhīmasena came with a thousand cars, three hundred elephants, six thousand horses; yet Droṇa’s son, tireless, fought on—against Ghaṭotkacha, against Dhṛṣṭadyumna, against their gathered bands—his prowess wondrous past telling. In but the twinkling of an eye he destroyed another Akṣauhiṇī of Rākṣasas—cars, elephants, horses, drivers—before Bhīma’s gaze, before Hiḍimbā’s son, before Prishata’s child, the twins, the king, and Kṛṣṇa’s lion-bannered friend.
Elephants toppled upon elephants, crestless hills collapsing; the ground writhed with trunkless bodies like living snakes. Golden staffs and royal umbrellas, strewn thick, made the night-glow like a sky at Yuga’s end—moons and suns and planets all tumbled to the dust. And Droṇa’s son made a bloody river run:
its water—blood of beasts and men;
its frogs—tall standards;
its tortoises—drums;
its swans—white umbrellas;
its crocodiles—kāṅkas and vultures;
its fish—shifting weapons;
its stones—great elephants;
its sharks—steeds and tuskers;
its banks—cars afloat and breaking;
its trees—ranked banners;
its snakes—lances, darts, and swords;
its mire—marrow and flesh;
its rafts—headless trunks;
its moss—the hair of slain.
It flowed to Yama’s ocean and made the timid cold.
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Having reaped the Rākṣasas, he turned his iron will upon Ghaṭotkacha, and with straight-going shafts he wounded the Pāṇḍavas’ chiefs—Bhīma, the sons of Prishata—then struck down Suratha and his brother Śatrunjaya, then Vālaṇika, Jayanika, and Jaya; with a lion’s cry he felled Priṣḍhra and proud Candraśena; with ten keen arrows he slew the ten sons of Kuntibhoja; Śrutāyus he sent to Yama, and Śatrunjaya, by three red-eyed shafts, he sped to Śakra’s seat.
Then, wrath unbridled, Aśvatthāman set a fierce, straight shaft upon the string—terrible as Death’s own rod—and aimed at Ghaṭotkacha. The arrow, bright-winged, went clean through the Rākṣasa’s chest and buried itself in earth. Hiḍimbā’s son fell senseless on his car. Dhṛṣṭadyumna, thinking him slain, bore him swiftly from Droṇa’s son and laid him on another chariot. The car-force of Yudhiṣṭhira turned away; Droṇa’s son, victorious, roared aloud, and thy princes worshiped him.
The field was rock and gulch of gore;
Rākṣasa bodies, arrow-torn,
Lay like black hills on a crimson shore—
Night’s mountains felled before the morn.
Siddhas and Gandharvas, Piśācas and Nāgas, winged birds, Pitṛs and croaking ravens, man-eaters and ghosts; Apsarases and celestials—all these together praised the deed of Droṇa’s son. And yet, O King—though voices filled the sky—fate stood silent, counting breaths, for the tale was not yet ended, and night had one last star to spend.
Sañjaya said:
Beholding the sons of Drupada and of Kuntibhoja, and thousands of Rākṣasas laid low by the son of Droṇa, the sons of Pāṇḍu took counsel in wrath. Yudhiṣṭhira, Bhīmasena, Dhṛṣṭadyumna of the Prīṣata line, and Yuyudhāna set their hearts like iron on battle.
Somadatta, once more aflame at the sight of Sātyaki, roofed the Satwata with a tight, unbroken rain of arrows. There rose a fight fierce to behold, both armies straining for victory. For Sātyaki’s sake, Bhīma struck the Kaurava elder with ten keen shafts; Somadatta answered with a hundred.
Old grief is fire in seasoned wood;
His shafts came fast, his purpose good.
But where the lion’s laughter rings,
The bow of age grows brittle-strings.
Sātyaki, lion-toothed and lotus-eyed, pierced Somadatta with thunder-hard arrows—ten, then seven more—each a streak of flame. Fighting for the Satwata, Bhīmasena hurled a new and terrible parigha at the elder’s helm, while Sātyaki’s razor-bright shaft flew for his breast. Mace-bar and arrow met as twin meteors—both smote true. Somadatta toppled senseless, and Valhika, seeing his son downed, drove against Sātyaki with a monsoon of steel.
For the Satwata’s sake, Bhīma met Valhika with nine arrows. Then the son of Pratīpa, fury-filled, launched a dart like the Thunderer’s own. Bhīma reeled, swooned, returned to himself—and lifted a mace. The blow swept Valhika’s head like a tree cut clean by lightning. He fell—great trunk on reddened earth.
Where thunder walks in mortal frame,
Crowns fall like fruit before the flame;
The night took Valhika’s last breath—
And named the field a house of death.
At once ten of thy sons—prowess vaunted like Daśaratha’s child—pressed Bhīma: Nāgadatta, Dṛḍharatha, Vīrāvāhu, Ayobhuja, Dṛḍha, Suhasta, Vīrāgas, Pramatha, and Ugrayāyin. Rage lighting his face, Bhīma nocked ten heavy-hearted shafts; each found a vital mark. They fell from cars like tall cliffs shorn by storm. With ten for ten he answered, then veiled Karṇa’s cherished son in sifting hail. Vṛkaratha, Karṇa’s brother, scored Bhīma with many shafts—only to be swiftly unmade. Seven of Suvala’s kin he struck down thereafter, and pressed mighty Śatachandra into the earth.
Śakuni’s brothers—Gavākṣa, Śarabha, Bibhu, Subhaga, Bhānudatta—stormed upon the son of Vāyu like rains on a mountain. Bhīma answered five kings with five arrows; five banners dipped, five lives went silent. Seeing princes topple, many great kings lost heart and wavered.
Then Yudhiṣṭhira, wrath made steady by dharma, drove his car into thy ranks before the Pot-born and thy sons. He sent the Ambashṭhas and Mālavas, brave Trigartas and Śivis, to the still kingdom of Yama. He lopped the Abhiśāhas, Sūrasenas, Valhikas, and Vāsatis till the soil ran slick with flesh and blood. The Yaudheyas, Mālavas, and multitudes of Madrakas he sped in a twinkling with well-feathered death.
Around the king’s car the air grew sharp with cries: “Slay! Seize! Pierce! Cut!”—and then Droṇa, urged by thy son, roofed Yudhiṣṭhira with shafts. With the Vāyavya, the preceptor smote; the son of Dharma met it with its like and broke the wind with wind.
Droṇa’s eyes flamed copper-red. For thy son’s vow and his own, he sped Varuṇa, Yāmya, Agneya, Tvaṣṭra, Sāvitra—celestial weapons in terrible succession. Yudhiṣṭhira, firm in law and fearless, matched them clean, weapon for weapon. Then the Pot-born shaped Aindra and Prajāpatya; Kuru’s foremost prince invoked Mahendra and stilled their rage.
Spell rose to spell in midnight air,
Bright rivers crossed and perished there;
Two peaks of art and iron will—
They met on fire and stood more still.
At last the preceptor raised Brahma; darkness closed like a clasped hand. Creatures shuddered. But Kuntī’s son, steady and clear, unstrung it with Brahma’s twin. The foremost warriors praised both bulls among men, balanced in mastery amidst the night.
Abandoning the king, Droṇa wheeled upon Drupada’s division and let loose the Vāyavya anew. The Pāñcālas fled in sight of Bhīma and the diadem-crowned son of Pṛthā. Then those two—one to the right, one to the left—threw broad curtains of arrows across the rout and turned to face the storm. The Kāikeyas, Śṛñjayas, and high-souled Pāñcālas followed; with them came the Matsyas and the Satwatas.
The Bhārata host, hewn by the diadem-decked hero and wrapped in sleep and darkness, began to break. Droṇa and thy son strained to rally them—calling, signaling, striking—but the tide had turned; the night itself seemed to lean against them.
Dark ran the ground, and dark the sky;
The lamp of courage guttered dry.
Yet dharma’s sons held fast their breath—
And walked the razor-ridge of death.
Sañjaya said:
Beholding the Pāṇḍava host swell with wrath—Pāñcālas, Kāikeyas, Matsyas, and the mighty car-warriors roaring like hissing serpents—thy son, Duryodhana, turned to Karṇa and spoke in urgency: “O friend devoted to friends, the hour has come when thy hand must hold us fast. Our lines are pressed on every side; the sons of Pāṇḍu exult. Save, O Karṇa, the warriors that still stand for me. The car-force of the Pāñcālas blazes with the power of Śakra himself.”
Karṇa answered, eyes bright with iron resolve: “Though even Purandara should come to shield Pārtha, I would, vanquishing the Thunderer, strike down the son of Pāṇḍu. Be cheered, O Bhārata! I will give thee victory as Fire’s son gave it unto Vāsava. Among the sons of Pāṇḍu, Phālguna is the pillar; at him I shall hurl the fatal dart of Śakra’s workmanship. When that great bowman falls, his brothers will bend or break, and the earth will be thine.”
Thus spoke the son of the charioteer—
His breath a spark, his boast a spear;
He named the sky, he named the rod,
And called on fate to nod.
Smiling a little, Kṛpa, son of Śaradvat, addressed the Sūta’s son: “Thy speech is fair, O Karṇa. If triumph were in words alone, our king would stand secure behind thy boasts. Oft hast thou met the sons of Pāṇḍu; as oft hast thou returned defeated. When Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s son was borne away by Gandharvas, all fought—save thee, the first to fly. In Virāṭa’s city, joined with all the Kurus, thou wert unstrung by one man. Thou art not the match of even a single Pāṇḍava, that Phālguna whom Rudra himself once favored. Why build castles in air when Partha stands at hand? Kṣatriyas prove with arms, Brahmanas with speech; Arjuna proves with arrows—thou with thunderless clouds.”
Karṇa replied, unshaken: “Clouds in season must roar, O Brāhmaṇa; so heroes speak before they strike, and then bring fruit like steeds on the soil. Resolution draws Destiny to its work. I have resolved to bear a great burden; therefore I sound the lion’s call. If I slay the sons of Pāṇḍu with Kṛṣṇa and the Sātvatas, what is that to thee? Behold the fruit of my roar: today I contend with Kṛṣṇa and Pārtha, united and unyielding.”
Kṛpa rejoined, calm as a winter sun:
“Words that burn are not deeds done.
Those two—Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna—stand
Beyond the bite of god or land.
Yudhiṣṭhira—truth-kept, pure of fire;
His brothers—strength and law entire;
Their kin—keen thunder for their blade;
On them a thousand banners shade.”
He named them—Dhṛṣṭadyumna and Śikhaṇḍin; Janamejaya son of Durmukṣa; Candraśena, Madraśena; Kṛtavarman, Dhruva, Dhara, Vāsucandra, Sutejana; the sons of Drupada and Drupada himself; the Matsya king with his brothers; Gajānīka, Vīrabhadra, Sudarśana, Śrutadhvaja; Vālaṇika and Jayanika; Jayapriya, Vijaya, Labhalakṣa, Jayasva, Kāmaratha; the fair brothers of Virāṭa; Nakula and Sahadeva; the five sons of Draupadī; and the night-born Rākṣasa, Ghaṭotkacha. “With such a sea beside them,” said Kṛpa, “the Pāṇḍavas will not sink. What folly to contend with Sauri himself, who has clad his mail for their sake?”
Karṇa bowed to the truth yet held to the steel: “All thou sayest of the Pāṇḍavas is true, O Gautama. They are men whom even gods and Dānavas cannot easily lay low. Yet with Śakra’s dart—the gift none can baffle—I shall strike down Savyasāchin. When Arjuna falls, Kṛṣṇa and his brethren will not hold the earth; all will end, and Kuru’s throne will stand untroubled. Policy makes possible what seems beyond reach; knowing this, I roar.
“Thou art old, a Brāhmaṇa, and lovest the Pāṇḍavas; therefore thou stings’t me with praise of them. Name again such words and I—” he checked his hand, then swept the field with his gaze— “Duryodhana, Droṇa, Śakuni, Durmukha, Jaya, Duḥśāsana, Vṛśasena, the ruler of Madra, thyself and Somadatta, Droṇa’s son, Vivinśati—all mailed and mighty—who among foes, even with Śakra’s strength, will break this ring? Heroes all, vowed to righteousness and eager for heaven—they will stand for Duryodhana’s victory. Yet victory, even for the foremost, rides with Destiny. Bhīṣma lies on arrows; Vikarna, Jayadratha, Bhūriśravā, Jaya, Jalaśaṇḍha, Sudakṣiṇa, Śala, and Bhagadatta—unconquerable men—have fallen to the Pāṇḍavas. Is this not Destiny’s print? Their champions, too, in hundreds have died. Both armies thin alike; I do not see in this the sole prowess of the Pāṇḍavas. Still, with all my might I strive for Duryodhana—let Destiny choose the crown.”
Thus in the night their counsels burned—
Pride and prudence, wheel by wheel turned;
One named the bolt, one named the bow—
And Fate stood silent, pale as snow.
Then Duryodhana’s heart steadied behind Karṇa’s pledge; the drums beat low and ominous; banners shivered in the wind. And far off, O King, the night-born storm was gathering—Ghaṭotkacha’s shadow stretching long—while the single dart of heaven, sworn to one life, slept yet upon Karṇa’s thought like fire under ash.