novelraw Arc 4 - Ghaṭotkacha-Vadha Parva - Chapter 4 - The Night Attack
Arc 4 - Ghaṭotkacha-Vadha Parva - Chapter 4 - The Night Attack
Sañjaya said:
Then raged that dreadful night-battle, O King, when heaven and earth were shrouded in darkness and dust. Warriors, unable to see their own standards or friends, fought by sound and name alone—calling out each other’s lineage as they clashed unseen. Guided by echo and memory, Kṣatriyas struck at phantoms in the gloom; elephants trampled allies, and steeds stumbled over the fallen.
Droṇa and Karṇa and Kṛpa—those rivers of steel— and Bhīma and Dhṛṣṭadyumna and Sātyaki—those storms of wrath— swept through the field, crushing all who stood before them. Foes and friends alike fell confused in that whirl of blindness; the cries of the wounded, the neigh of steeds, and the trumpet-call of maddened elephants mingled with the roar of despair.
Dark was the world; no moon, no flame—
Only the cry of death and name;
Only the clash where brothers slew,
Each thinking the other an unseen foe.
All this, O King, was the fruit of thy son’s folly. When the darkness thickened and the senses of men were lost, even the mightiest wavered. The field became a grave of confusion— an ocean of blood beneath a clouded sky.
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:
“What, O Sañjaya, became of you all then—when night covered the world and terror unstrung your strength? How did the two armies see again in that gloom?”
Sañjaya continued:
Then the shattered Kaurava host, rallying at Duryodhana’s call, formed once more its compact ranks. Droṇa stood at the van; Śalya guarded the rear; Aśvatthāman held the right wing, and Śakuni of Gāndhāra the left. The king himself rode among them, urging his men and crying aloud:
“Lay aside the bow for a moment—
take up lamps in your hands, O heroes!
Let light be our shield this night!”
Joyfully the footmen obeyed, each seizing a blazing torch. Then, O Bharata, a miracle was seen. The gods and Ṛṣis, the Gandharvas and Apsarases, the Yakṣas and Nāgas, the Kinnaras and Vidyādharas—watchers of war from the skies—lit their own celestial lamps. Fragrant flames fell from every quarter of heaven; from Nārada and Parvata themselves came lanterns of divine oil, burning for Duryodhana’s cause.
Soon the Kaurava host shone like a lake of stars. Five lamps crowned each chariot, three gleamed upon each elephant, and one large flame burned on every horse. In an instant the dark plain blazed with light. The armour and ornaments of warriors flashed back the fire, their maces and darts flared like brands in the wind.
The sky became a sea of flame,
Reflected gold on every frame;
The bows were serpents shedding light,
And Droṇa shone—an armored sun at night.
So bright was his golden mail, so fierce his aura, that he seemed a second midday in that moonless hour. Every sword, every scimitar, mirrored the lamps; every jewel cast a hundred rays. Umbrellas, yak-tails, and garlands glittered; blood-wet weapons gleamed like lightning in storm-clouds. The air trembled with the shimmer of gold and fire, as though the gods had rekindled the sun in secret.
Not to be outdone, the sons of Pāṇḍu likewise illumined their ranks. On each elephant they placed seven lamps, on each chariot ten, and two upon every steed. Torches flared from the flanks, the van, the rear, and the banners high above. Soon both armies—Kurū and Pāṇḍava—burned alike, each a constellation of war.
The field became a second sky,
Where stars were lamps and men would die;
Where helmets gleamed like planets thrown,
And blood was fire, and flesh was stone.
That brilliance spread across earth and air; the heavens opened, and hosts of gods and spirits came to watch— Ṛṣis crowned with tapas, Gandharvas with their harps, Apsarases with faces like dawn, and the souls of slain warriors rising toward the stars. The plain of Kurukṣetra became a second heaven— thronged with devas and ghosts, elephants and chariots, torches and streaming banners, bright as the clash of Devas and Dānavas in ancient time.
The rush of arrows was like monsoon wind;
chariots were clouds; the neighing of steeds and the trumpet of elephants
were thunder; the shafts were rain;
and the blood of men and beasts became the flood of that dreadful storm.
In that tempest of light and slaughter, Aśvatthāman—fiery son of the preceptor— shone forth in wrath among the Pāṇḍavas like the noon sun at the season’s end, scorching the world with his blinding ray.
Thus flamed the night of lamps and doom,
Where heroes burned as offerings made;
And amid that blaze of gods and gloom,
Aśvatthāman strode—fire unafraid.
Sañjaya said:
When the field that had long been shrouded in darkness and dust grew radiant with the light of a thousand lamps, the warriors of both hosts beheld one another once more—each filled with wrath, each thirsting for the blood of his rival.
Spears glittered, swords flashed, and the clash of steel arose beneath a heaven alive with torches. The lamps of men and gods and Gandharvas, resting on golden stands studded with gems, and burning with fragrant oils, made the plain of Kurukṣetra blaze like the star-strewn sky.
All the quarters of the earth shone red with fire. The night itself seemed aflame, as though the end of creation had come. The horizon glimmered like a ring of trees lit by fireflies in the rains. Then, O King, elephants met elephants, steeds met steeds, cars clashed with cars, and warriors smote warriors in joy and fury, each eager for victory or death.
The battle of the fourfold hosts began anew, a storm of roaring trumpets, neighing chargers, and the ring of steel. Amid that tumult, the diademed Arjuna, moved by wrath and by the cries of his brothers, drove forth like a comet tearing through the sky, breaking the lines of the Kauravas and shaking the earth with the roll of his chariot wheels. His arrows fell thick as monsoon rain; kings and warriors alike quailed before him.
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:
“When that invincible son of Pāṇḍu, maddened with wrath and flaming with vengeance, rushed into my son’s host, what befell your hearts, O Sañjaya? When that lion among men entered the midst of my army, what thought possessed the soldiers? What plan did Duryodhana conceive? Who were those heroes that dared oppose the wielder of Gāṇḍīva?
Who guarded Droṇa’s car on right and left? Who followed him from behind? Who went before him as he advanced like a fire among dry reeds? That mighty bowman, that blazing preceptor, who struck the Pañchālas like a lightning storm—alas, how did Droṇa, my greatest, fall?
Ever thou speakest of my enemies as calm and undaunted,
but of my sons and kinsmen as routed and slain!
Tell me, Sañjaya, by whose destiny was my fortune overturned?”
Sañjaya said:
Then, understanding Droṇa’s silent wish for battle, Duryodhana spoke to his brothers, his voice trembling yet resolute:
“Vikarna, Citraseṇa, Suparśva, Durdharṣa, Dīrghabāhu, and ye Kauravas of valorous heart—stand guard behind the preceptor.
Let Kṛtavarman, son of Hṛdika, protect his right; let Śala defend his left.
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The remnant of the proud Trigartas, ever eager for death, shall form his van.
Droṇa is mercy itself, but the foes are ruthless; surround him well.
For the sake of our kingdom, protect him, O heroes, with your lives.”
Then he cried aloud, urging all the hosts to action:
“Droṇa is our fire; he is our sun!
None can face him in battle—not gods, nor men.
Yet Dṛṣṭadyumna, the accursed slayer of his sire,
roams the field like a wolf. Guard Droṇa well from him.
When the Pañchālas are consumed, Aśvatthāman will strike down Dṛṣṭadyumna.
When Arjuna falls to Karṇa’s shaft,
and Bhīma and the twins are subdued,
then victory shall be ours for all time!”
So spoke Duryodhana, his eyes blazing in the torchlight, and once more he drove his army into the furnace of war.
Then the two hosts clashed again, each burning for triumph. Arjuna’s arrows rained upon the Kauravas, and the Kauravas, roaring, poured their weapons upon Arjuna. Droṇa’s son covered Dṛṣṭadyumna with shafts; Droṇa himself poured his fury upon the Sṛñjayas, and the sky flashed with their arrows like lightning in a storm.
The Pañchālas and Kauravas, entangled in slaughter,
fought as though no dawn would ever come.
The lamps flickered in the wind of their chariots,
and the night—half fire, half shadow—
echoed with the thunder of maces and the hiss of arrows.
Never before, O King, nor in tales of ages past,
Had such a battle been seen by men or gods.
For that night was the meeting of valor and doom—
When warriors became stars, and stars fell as men.
Sañjaya said:
When that terrible nocturnal slaughter advanced, O King, when the dust and darkness were both dispelled by countless lamps, then Dharma’s son, Yudhiṣṭhira, whose heart ever inclined to righteousness, beheld Drona raging in the field like Death himself with lifted noose.
Then, stretching his bow, the king of the Pāṇḍavas commanded aloud:
“Let all our might fall upon Drona alone!
Strike not at others, O Pañchālas and Somakas—
strike at the preceptor, root of this tempest of blood!
Until he falls, victory shall not dawn.”
At his word, the Pañchālas and Somakas shouted fiercely, and like waves leaping toward a rock, they rushed upon Drona. From the Kaurava side too arose a roar of answering wrath as the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra and their allies spurred their steeds and rushed to meet the attack.
The clash of both hosts shook the earth.
Kṛtavarman, the son of Hṛidika, advanced swiftly against Yudhiṣṭhira,
like a mad elephant rushing to meet another tusker.
Bhūri, the Kuru warrior, rushed against Sātyaki,
Karna himself, blazing with pride, barred the path of Sahadeva;
Duryodhana thundered forth upon Bhīmasena like Yama with uplifted mace;
Śakuni of Gāndhāra sped toward Nakula, his heart full of guile;
Kṛpa, son of Śaradwat, met Śikhaṇḍin,
and Duḥśāsana barred Prativindhya with proud challenge.
Aśvatthāman, lion among men, with eyes red as copper, met Bhīma’s son—the Rākṣasa Ghaṭotkacha— whose illusions were as a hundred veils of shadow. Vṛṣasena held back mighty Drupada with a wall of steel, and Śalya of Madra clashed with Virāṭa of Matsya. Citraseṇa met young Śatānīka, Nakula’s son, while the demon Alambūṣa rose roaring before Arjuna. At the heart of the storm, Dṛṣṭadyumna, prince of the Pañchālas, smiled grimly as he closed upon Drona himself.
Thus hero met hero—elephant against elephant, horseman against horseman, chariot upon chariot— and in that night, the field rang like a stormy sea of iron. The rushing steeds appeared like winged mountains; horsemen charged like winds; and men slew men in heaps with clubs, maces, and swords until the ground became a red and smoking mire.
Then Hṛidika’s son, fierce as fire, barred the way of Yudhiṣṭhira.
Like the continents resisting the swelling ocean,
he held back the king of Dharma.
The two met amid thunder of conches and cries of “Strike!”
Yudhiṣṭhira pierced him first with five arrows, then twenty more, saying, “Wait, O hero, wait!” Kṛtavarman, burning with wrath, cut off the king’s bow with a single crescent shaft and smote him with seven arrows. Yudhiṣṭhira seized another bow, and struck Hṛidika’s son upon arm and chest with ten keen shafts. The Vrishni, pierced and flaming with anger, covered the son of Dharma with seven more arrows, each biting like a serpent’s fang.
Then Yudhiṣṭhira, breaking his foe’s bow, severing the finger-guard from his hand, shot five shafts that split through Kṛtavarman’s golden mail and sank into the earth, glimmering like snakes in their burrow.
The warrior of the Madhu race, bleeding yet fierce,
snatched another bow, and in less than a blink
smote Yudhiṣṭhira with seventy arrows—
sixty in storm, ten in calm precision.
Then the son of Dharma, resolute and vast of soul,
took up a dart of golden sheen and hurled it,
whistling through the air like a comet.
That dart struck Kṛtavarman’s right arm and buried itself in the ground. But even as the Pāṇḍava smiled, the Vrishni hero seized a fresh bow and darkened the sky with arrows. His shafts cut down Yudhiṣṭhira’s charioteer, his steeds, and the standard that bore the golden moon. The king of Dharma, suddenly left afoot, seized sword and shield and rushed forward, but Kṛtavarman’s swift hand sheared them both in twain.
Then Yudhiṣṭhira took a shining lance with a golden shaft, and hurled it roaring like Indra’s thunderbolt. The son of Hṛidika laughed softly and cleft it in midair, its halves falling like stars from a broken constellation. Then, with relentless speed, he poured a hundred arrows upon Yudhiṣṭhira, and tore the golden armor from his body.
That armor fell, star-splintered, to the ground,
like a cluster of planets sinking from the heavens;
and the king, unarmed and bleeding, drew back from battle,
his heart yet steadfast in the law of war.
Thus was Yudhiṣṭhira vanquished by Kṛtavarman, and the mighty Vrishni, exulting, turned once more to guard the wheel of Drona’s car— where death itself waited, unseen in the firelit dark.
When Bhūri, the Kuru warrior, beheld Sātyaki advancing upon him like a maddened elephant rushing to a lake, he set his heart upon the encounter. The grandson of Sini, his eyes burning with wrath, drew his bow to its full and struck Bhūri on the chest with five arrows. From those wounds gushed blood, crimson and bright under the flickering lamps of night. Bhūri in return smote him with ten sharp shafts, each one sinking into the flesh of the Vṛṣṇi hero with deadly force.
Their bows were bent like rainbows, their eyes red with fury. Between them the sky darkened beneath showers of arrows. Death seemed to stand watching between them, impartial and patient. For a while the combat was even, each matching the other stroke for stroke.
Then Sātyaki smiled amidst his rage and spoke:
“Wait, O Kuru, wait and stand thy ground!
Thou boastest thy lineage and thine arms,
But none shall see thee on the morrow’s dawn—
For this night I shall lay thee low!”
Saying so, he cut down Bhūri’s bow with a crescent-headed arrow, and pierced him again with nine keen shafts that gleamed like falling stars. Bhūri, reeling and bloodied, seized another bow and struck back fiercely, but the Satwata hero cleft that bow as well, laughing as he did.
Infuriated, Sātyaki hurled a blazing dart, bright as a meteor, and it struck Bhūri full in the chest. The Kuru fell from his car, his lifeblood flowing like molten gold, as the sun drops crimson beyond the hills. The fall of Bhūri shook the Kaurava ranks.
Then Asvatthāman, the son of Droṇa, rushed forward like a tempest of wrath, his armor glinting red beneath the torchlight. With eyes of fire he cried:
“Wait, O Sātyaki! Wait and face me!
Thou shalt taste the shafts of Droṇa’s son!
This night shall prove thy final field,
And my arrows shall be thy pyre!”
Then from his bow he loosed a thousand shafts that hissed through the air like serpents. The sky itself seemed to rain steel.
Beholding the fury of the preceptor’s son, Ghaṭotkacha, the mighty Rākṣasa, rose like a black mountain from the mist. His roar rolled across Kurukṣetra like thunder across stormy seas.
“Wait, O son of Droṇa! Thou shalt not flee!
I am Bhīma’s son, born of flame and night.
As Kārttikeya smote Mahisha the demon,
So shall I rend thee beneath these stars!”
Thus crying aloud, the monstrous warrior rushed forward, his chariot shaking the ground. His arrows were long as chariot axles, his bow vast as the arch of heaven. He poured forth a deluge of shafts like a monsoon storm upon the son of Droṇa.
Asvatthāman, however, calm as the eye of a cyclone, broke that shower of arrows with his own, each glowing like a serpent of flame. The sky blazed with their meeting; sparks flew as though the firmament itself were on fire.
The duel that followed was like a vision of the gods — weapons clashed in midair, lighting the field with flashes like lightning over a stormy ocean. Each arrow’s hiss was the cry of fate.
Then Ghaṭotkacha, raging like the fire of dissolution, pierced Asvatthāman in the chest with ten arrows blazing like the end of time. The son of Droṇa trembled as though struck by thunder. Grasping his flagstaff, he swayed and swooned, and the Kauravas cried aloud, believing him slain.
The earth stood still, the torches dimmed,
The warriors whispered, “Droṇa’s son is fallen!”
But from the dust he rose again,
His eyes twin coals of fury’s flame.
Roused to greater wrath, Asvatthāman drew his bow with his left hand, stretching it to his ear, and let fly a shaft like Yama’s rod of death. That arrow, golden-winged and terrible, struck Ghaṭotkacha full in the chest and passed through him into the earth.
The Rākṣasa staggered. His strength ebbed like the tide at dusk. Seated upon his chariot, he drooped like a storm-felled tree, and his charioteer, trembling with dread, bore him swiftly from the field.
Then Asvatthāman roared aloud, and his body shone like the sun at noon. The sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra exulted, raising their weapons high and shouting his name, while the night itself seemed to tremble with their voices.
Meanwhile, before Droṇa’s chariot, Bhīma and Duryodhana met like two enraged lions in a mountain pass. The Kuru king struck first, loosing many sharp arrows that found their mark. Bhīma answered with nine of his own, each biting deep. Duryodhana shot twenty more, and the air was thick with whistling death. Their bodies glowed beneath the torchlight like twin orbs half-veiled by storm clouds.
“Wait, O Bhīma!” cried Duryodhana.
“Taste the shafts of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s son!”
He loosed five arrows that glittered like the tongues of serpents. But Bhīma’s aim was swifter—he cut down the king’s bow and his standard, and pierced him with ninety straight shafts. Duryodhana, stung to fury, took another bow, and again Bhīma shattered it. One after another—second, third, fourth, fifth—each bow that the Kuru king raised was cloven by the son of Vāyu.
Then Bhīma seized a massive dart, iron and flame, and hurled it roaring through the sky. But Duryodhana split it in midair into three flashing fragments, as though parting a woman’s hair.
Whirling his mace, Bhīma cast it upon Duryodhana’s car. The blow crushed the steeds, the driver, and the chariot itself into ruin. The Kuru king, fearful for his life, leapt aside and mounted another car, that of the warrior Nandaka.
Believing him slain, Bhīma roared aloud—a sound that shook the night. The Kaurava ranks faltered, crying out in terror. Yudhiṣṭhira too heard that roar and thought Suyodhana fallen. He hastened toward his brother through the gloom, rallying the Pañchālas, the Śṛñjayas, the Matsyas, the Kaikeyas, and the Cedis, all burning for the death of Droṇa.
And so, amid darkness and flickering flame, the night grew fierce with slaughter once more— men striking unseen foes, chariots crashing in shadow, elephants screaming as they fell. It was as though the end of an age had come, and the field of Kurukṣetra had become the furnace of Time.