novelraw Arc 4 - Ghaṭotkacha-Vadha Parva - Chapter 5 - The Duel of Duḥśāsana and Prativindhya
Arc 4 - Ghaṭotkacha-Vadha Parva - Chapter 5 - The Duel of Duḥśāsana and Prativindhya
When the tumult of battle deepened around Droṇa’s blazing chariot, Karṇa, son of Vikarṭana, turned his wrath upon Sahadeva, the youngest of the Pāṇḍavas, who came forward seeking the preceptor’s life. The two warriors, both skilled in arms and fierce in valor, clashed beneath the torch-lit sky, their chariots circling like twin planets in collision.
Sahadeva, strong of arm, struck Karṇa with nine swift arrows, each shining like lightning. Again he smote him with nine more, straight and true. Karṇa answered that storm with a hundred arrows that darkened the heavens, and with a flash of his blade he cut down Sahadeva’s bowstring.
Then the son of Mādrī, quick as thought, seized another bow and pierced Karṇa with twenty keen shafts. Even the watching warriors marveled at that feat. But Karṇa, laughing lightly, slew Sahadeva’s steeds with his next volley and felled his charioteer with a shaft broad-headed and merciless.
The Pāṇḍava prince, bereft of his chariot, took up sword and shield, his eyes burning like coals. Yet even these Karṇa clove in twain with arrows swift as serpents, smiling the while.
Sahadeva, undaunted, lifted a massive mace of gold and iron and hurled it through the night like a meteor. Karṇa’s arrows met it midair, shattering it into fragments that fell ringing to the ground.
Then the son of Mādrī seized a gleaming dart and cast it, but that too Karṇa split apart before it reached him. Enraged beyond measure, Sahadeva leapt from his car, lifted a wheel torn from a broken chariot, and hurled it like a discus. The Sūta’s son cut it down with a thousand arrows as it spun toward him like the wheel of Death itself.
In a frenzy of fury, Sahadeva hurled everything within reach—the yokes of fallen cars, the limbs of elephants, the carcasses of steeds, even the corpses of warriors—at the unconquered Karṇa. Yet every missile, every fragment of death, was pierced and cast aside by his impenetrable storm of arrows.
When all his weapons were spent, Sahadeva stood defenseless, bleeding, his breath coming hard. Karṇa struck him then with many arrows—not to kill, but to humiliate—and the son of Mādrī, overcome and weaponless, turned back from battle.
Then Karṇa, pursuing him for a while, spoke with a smile both cruel and calm:
“Fight not, O prince, with those above thy reach.
Choose foes thine equal, son of Mādrī!
Go where thy brother wields the Gāṇḍīva’s flame,
Or turn thee home—
for battle is not thy field tonight.”
And, touching him gently with the horn of his bow, Karṇa added:
“Yonder Arjuna strives against the Kurus’ might—
Go aid him, or return to peace.
Against me, thou art but a leaf before the wind.”
Saying thus, Karṇa, that mighty car-warrior of truth and pride, passed onward toward the army of the Pañchālas. He slew not Sahadeva, though he had him within his grasp—remembering the words of Kuntī, his mother by birth, whose secret he bore within his heart.
Sahadeva, pierced not only by arrows but by those scornful words, felt his spirit sink. Faint and weary, he climbed into the car of Janamejaya, the prince of the Pañchālas, his wounds burning, his mind consumed by shame.
And thus the youngest son of Pāṇḍu, humbled yet unbroken, passed from the field like a wounded lion, while Karṇa, radiant as fire, pressed on toward the greater storm that destiny had prepared.
The field of Kurukṣetra glowed beneath the trembling light of torches and falling meteors when the ruler of the Madras, King Śalya, advanced against Virāṭa, the lord of Matsya. Each sought to reach Droṇa, whose chariot burned like a sun amid the dark. Between those two monarchs, each the master of a vast host, the battle raged like that ancient storm between Vṛtra and Indra in the days of the gods.
Śalya, ever swift and terrible, struck Virāṭa with a hundred straight-flying shafts that flashed like serpents in the firelight. The Matsya king, undaunted, answered him with nine arrows that tore through his mail, then with seventy-three more that clove his armor, and once again with a hundred shafts that fell like rain upon his chariot.
Then Śalya, laughing grimly, slew the four steeds of Virāṭa’s car and with two arrows cut away his umbrella and his royal standard. Deprived of his chariot, Virāṭa leapt down and stood upon the earth, loosing arrows in a furious storm that lit the night.
Seeing his brother bereft of steeds, brave Sātānīka came swiftly to his aid. But the ruler of the Madras, turning upon him with the precision of a hawk, pierced Sātānīka with many shafts and struck him dead upon his car.
When the valiant Sātānīka fell, King Virāṭa mounted the fallen hero’s chariot. His wrath doubled his strength; his eyes widened like a tiger’s in fury. Drawing his bow to its full, he poured a rain of arrows upon Śalya, veiling the Madra king in darkness.
Śalya, roused to greater rage, drew a hundred arrows at once and drove them into Virāṭa’s chest. The shafts shone like fire in the Matsya’s armor. Struck deep, the valiant king swooned and fell upon the terrace of his car. His charioteer, pale with fear, turned the steeds and bore him swiftly from the field.
Then the great host of the Matsyas and the Pañchālas, seeing their leader fallen, broke and fled through the night, crushed by Śalya’s arrows that whirred like the cries of unseen spirits.
But soon, from the far left of the field, a sound like the deep roll of clouds arose. It was Keśava and Arjuna—Kṛṣṇa and Pārtha—advancing together. Their chariot blazed like dawn through the smoke of war.
At that moment, from the shadows came another terror—Alamvusha, prince of the Rākṣasas, born of dark flame. His chariot was yoked with eight steeds, monstrous and wild, bearing faces of horse and man. Blood-red banners streamed above him, garlands of black iron hung from his frame, and over him wheeled a vulture of spotted wings, shrieking with hunger. His chariot was clad in bear-skins, its pole gleaming like obsidian, and its tall standard swayed like a black tree in storm.
The Rākṣasa, vast and terrible as a heap of living night, rushed toward Arjuna, scattering showers of arrows that fell upon the hero’s head like torrents of rain upon a mountain.
“Come, son of Pāṇḍu!” he roared.
“The sons of the night thirst for thy blood!
The feast of battle awaits thee, O Pārtha,
Amid the fires of the slain!”
Arjuna stood firm, unshaken, his banner of the great ape gleaming in the torchlight. He struck Alamvusha with six arrows, each finding its mark, and then with ten others he cut down the demon’s standard, tearing the vulture from the sky.
With swift precision he slew the driver, cut down the triple bow-string, the bow itself, and the four steeds that drew the monstrous car. The Rākṣasa, howling, seized another bow, but Arjuna, quicker than thought, clove it in two with a single shaft.
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Then, stringing the Gāṇḍīva anew, the son of Pāṇḍu struck the demon prince with four arrows that blazed like lightning. Pierced through, Alamvusha gave a cry that echoed through the ranks and fled into the shadows, his host scattering before him.
The path to Droṇa now lay open. Arjuna advanced like a storm, his bow singing death, his chariot wheels rolling like thunder. Men, elephants, and steeds fell before him— each struck down by shafts that shone like meteors. And those that lived fled in terror, as deer scatter before a forest fire.
The ground of Kurukṣetra grew red once more.
Thus did Pārtha press onward through the wreck of night,
while the cries of the slain mingled with the roar of heaven—
and the gods looked down, silent, upon the storm of fate.
Sañjaya said:
The battle raged on beneath the torch-lit sky, each chariot’s banner flickering like a star in the storm. Amid the clash of steel and the cries of warriors, Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s sons met the sons of the Pāṇḍavas, and the field of Kurukṣetra once more became a sea of fire.
Citraseṇa, son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, rushed upon Satanika, the son of Nakula, who was scorching the Kuru ranks with showers of arrows. Satanika, alert and fierce, struck him with five straight shafts; Citraseṇa answered with ten, and then with nine that pierced deep into his chest. Then Nakula’s son, with unerring aim, cut away the armor from Citraseṇa’s body, revealing his bare limbs gleaming in the firelight.
He shone then like a serpent casting off its slough, glittering and terrible in his naked grace.
Furious, Satanika cut down his foe’s standard and bow, while Citraseṇa, quick and undaunted, seized another weapon and loosed arrows in return. The shafts struck the son of Nakula, reddening his armor with blood.
But Satanika, inflamed with wrath, slew Citraseṇa’s four steeds,
and the charioteer beside them fell headless to the ground.
The Kuru prince, leaping down, fought on foot,
his arrows flashing like the tongues of a living flame.
Then Satanika, steady-handed, loosed a crescent-headed shaft
that clove Citraseṇa’s golden bow in two.
Bowless, carless, and bereft of steeds and driver,
Citraseṇa leapt upon the car of Vṛṣasena, the son of Karṇa,
his eyes still burning with the pride of the Kurus.
Then Vṛṣasena, eager as fire, swept upon Drupada, who led the Pañchālas forward like a tide surging toward Droṇa. The son of Karṇa struck the old king with nine arrows, then with seventy more, and again with three that shone like golden serpents. Drupada, bleeding yet unshaken, struck back with sixty shafts that entered Vṛṣasena’s chest and arms.
Their bodies, bristling with arrows,
glowed red beneath the lamps of war—
two porcupines of battle,
or twin kiṃśuka trees in full bloom,
bathed in the crimson light of destruction.
Vṛṣasena’s fury blazed.
He loosed a storm of arrows until his bow sang like thunder. The sky darkened with their flight. Then Drupada, calm and resolute, cut that bow into fragments with one broad-headed arrow. But Vṛṣasena seized another, stronger still, and drawing the cord to his ear, sent a shaft, whetted and straight, into Drupada’s breast.
The arrow struck deep; the Pañchāla king swayed upon his car and swooned. His charioteer bore him swiftly from the field, and seeing him fallen, his army wavered. The Kauravas pressed forward like storm clouds chasing scattered cranes.
All around, the lamps dropped by soldiers glimmered upon the earth, and the field shone like the sky thick with stars. Broken ornaments flashed like lightning across the soil. The ground was strewn with anklets, mail, and Angadas, gleaming amid the dark like gold upon the breast of night.
The Pañchālas fled before Karṇa’s son,
As Dānavas fled before Indra’s might.
For Vṛṣasena shone that night in battle,
A single sun amid ten thousand lamps.
Having routed the Pañchālas, he turned his blazing chariot toward Yudhiṣṭhira, his heart swelling with the pride of conquest.
Elsewhere, Duḥśāsana met Prativindhya, the valiant son of Draupadī, who burned the Kuru ranks with his arrows. Their clash was fierce and splendid— two bright planets crossing in the cloudless sky.
Duḥśāsana struck Prativindhya on the brow with three shafts, and the Pāṇḍava prince, his crown gleaming crimson, resembled a mountain peak kissed by sunrise. Prativindhya answered with ten swift arrows, but Duḥśāsana, swift of hand, slew his four steeds, then his driver, and shattered his chariot and banner into a thousand splinters.
The son of Draupadī leapt to the ground, bow in hand, defiant still, his arrows hissing through the air like hornets. Duḥśāsana, unshaken, cut his bow in twain and struck him with ten more shafts.
Seeing their brother on foot, the other sons of Draupadī came rushing, their chariots flaming with the light of many torches. They gathered him up upon Sutasoma’s car, and turning once more upon the Kurus, they filled the air with the roar of vengeance.
The sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, too, advanced, a tide of steel and flame, and the two hosts clashed beneath the midnight lamps, their blows resounding like drums of doom.
The darkness thickened with the smoke of torches.
Men struck at shadows and shapes,
and the cries of the wounded mingled
with the hiss of arrows and the thunder of wheels.
That dreadful hour of night increased
the kingdom of Yama by ten thousand souls.
The sky was blood, the ground was fire,
and Time himself seemed to stride between the ranks.
Sañjaya said:
Then, O king, as the lamps still flickered in the rising smoke of battle, Nakula, son of Mādrī, drove fiercely into thy host, his arrows cutting a path of fire through the night. Against him, Suvala’s son, Śakuni, maddened by wrath and greed for vengeance, rushed with impetuous speed, crying aloud—“Wait, wait, O son of Pāṇḍu!”
The two heroes met like colliding storms. Their bows bent to the full, the strings sang like vipers in fury. Each shot shafts that gleamed like lightning, each struck the other in an even contest of rage and skill.
Their mail burst apart beneath the ceaseless rain of arrows; blood streamed upon their chests.
They shone in that dreadful hour like twin porcupines,
their bristling quills the gleam of golden shafts—
or like twin flowering kiṁśukas,
red with the flush of battle-fire.
With glances sharp as blades,
they seemed to scorch one another,
their eyes expanded in wrath,
the corners burning crimson like the edge of dawn.
Then thy brother-in-law, the cunning prince of Gandhāra, smiling even in his fury, drew his arrow to the ear and struck Nakula on the breast. The shaft, barbed and keen, sank deep, and the son of Pāṇḍu swooned upon the terrace of his car.
Śakuni’s laughter rolled like thunder. But soon Nakula rose again, his eyes blazing with wrath, like Death himself when loosed upon creation. He seized his bow once more and, shouting aloud, showered sixty arrows upon Suvala’s son, followed by a hundred more that pierced his chest like fire-tipped serpents.
Then he cut off Śakuni’s bow in twain and struck down his standard so it fell to earth. Next he smote his foe upon the thigh with sharp and tempered shafts, so that the prince of Gandhāra fell, clasping his banner as a lover clasps his bride.
His charioteer, pale with fear, bore him swiftly from the field.
And when the Gandhāra lord lay senseless,
the cry of the Pāṇḍavas rose like a roaring wind.
Nakula, triumphant, turned to his driver and said—
“Drive me toward Droṇa!”
Meanwhile, Śikhaṇḍin of Panchāla advanced toward Droṇa’s blazing car, and against him, Kripa, son of Gautama, sped like a streak of lightning. The two met beneath the curtain of dust and flame. Śikhaṇḍin’s arrows flashed forth—nine in swift succession— each burning like a meteor as it struck the old preceptor’s armor.
Kripa, calm and deadly, pierced his foe with five arrows,
and then with twenty more,
his bow singing like a chanting priest of war.
The two warriors filled the sky with arrows,
darkening the stars and drenching the earth in fire.
Their shafts were clouds,
their bows were thunder,
and the field became the sky of gods,
where Indra met the Asura Saṁvara.
Then Śikhaṇḍin, fierce with wrath, cut off Kripa’s mighty bow with a crescent-headed arrow and shot ten shafts that broke a golden dart mid-flight. The dart fell shattered upon the earth like lightning quenched by dust.
Kripa, unshaken, seized another bow and rained a hundred arrows upon his foe. Overwhelmed, Śikhaṇḍin bent low upon his car, the light fading from his eyes. Kripa, ever merciful to the Kuru line, shot yet more arrows to drive him back, not to slay. His charioteer bore him away, while the Panchālas and Somakas rushed to his rescue, their torches swaying in the smoke.
Then thy sons surrounded Kripa with a roaring tide of troops, and once more the clash of chariots thundered through the dark.
The night deepened—terrible, echoing with cries.
The ground quaked beneath the tread of men and beasts;
the air shuddered with the beating of drums and the groans of the dying.
Elephants charged elephants;
horsemen met horsemen;
and footmen, blind with dust, struck at phantoms in the gloom.
The field blazed with lamps that hung from chariots and beasts, and the flames whirled in the wind like falling meteors. That night on Kurukṣetra shone like day, the lamps destroying darkness as the sun consumes the mists of dawn.
But the light revealed horror, not hope. Fathers struck down sons, sons slew fathers, and brothers pierced the hearts of brothers. Kinsmen slew kinsmen, friends fell by the hands of friends. The field became a pyre of confusion— the earth drank her children’s blood.
Thus, O Bhārata, the great host of men perished in blindness and fury, while Time, unwearied, walked among them, counting souls for the kingdom of Yama.