novelraw Arc 5 - Droṇa-Vadha Parva - Chapter 1 - Duryodhana Provokes the Preceptor
Arc 5 - Droṇa-Vadha Parva - Chapter 1 - Duryodhana Provokes the Preceptor
Sañjaya said:
Thus, O King, when Vyāsa of immeasurable wisdom had spoken, Yudhiṣṭhira the just restrained his intent of seeking Karṇa’s death with his own hands. Yet the fall of mighty Ghaṭotkacha, slain by the Sūta’s son that very night, pierced the son of Dharma with sorrow and wrath.
Beholding Bhīma, lion-hearted and vast as a storm, holding thy host in check, Yudhiṣṭhira spoke to Dṛṣṭadyumna, commander of the hosts and son of Agni, saying—
“Born of the altar’s flame art thou,
O fire-born prince, the Pot-born’s vow!
Now rise and burn as thou wast made,
Till Drona’s pride in dust be laid!”
Then he called to battle Janamejaya and Śikhaṇḍin, Durmukha’s valiant son and Yaśodhara, and bade them rush, inflamed with wrath, upon the Pot-born sage.
Nakula and Sahadeva, sons of Mādrī, and the sons of Draupadī, the bright Prabhadrakas, and Drupada with Virāṭa and their brothers—all were summoned.
Sātyaki of the Vṛṣṇis, the Kaikeyas, and Dhanañjaya himself—he ordered them all to converge, desiring Drona’s fall.
At the king’s command they surged forward, their chariots thundering like monsoon clouds. Drona, foremost of all wielders of arms, received them with the calm of a mountain meeting the wind.
Duryodhana, eager to guard his preceptor’s life, rushed to his aid with wrath blazing like a torch.
Then began that terrible encounter—Kurus and Pāṇḍavas roaring like lions. The hosts, both weary and wounded, pressed on through darkness and dust. The warriors’ eyes grew heavy; even the beasts of war drooped with weariness. The night stretched vast and dreadful, swallowing time and sense.
Some fell asleep upon their elephants, some upon their cars, some upon their steeds. Others, blind with sleep, struck at friend and foe alike. The cries of battle mingled with the moans of dreamers and the silence of the dead.
Sleep, the dark archer, loosed her dart,
Through ranks of men she stilled each heart.
Blades grew heavy, shields fell low—
Dreams took the place of friend and foe.
Beholding this strange and fearful sight, Dhanañjaya, son of Pāṇḍu, raised his voice, pure and far-reaching as a conch-blast, saying:
“O ye warriors, worn with toil, blinded by darkness and dust—rest if ye will. When the moon ascends, refreshed and calm, we shall meet again, for heaven’s sake and glory.”
His words, born of virtue, were heard by both hosts. Then, O Bharata, the Kauravas and Pāṇḍavas laid down their arms. “O Karṇa, O Duryodhana,” they cried, “abstain from fight; Pārtha has stayed his hand!”
The celestials and ṛṣis in the heavens applauded Arjuna’s speech, radiant with compassion and dharma. All warriors blessed him, saying:
“In thee the Vedas breathe and shine,
In thee all weapons intertwine.
Thy strength is justice, mercy thine—
May joy and triumph e’er be thine!”
Thus, under the moon’s gentle gaze, the mighty armies slept. Some on horseback, some upon the car-boxes, others on the ground—clad in armour, their weapons clasped like dreams. The elephants, heavy with sleep, cooled the earth with the mist of their breath; they stood like dark hills upon whose sides coiled dust-streaked serpents. The steeds stamped and neighed softly, their golden trappings glimmering in the half-light.
The entire host seemed a painted vision—an artist’s dream of silence after strife.
Kṣatriyas, their limbs wounded and adorned with jewels, lay motionless upon the breasts of elephants as if resting upon the laps of celestial maidens.
Then, O King, arose the moon—fair as a bride’s cheek, tender as a god’s smile. From the east he rose like a lion from his cave, his golden mane of rays tearing the dark to shreds. The sky bloomed with silver; the earth awoke in pale splendour.
The moon ascended, calm and bright,
The lover of the lotus-night.
He healed the scars the sun had made,
And peace returned where war had laid.
Bathed in that soft light, the slumbering armies stirred. The world, once drowned in darkness, gleamed again; the silence broke into murmurs, the stillness into breath. Like lotuses opening at dawn, the warriors rose beneath the moon. The sea of troops, luminous beneath the sky, surged once more to life.
Thus, O monarch, when that moon of cool beams climbed the heavens, the battle flamed anew upon the earth—for the destruction of her children, and the glory of the brave.
Sañjaya said:
At that hour, O King, when the weary armies once more gathered their strength, Duryodhana, consumed by wrath and despair, approached Droṇa, the preceptor, and spoke words meant to awaken both joy and fury in the heart of the Pot-born sage.
Duryodhana said:
“Why show mercy to foes, O Brāhmaṇa,
Who, spent and sleepless, lay undone?
Should not our shafts have drunk their breath,
Ere rest restored their might from death?
We spared them—fools that we were!—and lo,
Their strength revives, our fortunes low.
Protected by thee, their glory grows,
While ours, beneath thy favour, slows.
In thee reside all arms divine,
Of Brahmā’s flame and Varuṇa’s line.
Who in the worlds, ’mid gods or men,
Can meet thy wrath and live again?
Yet thou forgiv’st them—pity-born,
Remembering days when they were sworn
Thy pupils true in warlike art—
Or, by my curse, fate clouds thy heart.”
Sañjaya continued:
Thus rebuked, the aged preceptor, stung by his words, turned to the Kuru prince and replied, his eyes glowing like coals beneath white ash.
Droṇa said:
“Though age hath bowed my frame, O King, My arm yet wields its deadly string. What mean these taunts? These men are frail, I strike not where the weak may fail.
Yet be thy will my law. This day
The Pāñcālas shall my fury slay.
Then shall I lay my armour down,
And cast aside both life and crown.
But mark, O Duryodhana, hear—
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Think’st thou Arjuna’s strength shall fear?
If once his anger flames in fight,
No god nor demon shuns his might.
At Khāṇḍava he faced his sire, And quenched with shafts the storm of fire. The Yakṣas, Nāgas, Dānavas—he slew; The Nivātakavacas too. When Gandharvas seized thee, helpless, bound, ’Twas he who struck and turned them round. Who then, O King, shall face his hand— That thunderbolt of Bhārata’s land?”
Hearing his own preceptor extol Pārtha’s power, Duryodhana’s pride burned hotter than his wrath. In scornful voice he cried again:
Duryodhana said:
“Myself and Duḥśāsana brave,
And Karṇa, lion of the wave,
With Śakuni, my mother’s kin,
Will slay that son of Pāṇḍu’s line!
Divide the host, O Brāhmaṇa! say—
One half with us, we’ll face the fray.
This very dawn shall mark his fall,
For I, O Droṇa, will slay them all!”
Then the Pot-born sage, laughing softly, as one who mocks a child’s boast, replied:
Droṇa said:
“Blessings to thee, rash-hearted King!
But who may bind the lightning’s wing?
What man, what god, what fiend of flame,
Can stand where Pārtha bends his aim?
Not Yama’s self, nor Indra’s hand,
Nor serpents coiled in ocean’s sand,
Nor Asuras in hell’s deep glow
May bear his bow, that Gandiva’s bow!
Only the fool shall dare such deed,
Whose pride outruns his sense and creed.
Go, then—thy heart is cruel, proud;
Thy words are scornful, sharp, and loud.
Those who serve thee meet thy blame,
Yet still they burn to guard thy name.
Go forth, O Kaurava, if thou must;
Meet Pārtha’s fire and prove thy trust.
Thy uncle wise shall guide thy path—
The gambler who delights in wrath!
Go forth with Karṇa, Duḥśāsana too—
Fulfil thy boasts, be brave, be true!
Didst thou not cry in Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s hall,
‘I, Karṇa, Duḥśāsana—all—
Shall slay the sons of Pāṇḍu’s might’?
Now keep thy vow in open fight!
Face Arjuna, thy destined foe,
And meet thy death with warrior’s glow.
Thou hast thy wealth, thy gifts, thy fame—
End not thy life in idle shame.
Thy death by Jaya’s hand shall be
A death of glory, pure and free.”
Sañjaya said:
When Droṇa had spoken thus, the air itself seemed to tremble with fate. The Kuru warriors, stirred by pride and anger, made ready once more for battle.
Then, O King, under the pale eye of the moon, the conches blew again—the sound of destiny’s wheel turning toward the fall of Droṇa, and the ruin of the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra.
Sañjaya said:
When three parts of that dreadful night had passed away, O King, the battle once more blazed forth between the Kurus and the Pāṇḍavas. Both armies, refreshed by rest, were again elated with joy, as if the weariness of slaughter had been forgotten. Then appeared Aruṇa, the charioteer of the Sun, dimming the splendour of the moon and turning the firmament to copper. The east reddened with rays like molten gold, and soon the radiant disk of Sūrya rose above the horizon.
At that sacred hour of dawn, the warriors of both armies—Kurus and Pāṇḍavas alike—alighted from cars and steeds and vehicles drawn by men. Standing with joined palms, they faced the newborn sun and uttered the prayers of the twilight of dawn. The air, heavy with hymns and battle cries, seemed itself to tremble between piety and death.
The sky was stained with fire and blood,
The east awoke, the night withdrew.
Men prayed to gods with lifted hands—
And met their fate beneath the dew.
The Kuru host then divided itself into two great bodies. Droṇa, the Pot-born preceptor, with Duryodhana before him, led one division against the Somakas, the Pāṇḍavas, and the Pāñcālas. Beholding this, Keśava said unto Arjuna, “Keep thy foes upon thy left, and place this division of Droṇa upon thy right.” Obedient to the counsel of Mādhava, Dhanañjaya turned his chariot and arrayed his force accordingly. Bhīmasena, discerning the mind of Kṛṣṇa, addressed his brother Arjuna at the forefront of the army.
Bhīmasena said:
“O Arjuna, the hour has come—
The hour for which men sons beget.
Shall Kṣatriya blood grow cold and dumb?
Strike now, or live with dark regret!
Repay thy debt to truth and fame,
To virtue’s call and glory’s flame.
Let courage rule, let weakness die—
And pierce the foe before thee nigh!”
Sañjaya continued:
Thus urged by Bhīma and by Keśava, Savyasāchin, the ambidextrous hero, pressed forward like a conflagration fanned by the wind. The mighty Droṇa and Karṇa opposed him, but Arjuna, radiant as Indra, prevailed against both. Duryodhana, Karṇa, and Śakuni rained arrows upon him, yet he baffled their weapons and struck each with ten keen shafts, blazing like meteors in the gloom.
Then arose dust and darkness. The sky vanished, the earth vanished, and men fought blindly amid tumult and cries. Warriors struck by conjecture, calling their own names as they fought. Carts overturned, steeds and elephants fell dead, and the field became a sea of broken chariots and lifeless kings.
Droṇa, moving northward, took his stand apart, shining like fire without smoke. Beholding him thus, the Pāṇḍava host trembled, for he appeared like Rudra in wrath at the end of the age.
He stood alone, that sage of might,
A flame unquenched, a lord of fight.
Where Droṇa moved, hearts failed in fear,
And hope itself grew faint and drear.
The Pāñcālas, though grievously wounded by Droṇa’s shafts, pressed on. Then Drupada and Virāṭa, filled with anger, advanced against him. With three swift arrows, Droṇa slew the three grandsons of Drupada, and soon the Cedis, Kaikeyas, and Śṛñjayas fell. The Matsyas, too, were scattered like leaves in a storm.
Drupada and Virāṭa loosed dense showers of arrows upon him, which he shattered in midair. In turn he cut their bows and, with two broad-headed shafts, struck both kings unto Yama’s abode. The crash of their fall shook the field like thunder.
Beholding the fall of his sire and allies, Dṛṣṭadyumna, the prince of the Pāñcālas, burned with wrath and grief. In the midst of all warriors, he raised his bow and swore a fearful oath.
Dṛṣṭadyumna’s Vow
“Let all my merit turn to naught,
Let all my penance come to naught,
If Droṇa breathes when falls the sun—
Till he is slain, my war’s not done!”
Supported by his division, he advanced upon Droṇa, while Arjuna from another side pressed forward. Duryodhana, Karṇa, Śakuni, and the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra surrounded the preceptor and guarded him like gods encircling a blazing altar
The Pāñcālas, though they fought with all their might, could not even gaze upon Droṇa’s splendour. Then Bhīmasena, beholding Dṛṣṭadyumna’s delay, rebuked him fiercely.
Bhīmasena said:
“O prince, thou son of Drupada’s fire,
Shall wrath within thee thus expire?
Thy sire is dead, thy kinsmen slain—
And still thou watchest, cold and vain?
See Droṇa’s blaze consume our line—
Shall none oppose his wrath divine?
Then stand aside and watch my deed,
For I shall strike where others heed!”
Filled with fury, Bhīma plunged into Droṇa’s array, scattering the ranks like wind-tossed fire. Dṛṣṭadyumna followed, his oath burning within him, and the two joined battle with the invincible sage.
That combat, O King, was such as neither gods nor men had ever seen. Chariots locked wheels, warriors fell crushed, and the ground flowed with blood.
The cries of men, the neighing of steeds, the clash of arms—all merged into a single roar.
When at last the red sun rose fully above the horizon, his rays fell upon a world of ruin. The dawn had come—but it was a dawn of death.
The sun arose through smoke and flame,
To witness death and deathless fame.
He shone on vows and broken breath—
The day was born; its name was Death.
Sañjaya said:
When the warrior host, O King, arrayed in bright mail, greeted the thousand-rayed Āditya at dawn, the earth itself seemed to awaken beneath their voices. As the golden sun rose from the eastern sky, scattering the red of his rays like molten fire, the battle began anew. The same soldiers who had fought through the long, dreadful night now faced each other once again, filled with equal fury and resolve.
Horsemen clashed with car-warriors, elephants trampled horsemen, and foot-soldiers struck at steeds and beasts alike. Sometimes united, sometimes in confusion, they fell upon each other in waves. Weary from sleepless strife, faint from thirst and hunger, many fought like men in dreams. The sound of conchs and drums, the twang of bows, the cry of elephants and the shouting of warriors rose to the heavens like a thunderstorm of death.
The dawn broke red on blood and flame,
The field awoke to death’s acclaim.
Steel clashed on steel, and in its cry,
The sun rose bright—to see men die.
The uproar, swelling every moment, touched the skies. Groans of the fallen mingled with the neighing of steeds and the rolling crash of shattered chariots. The cries of pain from dying men and beasts filled the air with horror. In the chaos, warriors slew both friend and foe, blinded by dust and rage. Swords and scimitars flashed in the light like waves upon a crimson sea.
A dreadful river was formed that day—its waters blood, its fish weapons of steel. The bodies of men and beasts were its banks; banners and cloth were its foam; and the cries of the dying were its roar.
A river flowed from wounds and gore,
It rolled through corpses evermore.
Its waves were blades, its banks were slain,
Its voice—a world’s unending pain.
Elephants, exhausted and pierced with arrows, stood motionless like hills of flesh. Steeds of noble blood, trembling and wounded, dragged chariots whose wheels sank deep into the blood-soaked ground. The field, vast as the ocean, heaved with terror and confusion—save for Droṇa and Arjuna. Those two alone stood unshaken, the refuge of their hosts, blazing like twin suns above the storm.
So fierce was the carnage that neither Karṇa, nor Droṇa, nor Arjuna, nor Bhīma, nor Yudhiṣṭhira, nor the sons of Mādrī, nor Dṛṣṭadyumna, nor Satyaki, nor even Duryodhana himself could be discerned through the clouds of dust. The earth and sky seemed to merge; all directions were lost; men fought guided only by touch.
At last, the dust was washed away by streams of blood, and the wind revealed the horror of the field. Warriors bathed in crimson shone like blossoms of the heavenly Pārijāta grove, terrible yet beautiful to behold.
Then four mighty duels arose amidst that ruin—Duryodhana against Nakula and Sahadeva, Karṇa against Bhīma, and Arjuna against Droṇa. All the hosts ceased their clash for a moment to gaze upon these godlike encounters. Their chariots, gleaming like the sun, wheeled and circled with grace; their arrows, falling in torrents, filled the air like summer rain.
Cloud fought with cloud in heaven’s glare,
Their shafts were lightning in the air.
The drums of death like thunder rolled—
And kings fell down with crowns of gold.
The ground became a firmament of ruin—strewn with severed arms and heads still decked with jewels, with shattered bows, broken standards, crushed elephants, and lifeless steeds. Armour, chains, and crowns glimmered in the sunlight like stars upon the night’s dark veil.
Amidst this ocean of death, Duryodhana, filled with wrath and longing for revenge, turned upon Nakula. The son of Mādrī, valiant and radiant in mail, loosed hundreds of shafts that placed the Kuru prince upon his right side. Cheers rose from both hosts at his skill.
But Duryodhana, burning with rage, struck back with ceaseless showers of arrows, pressing Nakula hard from that very flank. The son of Mādrī, master of the chariot’s art, resisted him with speed and precision, yet was forced backward by the Kaurava’s relentless storm of weapons.
All the troops applauded Duryodhana’s feat; but Nakula, his eyes blazing with memory of wrongs, called out across the din of battle—
Nakula said:
“Wait, O King, thou evil mind!
The hour of thy deceit I find.
Think on thy sins—thy counsel base—
For death shall meet thee face to face!”
Thus, O monarch, the clash of brothers’ sons filled the earth and sky; the sun itself seemed to halt in his course, watching the doom that now drew near.