novelraw Arc 5 - Droṇa-Vadha Parva - Chapter 3 - Dronacharya Tricked and Slain
Arc 5 - Droṇa-Vadha Parva - Chapter 3 - Dronacharya Tricked and Slain
Sañjaya said:
Then Droṇa wrought a great carnage among the Pāñcālas, O King—like Śakra raging against the Dānavas in ancient days. The great car-warriors of the Pāṇḍava host, though smitten by the preceptor’s relentless shafts, did not quail. The Pāñcālas and the Śṛñjayas, mighty in vow, rushed at Droṇa himself, hemming him on every side with fierce cries; and he, with arrows and darts, laid them low in ranks.
Beholding steeds and men mown down before that golden car, seeing his weapons overflow all quarters, fear entered the Pāṇḍavas’ hearts. They said among themselves, “Droṇa, conversant with the mightiest missiles, will consume us as a spring fire devours straw. None can so much as gaze upon him. And Arjuna—versed in dharma—will not contend with his teacher.”
Kṛṣṇa, seeing the sons of Kuntī shaken and foreseeing ruin, spoke unto Arjuna with a mind fixed on their welfare:
“By force he cannot fall, O friend,
Not gods with Vāsava can bend.
Unarmed alone is he made still—
By art, not might, must turn our will.
Upon his son if grief descend,
His bow shall slack, his fury end.
Let one declare—Asvatthāman’s slain—
So shall his hand fall, spent of pain.”
This counsel the son of Kuntī, Dhanañjaya, did not approve; others assented; Yudhiṣṭhira accepted it with great difficulty. Then Bhīma, whirling his mace, slew a huge, foe-crushing elephant named Asvatthāman that stood within our ranks, belonging to Indravarman of the Mālavas. Approaching Droṇa, with a certain bashfulness and yet with iron will, Bhīmasena cried aloud, “Asvatthāman is slain!”—speaking what was untrue, while holding the true fact within his mind.
At those words, Droṇa’s limbs, O King, seemed to melt like sand in water; yet, recalling his son’s prowess, he mastered grief and would not be unmanned. Comforting himself that Asvatthāman could not be resisted by foes, he rushed toward the son of Pṛśata, pouring a thousand kanka-feathered shafts. Twenty thousand cars of the Pāñcālas covered him in turn; shrouded like the rain-season sun in cloud, the preceptor blazed forth once more. Dispelling their arrows, he invoked the Brahma-weapon and shone like a smokeless fire; then, wrathful, he hewed down Somakas in hundreds—heads and massive armlets flashing as they fell like uprooted trees in a tempest. The earth, miry with blood and flesh, became impassable with fallen elephants and steeds. Having slain twenty thousand Pāñcāla cars, Droṇa burned yet brighter; he struck off Vasudāna’s head with a broad-headed shaft, slew five hundred Matsyas, six thousand elephants, and ten thousand steeds.
Beholding him set for the extermination of Kṣatriyas, there came swiftly in subtle forms the Ṛṣis—Viśvāmitra, Jamadagni, Bharadvāja, Gautama, Vasiṣṭha, Kaśyapa, Atri, the Śṛṅgī-katas and Pṛśnis, Gargas, the Vālkilyas, the Mārīcis, the Bhṛgus, the Aṅgirases—headed by the Bearer of the oblation. They addressed Droṇa, ornament of battle, eager to lead him to Brahman’s realm:
“O Brāhmaṇa, thy hour is come;
Lay down the bow, renounce the drum.
Thy Veda’s truth becomes thee, friend—
Let not thy fire on guilt descend.
Thy Brahma-weapon burned the mild
Unskilled in arms—the meek, the child.
Turn from this path; the veil remove,
And walk the changeless way of Love.”
Hearing the sages’ words and those of Bhīmasena, and beholding Dṛṣṭadyumna before him, Droṇa grew exceedingly cheerless. Burning with grief, he asked Yudhiṣṭhira if his son yet lived; for he held it certain that the son of Dharma would never speak untruth—not even to gain the three worlds. Therefore did he ask Yudhiṣṭhira and no other, trusting in that truth from the prince’s very infancy.
Meanwhile, Govinda, knowing Droṇa could sweep our host from the earth, spoke to Yudhiṣṭhira in distress:
“If Droṇa rage for half a day,
Thy army perishes, I say.
To save a life, untruth is none—
Where kings, or rites, or Brāhmaṇs won.
Let mercy shape a needed lie,
That countless souls be spared to die.”
While Kṛṣṇa and the king were thus speaking, Bhīma said: “Hearing the means of Droṇa’s fall, I straightway slew a mighty elephant named Asvatthāman. I told Droṇa, ‘Asvatthāman is slain, O Brāhmaṇa! Cease thy fight!’ He did not believe me. Do thou, O king, who art truth’s own fame in the three worlds, speak it—say that the son of Śaradvat’s daughter is no more. Told by thee, he will lay down arms.”
Thus urged by Keśava and Bhīma, and drawn by the net of destiny, Yudhiṣṭhira resolved upon the hard deed. Fearing falsehood yet desiring victory, he spoke distinctly, “Asvatthāman is dead,” and added indistinctly the word “elephant.” Until then his chariot stood four fingers’ breadth above the earth; when that half-truth left his lips, the car and animals settled upon the ground.
Hearing Yudhiṣṭhira’s words, Droṇa, stricken with grief for his (supposed) dead son, yielded to despair. And remembering the Ṛṣis’ rebuke, he counted himself an offender against the high-souled Pāṇḍavas. Perfectly cheerless, filled with anxiety, he beheld Dṛṣṭadyumna and could not fight as before.
Truth bent but broke not; fate took hold—
A word half-dark, a car that rolled.
The bow fell low, the fire grew pale—
And Droṇa’s day passed like a tale.
Sañjaya said:
Beholding Droṇa, bowed down by grief, his senses wandering beneath the weight of sorrow, Dṛṣṭadyumna—the son of King Drupada—rushed upon him like destiny itself. That hero had been born from the altar of sacrifice, obtained from the Bearer of sacrificial libations for the very purpose of slaying Droṇa. Now, fulfilling the will of fate, he seized a bow of victory—terrible and radiant, its string firm as the cord of time, its sound deep as thunder in the monsoon.
Upon that mighty bow he fixed an arrow that glowed like the serpent of death—its tip blazing like the sun, its shaft gleaming like molten gold. The arrow within the curve of his bow shone like the autumn sun caught within a circle of fire.
Seeing that blazing shaft drawn to its ear, the warriors on both sides thought the hour of the world’s destruction had come. Droṇa, perceiving that arrow aimed at his heart, felt his end approach. With calm skill he prepared to baffle it; but, alas, the celestial weapons that had ever answered his call no longer appeared.
For four days and one night he had loosed them ceaselessly, and though not exhausted, they refused now to manifest. The Rishis’ words returned to him; his strength waned, and grief for his son weighed upon his spirit. His divine radiance dimmed like a lamp in the wind.
Yet, unwilling to yield wholly, he took up another bow—one bestowed by Angiras—and certain arrows that shone with the curse-like gleam of a Brāhmaṇa’s wrath. With these he smote Dṛṣṭadyumna, cutting his shafts, his standard, and his bow into fragments, and slew his driver with a single dart.
Smiling, the fire-born prince caught up another bow and pierced Droṇa in the chest with a shaft like lightning. Struck deep, the preceptor reeled, but recovering, cut off the new bow as well. He shattered every weapon of his foe save only sword and mace, and pierced Dṛṣṭadyumna with nine keen arrows that drank his blood.
Their bows were torn, their hearts aflame,
Each sought the other’s deathless name.
The sage with shafts, the prince with might—
Fire fought fire in noon’s full light.
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Then Dṛṣṭadyumna, his chariot mingling with that of Droṇa, invoked the Brahma-weapon. The horses of both, red and grey, tangled together like storm clouds lit by lightning. Droṇa’s arrows rained upon the Pāñcāla, cutting the joints and wheels of his car until it fell to ruin. Bereft of chariot, driver, and steeds, Dṛṣṭadyumna grasped a mace; but even that weapon Droṇa cut apart midair with a hail of shafts.
Then the Pāñcāla prince took up a sword and a moon-bright shield. His wrath blazed forth like Vishnu’s when he rose to slay Hiraṇyakaśipu. He darted around the car of Droṇa—now crouching within the box, now upon the yoke, now beneath the horses’ haunches—moving so swiftly that even the watching celestials marveled.
He leapt, he whirled, he struck, he sprang,
His sword flashed bright, the war-drum rang.
Around the sage he circled flame—
And all the gods beheld his aim.
With the twenty-one motions of battle known to warriors of old, he pressed forward—thrusting, wheeling, striking from side and rear, his shield spinning like a sun of steel. Droṇa’s red steeds and the Pāñcāla’s white coursers clashed and fell; the chariots broke apart, their reins entwined like serpents. Dṛṣṭadyumna, now afoot, advanced with sword uplifted, radiant as Garuḍa stooping upon a serpent.
Droṇa, unmoved, loosed a thousand arrows of short span, fit for close combat—such as only Kripa, Arjuna, Aśvatthāman, Karṇa, Pradyumna, and Yuyudhāna could wield. With them he sheared away the prince’s sword and moon-decked shield, leaving him bare-handed before death.
At that instant, the preceptor fixed upon his string a shaft of terrible speed, resolved to end his disciple’s life. But lo! Sātyaki, lion of the Vrishṇis, cut that arrow in twain with ten swift shafts in the sight of Karṇa and Duryodhana, rescuing Dṛṣṭadyumna from the edge of doom.
Seeing this deed, Keśava and Dhanañjaya beheld the Satwata hero gliding like a flame through the storm of Drona’s, Karna’s, and Kripa’s arrows. They cried aloud, “Excellent! Excellent!” as he baffled each celestial weapon in turn.
Through rain of fire his chariot sped,
By gods applauded, demons dread.
He shone, a comet through the sky—
The glory of the Vṛṣṇis high.
Then Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna themselves moved forward, admiring Sātyaki’s valour. Turning to the Lord of Dvārakā, Arjuna said:
“Behold, O Keśava, the scion of Madhu’s race! Before the preceptor, before Karṇa and Kripa, he sports like a lion among jackals, delighting me, the twins, Bhīma, and our king. With grace born of practice and without pride, he lifts the fame of the Vṛṣṇis even higher. The warriors of both hosts, the Siddhas in the heavens, cry aloud—‘Excellent! Excellent!’—in wonder at the deeds of Yuyudhāna.”
Thus was Sātyaki praised by all beings, O King—his chariot radiant amidst ruin, his courage unbent in the storm of Droṇa’s twilight hour.
The sage stood weary, his fate made near,
The fire-born prince rose free of fear.
And where the Vrishṇi thundered by,
The gods looked down and blessed the sky.
Sañjaya said:
Beholding the feats of Sātyaki, Duryodhana and the foremost Kuru warriors—Kṛpa and Karṇa among them—encompassed the grandson of Sini on every side. Then Yudhiṣṭhira, with Bhīmasena and the sons of Mādrī, pressed in to shield the Vṛṣṇi hero. A storm of arrows fell upon Sātyaki; yet he, mastering weapon with weapon, broke their downpour like a mountain breaking rain. The field grew cruel to behold—arms and heads and broken parasols heaped together, yak-tails flung down from shattered cars, men writhing beneath a final veil of dust.
In that terror—like the old war of gods and Asuras—Yudhiṣṭhira cried to the host to gather all valour and rush the Pot-born. “Behold Pr̥ṣata’s son upon Droṇa; he burns to end the son of Bharadvāja! Unite, and strike!” So urged, the Śṛñjayas thundered toward Droṇa. Knowing the hour appointed, the preceptor advanced to meet them. The earth shook; hot winds hissed; blazing meteors seemed to leap from the sun. His weapons flashed; the rattling of cars turned fierce; the steeds themselves shed tears. His left eye and left hand twitched; and remembering the ṛṣis’ words of departure, he grew very still, desiring a fair death.
The omens flared in noon-day light,
The wheels cried out, the winds took flight.
A bow of fire, a fading breath—
The sage made ready for his death.
Encircled by Drupada’s troops, Droṇa whirled and consumed the Kṣatriyas in ranks—four and twenty thousand he smote, and ten times ten thousand more. Unsmoking, the fire stood in the gale. Then for the extermination of Kṣatriyas he lifted the Brahma-weapon.
Beholding Dṛṣṭadyumna carless and weaponless, Bhīma rushed, set the prince upon his own car, and said, “No man but thou can stand before the preceptor. Hasten—his life’s burden lies upon thee!” The Pāñcāla seized a strong new bow and, filled with wrath, drenched Droṇa in shafts. They invoked the Brahma and many divine missiles, and the prince—shattering the weapons of Bharadvāja’s son—turned his fury upon the Vāsatis, Śivis, Vālhikas, and Kurus who ringed the master. Like the sun loosing a thousand rays, he blazed across the ranks. Droṇa, unshaken, cut down the prince’s bow and pierced his vitals with keen arrows; the pain was sharp.
Then Bhīmasena seized Droṇa’s chariot and spoke in a voice like iron upon an anvil:
Bhīma said:
“O Brāhmaṇa, the elder’s vow
Is harmlessness—why arm thee now?
When priests grow wroth and seize the blade,
The warrior’s house is overlaid.
Thy root is truth, thy study bright—
Why drown the world in ashen night?
For one dear son thou mak’st this plain—
But he lies fallen on the plain.
Yudhiṣṭhira hath told thee true;
What profit now in slaying new?”
So addressed, Droṇa set his bow aside. “O Karṇa, O Kṛpa, O Duryodhana,” he cried aloud, “strive with care; let no harm strike you from the Pāṇḍavas. As for me—I cast away my weapons.” Sitting upon his car’s terrace, he turned his mind to Yoga. Three worlds took ease as fear was soothed by that sight of renunciation.
Seeing his moment, Dṛṣṭadyumna laid down his bow with the arrow nocked, leapt from the car with sword in hand, and rushed upon the unarmed sage. A cry of “Alas!” rose from men and celestials. But Droṇa, effulgent and ascetic, bent his head a little, drew forward his breast, closed his eyes, and fixed his heart upon the Supreme—on the single syllable Om, upon Nārāyaṇa, ancient and undecaying.
He loosed the world, he loosed his breath,
He climbed the ray-paved path of death.
Two suns seemed burning in the sky—
The sage, made light, went up on high.
Thus, rapt in Yoga, Droṇa of solar radiance passed to Brahman’s realm—mysterious even to the gods. Only five among men beheld that passing: I myself; Dhanañjaya; Aśvatthāman; Vāsudeva; and Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Dharma. None else perceived the wise one’s going, his body blood-stained and pierced, yet his spirit ascending with the foremost ṛṣis.
But Dṛṣṭadyumna, unaware of the sage’s departure, stood over him. Fie-cries rose around; yet he seized the lifeless head and severed it cleanly from the trunk. Arjuna had cried before, “Bring the preceptor alive—slay him not!” and many kings had echoed that plea; still the fire-born fulfilled the sacrificial vow for which he was born. Bathed in Droṇa’s blood, he leapt down, fierce as the evening sun, and hurled the head before the Kuru ranks.
Beholding Bharadvāja’s head, thy soldiers broke and fled. Above, Droṇa entered the starry road like a smokeless brand of flame. The Kurus, Pandavas, and Śṛñjayas alike stood stunned; then the Pāṇḍavas, tasting victory’s iron, blew their conchs and roared like lions.
Bhīma embraced the son of Pr̥ṣata in the midst of the host and said, “Again shall I embrace thee when the Sūta’s wretch lies slain—and with him that other wretch, Duryodhana.” Striking his armpits till the earth trembled, Bhīma’s sound sent thy troops in terror to flight, forgetting the law of Kṣatriyas as they ran.
Thus fell Droṇa—teacher of kings—his bow set down, his mind upon the Eternal, his name ascending like light; and thus the day turned in favour of the sons of Pāṇḍu.
Sañjaya said:
Upon the fall of Droṇa, O King, the Kurus—smitten by weapons, bereft of their leader, broken and routed—grew faint with grief and lost their strength. Loud wails rose; they beheld the Pāṇḍavas prevailing and trembled again and again. With eyes brimmed full, dust upon their armour, voices choked and glances vacant, they moved like Daityas after Hiraṇyākṣa’s fall. Small and frightened, they clustered round thy son; yet even amidst them Duryodhana could not abide—he drifted away, scorched by the sun, parched with thirst, empty with hunger.
The bow lay slack, the heart beat slow,
The dust was full of falling snow—
Not winter’s drift, but ash of fate:
A king stood lone, his hosts abate.
Seeing Bharadvāja’s son brought low—as if the sun had fallen to earth, the sea run dry, Mount Meru uprooted, or Vāsava undone—the Kauravas fled in terror, speed sharpened by fear. Śakuni fled with his Gandhāras; Karṇa withdrew, bearing off his vast division; Śalya cast about with empty stare and retreated with cars, elephants, and steeds; Kṛpa cried “Alas, alas!” and drew away what was left of his elephants and foot. Kṛtavarman fled with the remnant of Bhojas, Kaliṅgas, Ārāṭṭas, and Vālhikas; Ulūka, handsome and young, withdrew with infantry in a rush; Duḥśāsana hastened off, hedged about by elephants; Vṛśasena led ten thousand cars and three thousand elephants in flight; and thy son Duryodhana, with the tattered Saṁśaptakas whom Arjuna had yet spared, left the field.
The Kuru army dissolved: men urged on fathers, brothers, sisters’ sons, or friends; hair dishevelled, clasps unfastened, they fled so scattered that two together were scarcely seen. “The Kuru host is destroyed!”—so thought all. Some cast off mail and ran; some shouted “Stand! Stand!” yet none that cried thus stood in place.
Only Aśvatthāman, Droṇa’s son, breasted the current like a great alligator against the stream. He fell upon Śikhaṇḍin, the Prabhadrakas, the Pāñcālas, Cedis, and Kaikeyas, slaying many and with difficulty escaping the press, until he saw the host in rout and drove straight to Duryodhana.
“O Bhārata,” he said, “why do the troops flee as if from a curse? Why rally them not? Even Karṇa and the foremost abandon the field. Never before has our army fled thus. What evil has befallen?”
Duryodhana, bull among kings, could not speak the bitter truth. Tears bathed his face; shame weighed him down. He turned to Kṛpa and said, “Blessed one, declare before us all why our army flies.” Then Kṛpa, son of Śaradvat, with anguish, told Aśvatthāman how his sire had been slain.
Kṛpa said:
“With Droṇa at our head we met the Pāñcālas. The Kurus and Somakas mingled and roared, striking each other down. Our ranks thinned; thy sire, enraged, invoked a celestial missile—the Brahma-weapon—and slew by hundreds and thousands. The Pāṇḍavas, Kaikeyas, Matsyas, and Pāñcālas were driven to Yama’s gate; a thousand brave men, two thousand elephants he sent beyond. Grey-haired, dark of hue, five and eighty years, yet he moved like a youth of sixteen. The foe fell back, order broken; thy sire shone like the risen sun, arrows for rays, unendurable. Then Keśava, seeking victory for the sons of Pāṇḍu, counselled: ‘He cannot be vanquished by force. Lay aside righteousness and seize victory. When he hears of Aśvatthāman’s fall, he will not fight.’ Bhīma cried the half-truth; thy sire believed it not and asked Yudhiṣṭhira, who spoke ‘Aśvatthāman is slain,’ adding indistinctly ‘(the elephant).’ Grief seized thy father; he stayed his weapons. Seeing him thus, Dṛṣṭadyumna rushed in and—despite forbiddings from every side, despite Arjuna’s cry to spare—cut off the preceptor’s head. Therefore the troops fly, and we, dispirited, do the same.”
A word half-veiled unstrung the bow,
The sage laid down his fire’s glow;
The vow-born blade fulfilled its fate—
And kings unmoored forsook the gate.
Hearing of his father’s slaughter, Droṇa’s son blazed like fire fed with dry wood. He ground his teeth, he clenched his hands, he breathed like a serpent; and his eyes grew red as blood.