novelraw Arc 5 - Droṇa-Vadha Parva - Chapter 5 - Dhṛṣṭadyumna Condemned by His Allies
Arc 5 - Droṇa-Vadha Parva - Chapter 5 - Dhṛṣṭadyumna Condemned by His Allies
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:
He who had duly studied the Vedas with all their branches; he in whom dwelt the entire science of arms together with modesty; he by whose grace foremost men accomplished feats the gods themselves might envy—alas, when Droṇa, son of a great ṛṣi, was insulted before all by low-minded, sinful Dhṛṣṭadyumna, slayer of his own preceptor—was there no Kṣatriya whose wrath awoke? Fie upon the Kṣatriya order, and fie upon wrath itself! Tell me, O Sañjaya, what the sons of Pṛthā—and all royal bowmen—said unto the prince of Pañcāla when they heard of Droṇa’s fall.
Sañjaya said:
Hearing the sharp words of Drupada’s son, all present, O king, stood silent. Arjuna, casting sidelong glances upon the fire-born, breathed hard, tears in his eyes, and only murmured, “Fie, fie.” Yudhiṣṭhira and Bhīma and the twins, and Keśava too, stood abashed. But Sātyaki spoke, his voice like iron: “Is there no man to strike down this sinful wretch who heaps evil speech upon a holocaust? The Pāṇḍavas condemn thee as Brāhmaṇas condemn a Caṇḍāla. After such a deed, art thou not ashamed to open thy mouth before an honoured assembly? Why did thy head not split when thou laidst hands upon thy master’s locks? Having butchered a Brāhmaṇa, thou deservest death this very moment. Thou chargest Pārtha with Bhīṣma’s fall—yet Bhīṣma chose his own setting; it was Śikhaṇḍin, born for that end, who stood the cause. With thee and thine, the Pañcālas have fallen from righteousness. Speak again thus, and with this mace I shatter thee like a thunderbolt.”
Tongue that praised the teacher’s head,
Hands that dragged it, bathed in red—
Shame should seal such lips with frost;
Why boast beside the honour lost?
Thus rebuked, Dhṛṣṭadyumna smiled in wrath and answered the Vṛṣṇi lion: “I have heard thee, O Yādava. Forgiveness merits praise, but sin merits none. Thou, unrighteous thyself, wouldst rebuke the righteous? What could be more sinful than thy slaying armless Bhūriśravā, seated in prāyopaveśa, when thy arms were filled with weapons divine? He had laid down his arms; I slew him—what fault lies there, O crooked-hearted one? When he struck thee down with his foot, why didst thou not show manliness then? After Pārtha had vanquished him, thou didst kill Somadatta’s son—unrighteously. Thou, a perpetrator of evil, callest me foul? Be silent! Speak again, and I shall send thee to Yama with my shafts.
“By righteousness alone one cannot conquer—hear also the Kurus’ sins: Yudhiṣṭhira was deceived; Draupadī outraged; the Pāṇḍavas, with Kṛṣṇa, exiled; the ruler of Madras torn from us by guile; Abhimanyu pierced by a net of wrong; Bhīṣma struck down by oracle and fate; Bhūriśravā by thee. High morality is hard to seize; so too its shadow. Fight now with the Kauravas and turn not homeward.”
He left the book and grasped the bow;
By fire he chose his path below.
Who walks as Kṣatra meets Kṣatra’s end—
Where justice bends, our arrows bend.
Hearing these words, blessed Sātyaki trembled from head to foot; rage made his eyes copper-red. Laying his bow upon the car, he seized his mace and rushed like Yama upon his like. Then Bhīma, urged by Vāsudeva, sprang down, clasped Sātyaki with his mighty arms, and though the Vṛṣṇi hero dragged him six strides, the son of Pāṇḍu planted his feet and held. Sahadeva leapt down and spoke soft counsel: “O tiger of Sini’s race, the Andhakas and Vṛṣṇis, and we, and the Pañcālas—are we not each the other’s dearest? Remember the duty owed to friends. Forgive, and be forgiven. What shines brighter than forgiveness?”
The prince of Pañcāla smiled and said, “Release him, O Bhīma. Let the wind assail the mountain; with keen arrows I shall quell his rage and take his life—or yield my own. Yonder the Kauravas come: either Pārtha hold them, or I shall fell this one’s head. He mistakes me for armless Bhūriśravā.” At his words, Sātyaki, bound in Bhīma’s embrace, hissed like a serpent; both heroes roared like storming bulls.
Then Vāsudeva and king Yudhiṣṭhira, with great effort, soothed those wrathful eyes grown blood-red. When the fire in their hearts was veiled, all the Kṣatriyas of the Pāṇḍava host—re-stringing bows, setting standards straight—moved as one upon the rallied foe.
Wrath beat the shield and mercy sang;
The conch of duty answering rang.
Forgiveness sheathed what pride had drawn—
Then lions leapt to meet the dawn.
Sañjaya said:
Then Aśvatthāman, terrible as Time at the Yuga’s end, began his slaughter. With broad-headed arrows he heaped a mountain of the dead—their shattered standards rose like leafless trees, their severed weapons bristled as serried peaks; elephants lay like toppled crags; steeds like grim Kimpuruṣas; and broken bows trailed like black creepers. Beasts of carrion circled and cried; unseen spirits wandered there like Yakṣas haunting a ruin.
Roaring before thy son, the warrior vowed again, “Since Yudhiṣṭhira of Kuntī, wearing virtue like a robe, made my preceptor lay down arms, I shall, in his very sight, rout and destroy his host. Having mangled all, I shall strike down the sinful prince of Pañcāla; yea, all who contend with me shall fall—rally the ranks!” Thus heartened by Droṇa’s son, the Kauravas steadied, and the two oceans of Kuru and Pāṇḍava met once more with a crash like mountain flung on mountain. Drums thundered in thousands; the tumult swelled like the primal churning of the sea.
Then, aiming at the Pañcālas and Pāṇḍavas, the son of Droṇa loosed the Nārāyaṇa weapon. The sky flowered with a storm of blazing-mouthed arrows, serpents of fire that hissed across the quarters; iron orbs burned like fallen stars; śataghnīs on wheels, keen discs and maces, whirled forth, till the firmament turned to steel. Wherever our foremost car-warriors strove, that weapon grew in dreadful power. As summer fire devours dry grass, so did it consume the Pāṇḍava host; men fell as if a forest sank into flame.
Beholding the compass hemmed with light, his own troops melting away, King Yudhiṣṭhira trembled. Seeing the army reel and the Parthas stand bewildered, Dharma’s son cried out, “O Dhṛṣṭadyumna, fly with the Pañcālas! O Sātyaki, depart with the Vṛṣṇis and Andhakas! Keśava shall guard himself and counsel the world; what need to instruct him? We must not fight. I and my brothers will mount the pyre. Having crossed the oceans of Bhīṣma and Droṇa, shall we sink in the cow’s-hoof puddle of Droṇa’s son? Let Duryodhana’s wish be crowned, for I this day have slain our preceptor who long befriended us—he who sat silent when Kṛṣṇā was dragged to bondage; he who armed Duryodhana in mail to guard Jayadratha; he who wielded Brahma’s missile without scruple against the Pañcālas; he who consented when we were sent to the woods. Alas, our friend is fallen! For his sake will I renounce my breath.”
Keśava raised his hand and stilled the flight, calling clear above the din: “Lay down your weapons and alight from cars, from steeds, from elephants—now. Thus hath the Illustrious ordained the baffling of this weapon. Stand unarmed upon the earth and it will not slay you. Resist it, even in thought, and it will consume you, though you should burrow under ground.” Hearing Vāsudeva, the warriors cast their weapons and stilled the rage of battle within their hearts.
But Bhīma, seeing hands unstringing bows, laughed in wrath: “Let no man lay down his arms! I shall oppose Droṇa’s son with shafts—and with this gold-decked mace I will career like the Destroyer and quench his fire. Who here is my equal, as none equals the sun in heaven? Behold these arms like twin elephant-trunks—fit to drag Himavat from his roots! If none will face the Nārāyaṇa weapon, I will, before both Kurus and Pāṇḍavas. O Arjuna, stain not thy vow by laying Gaṇḍīva aside.”
Arjuna answered gently, “O Bhīma, my vow stands: Gaṇḍīva is not to be raised against the Nārāyaṇa weapon, nor against kine, nor Brāhmaṇas.”
Thus answered, Vṛkodara mounted his solar car whose rattle roared like cloud, and rushed upon Aśvatthāman. Light of hand, the son of Kuntī veiled Droṇa’s child in a storm of arrows—yet Aśvatthāman, smiling, cloaked Bhīma with mantra-powered shafts, serpent-tongued and gold-sparked, till the son of Pāṇḍu seemed a blazing hill at dusk. Fanned by wind, the weapon’s fury waxed like a forest-fire; the Pāṇḍava ranks—Bhīma alone excepted—cast down their arms and stepped to earth. Then, when all had yielded as Keśava taught, that terrible radiance fell upon the head of Bhīmasena.
He swore by grief and father’s name,
He loosed the sky to fang and flame;
The sun went dim, the mountains rang—
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Time’s teeth were bared in iron fang.
“Ground thy pride upon the ground;
Still thy hand and hush the sound.
Where wrath is sheathed, that fire is foiled—
Where mind contends, the soul is spoiled.”
“Not I,” he cried, “while breath I own—
This mace shall meet the meteor-stone.
If none will stand, then stand I must,
Though gods rain blades and earth be dust.”
All creatures—most of all the Pāṇḍavas—cried “Alas!” when that blaze fell full on Vṛkodara’s head. Yet Bhīma stood; and Destiny, O King, held her breath upon the field where dharma and daring wrestled beneath the storm of Nārāyaṇa’s light.
Sañjaya said:
Beholding Bhīmasena wrapped in the blazing coil of Droṇa’s son, Dhanañjaya loosed the Varuṇa astra, a cool and unseen flood. So swift were Arjuna’s hands, so fierce the fire wreathing Bhīma, that none could mark the waters cast—the son of Vāyu, his steeds and charioteer, seemed but a mountain of flame within a greater conflagration. As at night’s end the stars run to Asta, even so the fiery mouths of Aśvatthāman’s shafts curved upon Bhīma’s car; and as cosmic fire returns at dissolution into the Maker’s mouth, so that terrible energy sought entrance into Bhīma’s frame—unseen, ungraspable.
Then Nara and Nārāyaṇa—Arjuna and Keśava—leapt from their car and ran on foot into that dread radiance. Weaponless, veiled by Varuṇa’s coolness and their own unfathomable tapas, they seized Bhīma and dragged him down, while the son of Pāṇḍu roared like a lion in a burning thicket and the weapon leapt higher, greedy for resistance.
“Son of Kuntī,” cried Vāsudeva, “abide our word! If victory lay now in force, these hosts would stand with bow in hand. Look—thy warriors have grounded arms. Come down!” And seizing him, he made Bhīma lay aside his weapons. In that instant the Nārāyaṇa fire fell quiet; the quarters cleared, sweet winds arose, birds and beasts were soothed, the elephants and steeds grew glad, and Bhīma, smoke-stained and terrible, shone out like the red-browed morning sun.
Lay down the wrath, lay down the steel—
Where pride is hushed, the fires heal.
Earth takes back the storming breath;
Peace unbinds the knot of death.
When the blaze was stilled, the Pāṇḍava line dressed ranks anew. Duryodhana called to Droṇa’s son, “Once more—let the Pañcālas be consumed!” But Aśvatthāman sighed: “That weapon returns not, nor strikes twice; the hand that calls it back is the hand it slays. Vāsudeva foiled it as ye saw. Defeat and death are brothers—oft defeat is worse.”
Urged on, lion-tail streaming, he remembered his father and spurred at Dhṛṣṭadyumna. Five and twenty keen heads sang from his string; the Pañcāla answered with fourscore shafts and smote steeds, driver, and banner. The fire-born roared and pressed to finish fate; but Aśvatthāman, razoring down his bow and standard, made him carless, steedless, driverless, and the Pañcāla ranks wavered.
Sātyaki flew to the rescue, broke Aśvatthāman’s bow and car, and scored his chest with thirty. Hemmed thus, Droṇa’s son reeled; then Karṇa, Kṛpa, and the Kuru princes sheeted Sātyaki with arrows—yet the Madhu lion scattered them from their seats. Recovering, Aśvatthāman mounted anew, traded storms with Yuyudhāna, and laughing grimly vowed, “By truth and by my austerities, I shall know no peace till I have slain the Pañcālas.” He drew a sun-bright shaft and drove it through Sātyaki’s mail and body; blood bathed the hero, his bow slipped, and his charioteer bore him away.
Another arrow, straight and cruel, struck Dhṛṣṭadyumna between the brows; staggering, he clung to his flagstaff. Then came five—Kīrīṭin, mighty Bhīma, Vṛhatkṣatra of the Pūrus, the youthful Cedi prince, and Sudarśana of the Mālavas—ringing the preceptor’s son with cries of “Alas!” Aśvatthāman cut their volley to ribbons, then in a blaze of skill lopped Sudarśana’s arms and head, shivered the Paurava’s car and sent his crowned head to earth, and with a net of fire cast down the young Cedi with driver and steeds.
Three princes fell like meteors shorn,
Gold circlets dashed, bright banners torn;
The lion’s cubs lay still and red—
The jungle knew its elder’s tread.
Bhīma’s heart flamed at the sight. His arrow-clouds hissed like angry serpents; Droṇa’s son split and answered them. Bow cut, Bhīma hurled a whirling dart—Aśvatthāman’s knives of air chopped it into sparks. Smiling, Vṛkodara seized a stouter bow and pressed harder; the preceptor’s son, quick as autumn’s noon, drew and loosed so fast that men saw not hand to string. A hundred thousand shafts coursed like locust flight; yet Bhīma regarded that steel rain as summer drizzle and shot back in roaring measure.
Then Aśvatthāman’s straight shaft found Bhīma’s charioteer’s brow; the man swooned, reins fell, and the steeds fled dragging the thunder of Bhīma’s car across the plain. The preceptor’s son winded his great conch; Pañcāla hearts quailed and broke ranks before his pursuing storm.
Seeing the tumult, Dhanañjaya of the immeasurable soul wheeled with Govinda, rallied the wavering, and strode arrow-first to meet the lion-tail banner. “Now show thy might,” Arjuna called. “Show the mettle thou bearest for Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s sons and the hatred thou keepest for us. Even Prishata’s son, the slayer of Droṇa, shall humble thee this day. Come—face the Pañcāla fire with Govinda at his side. Thy pride has thundered; I shall still its roar.”
Come, cub of wrath, to the old lion’s ring;
Bring all thy vows, thy venom, and thy sting.
Between our bows be dharma tried—
By dusk, let pride or body die.
Sañjaya said:
O King, thou askest why Vibhatsu, who ever honoured the preceptor’s son, spoke so harshly to him whom he loved. Hear now the cause. When the youthful Cedi prince had fallen, and Vṛhatkṣatra of the Pūrus, and Sudarśana of the Mālavas, well-skilled in arms; when Dhṛṣṭadyumna was unseated, and Sātyaki and Bhīma were forced back; when Yudhiṣṭhira’s grievous words stung his heart and his old wounds awoke like fire beneath ash—then Arjuna’s grief grew into wrath such as he had never known. Therefore, as one who forgets himself, he addressed Aśvatthāman in speech unworthy of a friend.
Pierced with those words, the lion-bannered son of Droṇa grew wroth at Pārtha and most at Kṛṣṇa. Standing firm upon his car, he touched pure water and summoned the Agneya weapon that even gods scarce endure. He aimed it at all foes, seen and unseen, and sent forth a blazing shaft, mantra-fed, as smokeless flame. From it, dense showers of arrows poured, each plume a tongue of fire hemming Pārtha on every side. Meteors flamed, a thick gloom fell upon the Pandava host, the quarters darkened; Rākṣasas and Piśācas shrieked together; inauspicious winds arose; the sun withheld his heat; ravens croaked; blood-rain fell from the clouded sky. Beasts and birds grew frantic; the very elements were fevered. Elephants ran heaving, as if in a forest-conflagration; steeds and cars blackened; thousands of chariots dropped like trees in a storm. It seemed, O Bhārata, that the divine Fire himself burned the host as Samvarta consumes the worlds at Time’s end.
The Kuru ranks shouted like lions amid that burning; trumpets pealed. Darkness swallowed the field, and even Savyasāchin could not be seen. Never before, O King, had we heard or beheld the like. Then Arjuna invoked the Brahma weapon that baffles all, ordained by the Lotus-born. In a moment the gloom dissolved; cool winds arose; the quarters grew bright. We beheld a wonder—the forms of a full akṣauhiṇī laid low, the slain so seared no man could know them. Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna stood together unwounded, like sun and moon unveiled. Their car, with banner and harness bright, with its stores of weapons whole, shone terrible and glorious. Life-sounds rose among the Pandavas—conchs and drums—while both hosts, who had deemed those two perished, stood in wonder: joy for the sons of Pāṇḍu, heaviness for the Kurus.
Seeing the Two freed from his fire, Droṇa’s son grew cheerless. He pondered a moment, sighed long, laid down his bow, sprang from his car, and cried, “Fie, fie! All is untrue!” and fled from the fray. Upon his path he met Vyāsa, the dark-hued abode of Sarasvatī, compiler of Veda, sinless and serene. Prostrating himself, Aśvatthāman, voice choked with grief, said: “Is this illusion, or the caprice of the weapon? Where hath my rite failed? Is this the Two Kr̥ṣṇas’ mastery over Nature? Time seems irresistible. Neither Asuras nor men nor spirits withstand this missile—yet it slew but one akṣauhiṇī and is stilled. Why could it not slay Keśava and Arjuna, human in form? Holy one, answer me truly.”
Vyāsa said:
“Deep is thy question; I shall tell thee. He who is called Nārāyaṇa is older than the oldest. For a purpose of the world He took birth as Dharma’s son, and upon Himavat’s heights He stood with arms upraised, austere as the sun, sixty-six thousand years on air alone; and twice that term in other vows, filling the space ’twixt earth and heaven with His tapas. When He glowed like Brahmā, He beheld the Master and Guardian of beings, the Lord of gods, the difficult-to-be-seen—Rudra, Hara, Śambhu—moon-crested, tiger-clad, bearer of Pināka and thunderbolt and trident and sword, life-giver and all-destroyer, the One in whom sky and wind and sun and moon and earth and fire and time and scripture and sense are but reflections.
“In that vision Nārāyaṇa worshipped the Three-eyed, the slayer of Andhaka, the Supreme Lord arrayed with hosts of spirits, Essence unmanifest, Womb of causes. He praised Him whose sport is with Pārvatī, whose form is universe, and begged His grace. And the blue-throated God, well-pleased, granted boons: ‘Among gods and men and Gandharvas be thou immeasurable of might. None shall bear thy prowess; no pain by thunder or wet or dry, by mobile or immobile thing. If I myself should battle thee, thou wouldst surpass me.’
“Thus did Keśava gain His boons in ancient days. And from Nārāyaṇa’s asceticism was born a great Ṛṣi named Nara, equal to Him. Know Arjuna to be that Nara; the Two, older than the gods, are born in every age for the world’s sake. Thou too, great-hearted, art a portion of Rudra, endowed with wrath and energy from vows performed in former lives, when thou didst worship the Lord in the Linga with mantra and homa. Kesava Himself, sprung from Rudra, ever adores Śiva as Origin of beings; therefore do gods and ṛṣis worship Keśava to attain Maheśvara. In Keśava abides the knowledge that sees Brahman as all and all as Brahman.
“Therefore thy weapon, though fierce beyond telling, could not consume those Two. For Nārāyaṇa and Nara stand beyond the circle of such fires, and Śiva’s grace guards Keśava who ever bows to Him. Bow thou, O child, to the Three-eyed, and honour Keśava; thus shalt thou stand in truth.”
Hearing this, Aśvatthāman bowed to Rudra and deemed Keśava worthy of the highest reverence. Mastering himself, he took delight, and its signs were plain upon his frame. Saluting the great Ṛṣi once more, he turned his eyes upon the Kuru host and withdrew it to the night’s repose. Even so, after Droṇa had fallen, the dispirited Kurus left the field; and the sons of Pāṇḍu, likewise, drew off their ranks. Thus, having fought five days and wrought a mighty carnage, the Brāhmaṇa versed in Veda—Droṇa, son of Bharadvāja—repaired to Brahmā’s region.
A shaft of fire the world could sear,
A river cool from Brahmā’s sphere;
When wrath and wisdom meet midway,
Night breaks and dawn unties the fray.
Nara and Nārāyaṇa tread
Each age to lift the living and dead;
Where Śiva smiles and Viṣṇu bows,
No lesser flame their fate can rouse.
Bow to the One with triple eye;
Know Him in all that lives and dies.
Where knowledge kneels and bhakti sings,
The might of missiles folds its wings.