novelraw Arc 1 - Karna-senāpati-nirmāṇa Parva - Chapter 3 - The Investiture Of Karna
Arc 1 - Karna-senāpati-nirmāṇa Parva - Chapter 3 - The Investiture Of Karna
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:
“O Sanjaya, thou hast spoken truly of those still breathing, both of our side and the foe. From this, I see clearly where victory shall fall—it is written already upon the face of fate.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Thus saying, O Janamejaya, Dhṛtarāṣṭra, son of Ambikā, knowing that only a few warriors yet lived, and that all the great heroes had perished, was overcome by anguish.
His heart throbbed wildly; his sightless eyes seemed to swim in darkness. Swaying, he fell upon the ground as though struck by the hand of Death. The palace echoed with cries; attendants ran to his side.
The king lay still, his breath grown thin,
His world destroyed, his soul within.
The earth received his silent weight—
A man undone by love and fate.
Sprinkled with cool water, the old monarch stirred faintly. Half-conscious, he whispered hoarsely, “Wait, O Sanjaya, wait a moment more! My limbs fail me; my heart is burning like molten lead. My senses darken—I can no longer bear this grief!”
Then, like a tree uprooted by wind, Dhṛtarāṣṭra fell senseless to the ground once again, while the women of the house wailed like cranes bereft of their young.
So fell the blind lord of the race,
The last of Kuru’s ancient grace.
The wheel of war had run its round—
And silence sealed the slaughtered ground.
Janamejaya said:
“O Brāhmaṇa, when the aged king heard of Karṇa’s fall and the slaughter of his sons, what words did he utter, when grief had somewhat abated? Surely, his sorrow, born of that calamity, must have burned fierce as fire. Tell me, O sage, all that he said on that dark occasion.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Hearing of Karṇa’s death—an event incredible and appalling, capable of paralyzing the hearts of gods and men—the old king sat motionless like one turned to stone.
It seemed, O monarch, like the toppling of Mount Meru,
like the sun falling from the firmament,
like the ocean drying to its bed,
like the collapse of heaven, earth, and sky into one vast silence.
The blind lord of the Kurus sat long in thought, breath heaving like the hiss of a wounded serpent. “If Karṇa,” he thought, “unconquerable and radiant as fire, is slain, then what hope remains for the rest of men?”
Filled with despair, scorched by the fire of loss, he sighed again and again, crying “Alas! Alas!”
“O Sanjaya,” he said, “my heart is torn,
The son of Rādhā is overborne!
That lion-armed, that bull in fight,
Whose gaze was flame, whose limbs were might!
His neck was thick, his voice was deep,
His foes like frightened herds would weep.
His bowstring’s hum, his palm’s dread sound,
Made horses fall and kings turn round!”
“Strong as a thousand elephants, unfailing in battle, he never turned back from the field, not even before Indra himself! The thunder of his bowstring was the voice of destruction, and at the whistle of his arrows men, steeds, and elephants fled as before a storm.
Relying upon that mighty arm, Duryodhana had challenged the sons of Pāṇḍu to war. Alas! How could such a hero, that foremost of men, be slain by Arjuna?
Often did Karṇa speak to my foolish son, proud and covetous Duryodhana, saying:
“Alone I’ll face them—two as one!
The wielder of Śārṅga, and Pāṇḍu’s son.
Their fame shall fade, their crowns shall fall—
My bow shall thunder over all!”
He had humbled countless kings: the Gandhāras, Madrakas, Matsyas, Trigartas, Tanganas, Khasas, Pāñcālas, Videhas, Kulindas, Kāśikosalas, Suhmas, Aṅgas, Niṣādas, Puṇḍras, Kīcakas, Vatsas, Kaliṅgas, Taralas, Asmakas, and Riṣikas—all had bowed to his might and rendered tribute for the glory of Duryodhana.
That invincible protector of armies, master of celestial weapons, the son of Vikartana, called Vṛiṣha, whose energy blazed like the sun—how could he be slain in battle by the sons of Pāṇḍu?
Among men, Karṇa was what Indra is among gods. In all the three worlds there was not his equal.
Among horses, Uccaiḥśravas; among Yakṣas, Vaiśravaṇa; among smiters, Karṇa stood supreme.
He had subjugated the earth for Duryodhana’s sake, undefeated by any monarch. The ruler of Magadha, honoured by him, had once defied the world, save only the Kurus and Yādavas.
But now—he is gone. Slain by Savyasācī in single combat!”
“O Sanjaya, I drown, I drown—
The sea of grief will see me down.
My heart is stone, else it would break,
At tidings no man’s soul could take.
The waves of sorrow strike and roll—
I am a wreck, bereft, unwhole.
No fire, no poison, mountain’s crest,
Could ease this weight within my breast.”
“Why, O Sanjaya,” said the king, “do I not perish of grief? My heart must be harder than the thunderbolt, else it would have burst. To hear of the ruin of sons, of kin, of friends, and yet to breathe—this is torment beyond endurance.
Would that I had poison to drink, or a flame to enter, or a precipice to fall from! For I can no longer bear this burden of sorrow.”
The blind king wept; the silence deep
Held palace, earth, and heaven in sleep.
His tears were dark, his cry was wild—
The father mourning his lost child.
Thus, O Janamejaya, did Dhṛtarāṣṭra lament for Karṇa—the mighty hero of the Sūta line, the sun of his sons’ pride, and the last bright flame of Kuru glory.
And as the aged monarch’s voice faded into weeping, it seemed that all the lamps of the Kuru house had gone out together.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When Sanjaya, with gentle firmness, praised the king’s birth and learning and urged him to summon fortitude, Dhṛtarāṣṭra answered like one whom fate had struck a second time. He spoke of Destiny as sovereign and effort as dust, for even Karṇa—firm as a śāla tree—had fallen. He recounted the son of Rādhā’s thunder in battle, his showers of arrows that stunned the quarters, his lion-heart that never turned from the field, and he cried that he saw no shore to his sorrow, like a drowning man who cannot glimpse the end of the sea.
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“O Sanjaya, the Sun is slain—
The bow’s bright thunder now is vain.
The bull of war lies bathed in red;
My hopes are dust, my joy is dead.”
The blind monarch bewailed that his heart—surely forged of adamant—did not break into a thousand shards at Karṇa’s fall; that the gods had written for him a life too long for grief. He cursed the emptiness of fame without friends; he called himself the sport of enemies; he traced his ruin from the gaming-hall to the crimson field of Kurukṣetra.
He imagined Karṇa, struck and sinking from his car like a riven mountain peak; the great bowman lying broad-shouldered upon the earth like a noble elephant felled. “He was the strength of the Dhārtarāṣṭras,” the king said, “the fear of the Pāṇḍavas, the dispeller of my sons’ dread. Without him, life is a lame man’s stride, a thirsty man’s stray drops.”
“Our plans were stars we could not steer;
Time is a wheel none overrides.
The fruit of pride is bitter fear;
Fate counts the gains and then divides.”
Tormented by doubt, he pressed Sanjaya with questions edged by shame and love: Did Duḥśāsana die fleeing or facing, like a kṣatriya? Why had Duryodhana scorned Bhīṣma’s water-born counsel, when Arjuna, with a shaft, had brought a jet to the grandsire’s lips and Bhīṣma urged peace? “Behold,” the king said, “how all that the far-seeing son of Śāntanu spoke has ripened now.”
He likened himself to a wing-clipped bird loosed by careless children—released but unable to fly. He recalled Karṇa’s conquests—Gandhāras, Madrakas, Matsyas, Trigartas, Khasas, Pāñcālas, Videhas, and a host of kings—bent beneath the rain of kṛṣṇa-feathered shafts, all for Duryodhana’s aggrandizement; and yet that mighty smiter had fallen to Savyasācī.
Then his grief grew sharp and searching; he demanded the how: Who stood by Karṇa and who abandoned him? Who guarded his right and left wheels, and who held the rear? How did the celestial serpent-headed shaft fail? By what ruin of chariot, snapping of bow, or exhaustion of weapons did Death overtake a warrior equal to Indra? He named the dreadful boasts and bitter words Karṇa had once cast in the assembly—against Kṛṣṇā Draupadī and against the Pāṇḍavas—and wondered by what turn of fate that terrible tongue lay still upon the dust.
“He swore his feet would know no rain
Till Phālguna lay low in pain;
He made my son in pride rejoice—
Now silence swallows up his voice.”
He asked what Duryodhana said at the sight: when Durmarśaṇa fell, when Vṛṣasena fell, when the standards turned in flight—what did the ungovernable prince cry then? What did Śakuni say, the gambler who once exulted in deceit? What said Kṛtavarman, the Satvata lord? What said Aśvatthāman, beloved of brāhmaṇas and kṣatriyas alike? What said Kṛpa, the master of arms? What said Śalya, king of Madra and ornament of councils, who on that day held Karṇa’s reins?
At last, with breath that shook, he pressed Sanjaya for the full tale of the final duel: “Tell me how the sons of Kuntī advanced, cloud-like, with arrow-rains; how the Sūta’s son was surrounded; how that foremost shaft failed; how Karṇa—Indra-equal—met his quietus in the fight. Tell me all that befell after Droṇa’s death until Karṇa’s end.”
“O Sūta, lift the veil at last;
Let grief learn how the hour was cast.
Speak, Sanjaya—let truth be said:
How did the Sun go down in red?”
Thus Dhṛtarāṣṭra—praising, accusing, remembering, and repenting—poured out his heart like a libation into the night, while Sanjaya stood like a sacred fire prepared to receive it. And all the court grew hushed, awaiting the tale of Karna-vadha from the charioteer’s faithful lips.
Sañjaya said:
After Droṇa the mighty bowman had fallen that day, O Bhārata, and Aśvatthāman’s purpose had been baffled, the great Kaurava host broke and fled. Pārtha, having re-arrayed his own divisions, stood firm upon the field with his brothers. Seeing him abide there like a mountain, thy son, O bull of the Bharatas, beheld his army turn in flight and, with iron courage, rallied the wavering ranks. He halted his divisions, and long did he battle against the Pāṇḍavas—those warriors who had gained their end and whose hearts were high with hard-won joy. When evening’s copper glow approached, he caused the troops to be withdrawn.
Within their camp the Kauravas then took counsel for their welfare, seated on rich couches and gleaming seats like the celestials in assembly. Duryodhana, sweet of speech and resolute, addressed the kings:
“Declare your minds without delay—
What must we do ere breaks the day?
What path is needful, swifter still,
To bend the world to Kuru’s will?”
Beholding those lion-hearted rulers signal with eager hands, and the king’s face glow like the morning sun, Aśvatthāman—skilled in word and wise in policy—spoke:
“Enthusiasm, the moment, skill, and statecraft—these accomplish every end, say the learned; yet all depend on Destiny. Our foremost men—equal to gods, loyal and accomplished—have fallen. Still, we must not despair. By right application even fate may turn propitious. Therefore let Karṇa, foremost among men and complete in every virtue, be installed our commander. Unconquerable as Yama, he is able to crush our foes.”
At the words of the preceptor’s son, thy child’s hope blazed high. Comforted that after Bhīṣma and Droṇa, Karṇa would prevail, Duryodhana, steadying his mind and leaning on his own arm, spoke to Rādhā’s son with affection:
“O Karṇa, I know thy might and thy friendship. Hear words for my good, then act as thou deemest fit. My two atirathas, Bhīṣma and Droṇa, are slain. Be thou my General—mightier than they! Out of regard for thee I honoured them; yet, through grandsire’s love and guru’s bond, the sons of Pṛthā were spared. Now none equals thee. Like Skanda bearing the hosts of heaven, bear thou this Dhārtarāṣṭra army. As Maghavan smote the Dānavas, so do thou scatter our foes. At the sight of thee resolved to fight, the Pāṇḍavas with the Pāñcālas will flee like demons at the vision of Viṣṇu. Lead this vast force and burn away our enemies as the risen Sun devours the night!”
“I spoke before in open hall—
‘I’ll fell the Pāṇḍus, one and all.’
Make calm thy heart; thy fears release—
I take the reins—expect our peace.”
Sañjaya said:
Then Duryodhana rose with the assembled kings, even as the thousand-sacrificed rose with the gods, to honour Karṇa as commander like the celestials honouring Skanda. They performed the investiture by ordinance: golden and earthen jars brimmed with mantra-sanctified water; elephant tusks and rhinoceros horns; vessels bright with gems; fragrant herbs and auspicious plants. Seated at ease upon an udumbara seat overlaid with silk, Karṇa received the consecration.
Brāhmaṇas, kṣatriyas, vaiśyas, and honoured śūdras praised the high-souled one when the bath was done. He gifted niṣkas and kine and wealth in thousands; the blessers spoke:
“As Sunrise breaks the brooding shade,
So break the Pāṇḍus’ serried braid.
Let Govinda and Pārtha see
The shafts they dare not gaze to meet!”
Installed thus, Rādhā’s son shone like a second Sun in armour’s blaze. Thy son, O king—already in Death’s leading—thought his purpose won. Karṇa, having taken command, ordered the array at sunrise. Surrounded by thy sons, he looked like Skanda amid the gods, in a battle whose bitter root was the throw of dice.
Sañjaya said:
When the mighty preceptor Droṇa had fallen, O Bhārata, and the purpose of his son had been thwarted, the vast Kaurava host broke and fled like storm-tossed waves. Then the Pāṇḍava hero Pārtha, having arrayed his own divisions, remained steadfast upon the field with his brothers.
Seeing him stand unmoved, thy son Duryodhana, O bull among men, beheld his troops running in confusion. With great courage he rallied them, steadying their hearts like a helmsman calming a ship in tempest. Relying on the strength of his arms, that prince fought long against the sons of Pāṇḍu, who, having achieved their ends, stood radiant and exultant. When evening’s red glow approached, he caused the hosts to be withdrawn.
Thereafter, within the quiet of their encampment, the Kauravas assembled for counsel. Seated upon rich couches spread with silken cloths, upon thrones and carved seats bright as celestial chariots, they resembled the gods convened in heaven.
Then Duryodhana, speaking sweetly and with measured voice, addressed those kings and warriors in words suited to the hour:
“Ye princes, wise and tried in war,
Declare what counsel waits us now.
The field is dark, the omens mar—
What deed remains, and who knows how?”
Sanjaya said:
At these words of the Kuru prince, the assembled warriors, lions among men, signalled their eager will for battle. Their faces shone with the lustre of warriors resolved to pour their lives as libations upon the fire of war.
Beholding their signs and the radiance upon his sovereign’s face, Aśvatthāman, son of Droṇa, wise in polity and speech, arose and said:
“Energy, opportunity, skill, and policy—these four, O King, the wise declare to be the means of all achievement. Yet all are but servants of Destiny. Our mightiest allies—heroes equal to the celestials, accomplished and steadfast—have been cut down. Still, we must not despair. When rightly used, even these means can win the favour of Fate.
Therefore, let us now enthrone Karṇa, foremost of men, complete in every virtue, master of celestial arms, irresistible as Yama himself. Appoint him commander of thy army, and under his hand shall our enemies be crushed.”
Hearing these words, the heart of Duryodhana, pierced with sorrow yet kindled with hope, grew strong again. “Where Bhīṣma fell and Droṇa too,” he thought, “there Karṇa shall triumph.” Comforted by that vision, he rose from his seat and spoke to Rādhā’s son in words of affection and trust:
“O friend of iron heart and hand,
Who know’st my soul, my cause, my land,
The grandsire sleeps, the guru’s gone—
On thee my house and hope are drawn.
Thou art our fortress, firm, divine;
No might on earth can equal thine.
Take thou the charge, the battle lead,
For Kuru’s sons in this their need.”
Then, turning to the kings, he spoke again in solemn pride:
“O warriors, Bhīṣma and Droṇa—my grandsire and preceptor—were old in years and bound in love to Arjuna. Out of reverence I obeyed them, but both withheld their full wrath. Now those mighty ones are fallen. None remains equal to Karṇa, whose valour neither of them could measure. As Skanda bears the army of the gods, so shall he bear the burden of the Kurus. When he stands resolved in battle, the sons of Pāṇḍu and the Pāñcālas will flee as demons flee from Viṣṇu’s wrath.
Rise then, O Karṇa, like the Sun that burns away the mists! Destroy our foes as Indra the Dānavas. Bear this host upon thy shoulders, and bring victory to Hastināpura.”
Hearing this, Karṇa bowed slightly, his eyes gleaming with flame-like confidence. “I said before, O son of Gāndhārī,” he replied, “that I would vanquish the Pāṇḍavas with all their kin and Kṛṣṇa at their head. Be calm, O King. Consider them already conquered. I will be thy General. This I promise without doubt.”
Then Duryodhana, like Indra among the gods, rose with his assembled monarchs to honour Karṇa with the command of the army.
Golden vessels brimmed with grace,
Rhinoceros horn and elephant tusk;
Perfume, gems, and silken lace—
The rite was done in morning’s dusk.
On udumbara wood, rich seat of pride,
The Sūta’s son in splendour sate;
The waters poured on every side,
And kings acclaimed his martial fate.
Brāhmaṇas, kṣatriyas, vaiśyas, and honoured śūdras hailed him, their praises rising like hymns at a sacrifice. Karṇa gifted kine, gold, and jewels, and the priests uttered blessings:
“Rise like the Sun and burn away
The darkness of the Pāṇḍu line!
Let Govinda and Arjuna stray,
Afraid to face thy shafts divine!
As owls shrink from the dawning flame,
So let the sons of Pṛthā flee;
For none may stand or speak thy name,
Thou lion born of chariotry!”
Installed thus as commander, Rādhā’s son shone with glory like the rising Sun. His armour blazed, his eyes kindled, and the gathered kings bowed in awe.
Duryodhana, blinded by hope and driven by doom, believed his purpose achieved. Karṇa, lord of the field, ordered the troops to be arrayed at sunrise.
Surrounded by the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, he stood resplendent like Skanda amid the gods, poised for battle in a war whose bitter root was the game of dice.
“The night had passed, the fate was set;
The drums of dawn began to sound.
Where Bhīṣma slept and Droṇa met,
There Karṇa’s glory now was crowned.”