Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 1 - Karna-senāpati-nirmāṇa Parva - Chapter 4 - Battles of the 15th Day

Sañjaya said:

Then the two mighty hosts, teeming with joyous men and neighing steeds and trumpeting elephants, met once more upon the field. They shone like the Devas and Asuras when they first clashed for the sovereignty of the three worlds.

Swords and maces, clubs and arrows, blazed like fire amid that sea of armour and banners. The field became a wheel of destruction—men, steeds, elephants, and chariots fell upon one another, striking sturdy blows that destroyed both body and sin.

Lion-faced men smote lion-faced foes,

Their moon-bright helms in sunset glows;

Heads rolled like lotus buds new-shorn,

Red rivers ran through trampled corn.

Warriors hewed down warriors with crescent and razor-edged arrows; mighty arms, decked with bracelets, fell flashing to the dust. The earth seemed strewn with serpents five-headed and slain by Garuḍa’s claws—those severed arms still quivered, crimson-palmed.

Men fell from elephants and cars and steeds like gods from heaven when their merit failed. Others, crushed beneath clubs and maces, perished by hundreds, while chariots smashed against chariots, elephants against elephants, and horsemen tangled in mortal embrace.

Steeds struck steeds and foot struck foot,

The dust was blood, the air was soot.

Banners torn and armour rent—

Kurukṣetra’s heart was spent.

Then the sons of Pāṇḍu advanced, led by Vṛkodara, their ranks glittering like a moving mountain of mail. With them came Dṛṣṭadyumna, Śikhaṇḍin, the five sons of Draupadī, Sātyaki, Cekitāna, and the southern hosts—the Draviḍas, Pāṇḍyas, Cholas, and Keralas, broad-chested and red-eyed, their limbs anointed with fragrant powders, their speech fierce yet sweet.

The Āndhras marched beneath Sātyaki’s banner, bearing long bows and curling locks, their forms terrible, their energy blazing like fire. From every side came also the Cedis, Pāñcālas, Kaikeyas, Karūṣas, Kośalas, Kañchis, and Magadhas—their chariots, steeds, and elephants gleaming, their drums and conches bursting with war’s laughter.

In their midst towered Bhīma, seated on the neck of his war-elephant, surrounded by other proud tuskers. That elephant shone like a palace upon the Udaya mountain, its iron armour studded with gems like stars upon the autumn sky. Bhīma, crowned with a golden diadem, raised his shining lance like the midday Sun raising his rays to burn the worlds.

Beholding him from afar, Kṣemadhūrti, king of the Kulūtas, himself on a proud elephant, rushed forward in challenge. The two beasts—great and dark as cloud-crowned hills—clashed like thunderheads driven by opposing winds.

Their lances struck, flashing like solar fire; their shouts rolled like storms. Then wheeling their elephants in circles, they took up bows and poured showers of arrows, their roars gladdening their own men and shaking the earth.

Trumpets blared and conches cried,

As tusked hills met side by side;

Lance and shaft in tempest flew—

Red rain fell where the warriors drew.

Suddenly Kṣemadhūrti’s spear pierced Bhīma’s chest and six more followed, biting deep. Bhīma, radiant with blood, seemed the cloud-hidden Sun whose rays flame through the rent veil of storm. In wrath, he hurled his own lance—iron-bodied, straight as fate’s decree—but the Kulūta king cut it down with ten arrows and answered with sixty more.

Then Bhīma seized his mighty bow, roaring like thunder. His arrows struck the elephants of his foe till the beasts shrieked and fled, unable to stand against his fury. Like cloud pursuing cloud in tempest, Bhīma’s elephant chased the fleeing foe.

Kṣemadhūrti, restraining his beast, turned and loosed sharp shafts that shattered Bhīma’s bow and wounded his mount in every limb. The huge creature fell, trumpeting, shaking the earth.

But Bhīma leapt clear before its fall, mace in hand, and smote Kṣemadhūrti’s elephant with such force that the beast sank, crushed and dying. The Kulūta king sprang down, sword uplifted—yet before the stroke could fall, Bhīma’s mace whirled again and struck him dead.

The Kulūta fell with broken roar,

His sword still clenched, his breath no more;

Beside his beast, the king lay low—

A lion felled by thunder’s blow.

Beholding their ruler slain, the warriors of Kulūta, panic-struck and bleeding, fled the field. And amidst their rout stood Bhīma, blazing with fury and dust and blood, a second Rudra risen to harvest the living upon the red earth of war.

Sañjaya said:

Then the mighty bowman Karṇa, heroic as the midday Sun, began to pour his shafts upon the Pāṇḍava host. His arrows, bright as solar rays and polished by the smith’s hand, blazed as they flew, and the field of battle glimmered like fire upon the sea.

The Pāṇḍava warriors too, filled with wrath, smote the Kaurava legions in the very sight of Karṇa. The Sūta’s son, surrounded by roaring elephants, steeds, and men, struck down all before him. The tuskers, pierced by his golden shafts, uttered dreadful cries, staggered, and fell upon the earth like mountains struck by lightning.

While the vast host was being crushed beneath his arms, Nakula rushed forth against him, swift as the wind. Bhīmasena met the son of Droṇa, who was working mighty feats. Sātyaki closed with the Kaikeya princes, Vinda and Anuvinda, radiant as twin suns.

Citraseṇa battled with Śrutakarman, Prativindhya with Citra of the shining banner; Duryodhana himself met Yudhiṣṭhira, while Arjuna, like a tempest, swept against the Samsaptakas.

Dṛṣṭadyumna fell upon Kṛpa, Śikhaṇḍin upon Kṛtavarman, Śrutakīrti upon Śalya, and the valiant Sahadeva upon Duḥśāsana.

Chariots clashed and standards blazed,

Arrows hissed like hissing rain;

The sun was dimmed, the earth was dazed—

The sky looked down through veils of pain.

The two Kaikeya brothers rained arrows upon Sātyaki, even as two elephants pierce a rival with their tusks. Their shafts burned his breast, and they roared aloud with joy. But Sātyaki, grandson of Śini, smiled amid the storm. His bow flashed like lightning, and showers of arrows spread around him like woven light.

The Kaikeyas, enraged, shrouded his car with a rain of shafts; yet the Satwata hero cut off their bows with keen arrows and checked their onset. Grasping new bows, Vinda and Anuvinda loosed gilded arrows feathered with peacock plumes; they fell like meteors, filling the quarters with golden light.

Darkness covered the field where they fought, for their shafts filled the sky. Then both warriors cut off each other’s bows in wrath. Seizing another weapon, Sātyaki, his eyes kindled with flame, drew his string and loosed a razor-headed shaft that severed Anuvinda’s head.

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The Kaikeya’s head, with jewels crowned,

Whirled blazing through the sky and fell;

Like Śambara’s when Indra’s sound

Of thunder smote him down to hell.

The Kaikeya host wailed in grief as the proud head struck the dust. But Vinda, wrathful and fearless, took up a new bow and rained arrows like torrents. Piercing Sātyaki with sixty shafts, he cried, “Wait, O Satwata, wait!”

Blood-streaked yet unmoved, Sātyaki glowed like a flowering kiṃśuka tree in spring. In return, he pierced the Kaikeya with five and twenty keen arrows.

Both heroes, fierce as lions, smote each other’s bows and slew their drivers and steeds. Leaping to the ground, they closed with sword and shield, circling each other like Indra and Jambha of old in the war of gods and Asuras.

Moon-crested shields, a hundred stars,

Flashed as they wheeled and clanged in fight;

Swords sang songs like stricken guitars,

And sparks leapt out like fire from night.

Steel clashed upon steel. With a swift side stroke, Sātyaki shivered Vinda’s shining shield; Vinda, in turn, cleft the Satwata’s own. Then, advancing and retreating with dance-like motion, the Kaikeya prince sought an opening. But Sātyaki, swifter than the wind, with one lightning stroke, cut his foe in twain.

Armoured, bright, the Kaikeya fell—

A mountain split by thunder’s knell;

The dust arose, the field grew still,

Where once had rung his warlike will.

Mounting the car of Yudhamanyu, the mighty Sātyaki shone again, a lion fresh from kill. Then, taking another chariot, he drove upon the Kaikeya ranks, his arrows falling like rain.

The vast Kaikeya host, torn and broken by his wrath, scattered and fled from the field—

leaving the grandson of Śini, blazing like fire amid the ashes of their pride.

Sañjaya said:

Then the battle blazed anew, O Bhārata, vast as the ocean in storm. The roar of conches mingled with the thunder of drums, and the twang of countless bows rent the vault of heaven. Amid that tumult, heroes met heroes—each a blazing flame of fury, each seeking death for the sake of fame.

Śrutakarman, prince of the Pāṇḍavas’ cause, his wrath kindled like sacrificial fire, struck Citraseṇa, lord of the Abhīsāras, with fifty sharp shafts. In return, the mountain-born monarch smote him with nine keen arrows and his charioteer with five more. The two stood facing each other like twin peaks struck by lightning, neither yielding to pain nor fear.

Then Śrutakarman, his eyes red as copper, loosed a barbed shaft that struck Citraseṇa full in the breast. The arrow sank deep; the king swayed, pale and senseless. Yet even as he fainted, Śrutakarman rained ninety arrows upon him, covering his fallen form like storm upon the sea.

But soon the lord of the Abhīsāras revived. His eyes flashed again, and, drawing a broad-headed shaft, he cut off his foe’s bow and pierced him seven times. Taking another bow, golden and strong, Śrutakarman answered with such a torrent of arrows that his foe, adorned by their gleaming shafts, seemed like a youth garlanded for a festival.

Red streams flowed on the royal mail,

Like blossoms strewn by springtime’s gale;

The king, though pierced, shone bright and fair,

As love might wear the guise of war.

Citraseṇa, seizing his chance, shot a shaft to his enemy’s chest and cried—

“Wait, O prince! Wait and face me!”

The arrow bit deep, and Śrutakarman bled freely, crimson like a hill of red chalk streaming in rain. Yet wrath overcame his pain: he cut his foe’s bow in two and showered three hundred shafts upon him till the air was darkened.

At last, with a razor-edged arrow bright as the sun, Śrutakarman struck. It severed the crowned head of Citraseṇa, which fell glittering like the moon loosened from the firmament to the earth below.

Down fell the head, its jewels flamed,

The earth received what heaven had named;

As moon from sky to mountain side,

The king lay still—his glory died.

Beholding their ruler slain, the troops of Citraseṇa rushed forth in fury, surrounding his slayer like waves closing over a rock. But Śrutakarman, blazing with vengeance, smote them as Yama strikes the hosts of creatures at world’s end. His arrows tore through flesh and mail; men fell like trees in fire. Fleeing in terror, they scattered to the winds, leaving the Pāṇḍava hero radiant amid ruin.

Then, elsewhere upon the field, Prativindhya, son of Yudhiṣṭhira and Draupadī, met Citra, lord among kings. With five shafts he pierced him, three he sent upon his driver, and one smote his standard. But Citra, swift and bold, struck back with nine golden-feathered arrows that sang as they flew and found their mark upon Prativindhya’s chest and arms.

The son of Yudhiṣṭhira, unmoved, cut Citra’s bow and answered with five keen arrows that burned like meteors. The king of foes then hurled a dart adorned with golden bells, fierce and flashing like a tongue of fire. Yet Prativindhya, calm as a god, cleft it into three with a single flight of shafts, so that it fell harmless to the earth like lightning shattered by Indra’s will.

His darts fell broken in the sky,

As stars that fade when dawn is nigh;

The watching hosts beheld the sign—

The son had proved of royal line.

Then Citra seized a heavy mace netted with gold, and hurled it. It struck Prativindhya’s steeds and charioteer, crushing them utterly, and his car toppled, splintered upon the plain.

But the Pāṇḍava prince, leaping clear, grasped a gleaming dart with golden staff and hurled it like Death himself. Catching it in mid-air, the mighty Citra cast it back; it pierced Prativindhya’s arm and fell blazing upon the ground like a bolt of lightning.

Enraged, Prativindhya lifted a lance decked with gold and hurled it with all his strength. It sped through Citra’s armour and chest, and vanished into the earth like a serpent entering its hole. The king fell, his great arms stretched wide, iron-like and unmoving, his life gone like flame quenched in darkness.

The gold-clad lance had drunk his breath,

And Citra sank to sleep in death;

His arms outstretched, his crown askew—

The earth received her son anew.

Seeing their monarch fallen, the Kaurava warriors, wrathful and grief-maddened, surrounded Prativindhya with darts, arrows, and śataghnīs decked with bells. Clouds of missiles darkened the air; the heavens were filled with their roar.

But Prativindhya, the mighty-armed, drew his bow till it curved like Indra’s rainbow, and loosed his shafts as lightning bursts from storm. His arrows swept the foe like wind through reeds, scattering their ranks.

Then Sanjaya said:

“Thus was thy army, O King, broken and slain by the sons of Pāṇḍu. Like clouds torn by tempest they fled, trembling before the storm of arrows. And when the rout was complete, only one remained steadfast— Aśvatthāman, the son of Droṇa— who, inflamed with wrath, rushed alone against Bhīmasena, like mighty Vṛtra meeting Vāsava in the war of gods and Asuras of old.”

Then earth and heaven held their breath,

To see that duel fierce as death;

For gods recalled from elder skies,

When storm met storm and thunder dies.

Sañjaya said:

Then arose upon Kurukṣetra a duel like no other — fierce and immeasurable, filling heaven and earth with terror.

Aśvatthāmā, son of Droṇa, agile as the lightning and knowing all the vital points of the body, loosed his arrows with the quickness of thought. One pierced Bhīma’s chest; then came ninety more, each a serpent of fire, hissing toward its mark.

Pierced in every limb by those keen shafts, Bhīmasena blazed with splendour, radiant as the midday Sun wreathed in his own rays. The son of Vāyu, roaring like a lion of the Vindhyas, answered with a thousand arrows, his bow humming like thunder.

Aśvatthāmā, smiling faintly, baffled each shaft with his own, and then shot one arrow that struck Bhīma’s brow. The shaft quivered there like the proud horn upon a rhinoceros. Bhīma, laughing in wrath, answered with three arrows to the same spot, and they stood glittering on the forehead of Droṇa’s son like peaks upon a rain-washed mountain.

They fought like Suns with rival flame,

Each quelling each, yet both the same;

Their arrows sang, their tempers soared,

As Time forgot whom it adored.

A thousand arrows sped between them, swift and blinding.

Neither could shake the other, as wind cannot move the mountain, nor rain unseat the rock. They shrouded each other with their storms of shafts, vanishing beneath their own destruction like Suns hidden by stormclouds.

Then, as the arrows thinned, they shone again—two blazing orbs risen to consume the world.

They circled each other’s chariots, advancing and retreating, their bows drawn to the ear, each intent upon making the other carless and slain.

Aśvatthāmā invoked many divine weapons, radiant as meteors, but Bhīma countered each one with his own.

The clash of missiles was like the collision of planets at Time’s end; from the shock of their arrows fire was born—sparks rained upon the armies, consuming banners, chariots, and the hopes of men.

Fire leapt from string and flashing head,

Heaven wept with light, the welkin bled;

The Siddhas cried, “Behold the war!

No battle equals this by far!”

Celestial voices filled the sky:

“These two,” said the Siddhas, “are like twin Rudras, universe-destroying Yamas come again. Bhīma’s strength is dreadful as Death; Aśvatthāmā’s mastery of weapons is the wonder of heaven. Never has the world seen such a war, nor shall it see again.”

Then did the two warriors glare upon each other, lips quivering, eyes red with wrath. Their teeth ground like thunderstones. They loosed arrows like clouds pouring rain, their lightning-like weapons flashing amid darkness. They pierced each other’s banners, drivers, and steeds, until the field itself seemed to cry aloud beneath the weight of their fury.

At last, filled with terrible resolve, each seized a single arrow—bright, unerring, and endued with the power of Indra’s thunder—and shot it straight toward the other.

Those twin shafts met their marks together, striking both heroes as they stood upon their car-tops.

Two bolts of flame, two hearts of war,

Two souls that knew no yielding scar;

They fell as Suns at eventide—

The world grew still, its fury died.

Deeply wounded, both heroes sank upon their chariot floors. Seeing Aśvatthāmā swoon, his charioteer bore him swiftly from the field; and Bhīma, too, faint with pain and fury, was carried away by his own driver, still gripping his bow as a dying fire clings to the last breath of wind.

Thus ended that combat, O King—

a duel of storm and flame,

where the son of the Brāhmaṇa and the son of the Wind

had scorched the heavens with their wrath

and left even the gods in awe.