novelraw Arc 1 - Karna-senāpati-nirmāṇa Parva - Chapter 6 - End of The Samsaptakas
Arc 1 - Karna-senāpati-nirmāṇa Parva - Chapter 6 - End of The Samsaptakas
Sañjaya said:
Wheeling round like the planet Mercury in the curve of its orbit, Jishnu once more fell upon the Samsaptakas. His chariot blazed like a sun in motion, and the air itself trembled with the twang of Gāṇḍīva. Afflicted by his shafts, men and steeds and elephants tottered like reeds in a storm— their complexions drained, their cries swallowed by the roar of battle, and one by one they fell lifeless upon the ground.
The son of Pāṇḍu cut through ranks as if through mist—severing standards, yokes, drivers, bows, and the hands that held them. His arrows came in countless shapes: broad-headed, crescent-tipped, razor-edged, and those toothed like a calf’s jaw. Around him the warriors closed, hundreds and thousands strong, fierce as bulls contending for a single cow in season. The clash was like the war of Daityas and Indra when the three worlds shook with thunder.
Then the son of Ugrayudha, his eyes red with wrath, pierced Arjuna with three shafts that hissed like serpents. But Arjuna’s answer was swifter—he cut the warrior’s head clean from his trunk, sending it rolling upon the dust like a fruit fallen from the branch.
On every side, clouds of weapons rose—the Samsaptakas, in rage, loosed their darts and spears like Maruts driving storm-clouds upon Himavat. But Pārtha, calm amid the tempest, met each storm with a storm. With flawless precision he shattered bows, quivers, and chariot wheels, struck steeds and elephants, broke traces and axles, dislodged banners and harness, until the field of battle lay in ruin. The wrecked cars looked like mansions of the rich shattered by fire and wind; elephants, pierced through their vital parts, fell like crags struck by lightning upon the mountains. Horses collapsed with their entrails pressed out, tongues lolling, blood pouring from their flanks, and the cries of men mingled with the neigh of steeds in one dreadful harmony.
Like Indra loosing thunder’s flame,
He smote them all—no two the same;
Each fell, each flame of life was gone,
Till war was silent, death alone.
Men and beasts pierced by the shafts of Savyasāchī tottered and fell; some gasped, some rolled their eyes in anguish. Arjuna moved among them like Mahendra among the Dānavas, loosing bolts that gleamed like lightning and slew like poison. The bravest, adorned with mail and ornaments, armed with axes and swords and clubs, lay strewn upon the earth, their noble birth and valour having borne them to heaven, while their bodies alone remained to crimson the soil.
Then many chiefs of thy army, kings of various realms, their wrath renewed, rushed upon Arjuna. Chariots, steeds, and elephants advanced together, their banners high, their weapons raining in torrents. But the son of Pāṇḍu, like the wind scattering clouds, shattered their assault with swift arrows. Each shaft he loosed became a bridge across the ocean of foes, each sound of Gāṇḍīva a thunderclap across the sky.
He crossed the sea of sword and spear,
His bow the bridge, his heart austere;
Where waves of war rose dark and high,
His shafts became the storm and sky.
Then Kṛṣṇa, beholding his companion’s sport amid the storm of death, said with stern command, “O sinless one, why linger thus? Crush these Samsaptakas and make haste toward Karṇa, for his hour is come!”
Arjuna bowed his head. “So be it,” he said, and drove forth his chariot once more. The remnant of the Samsaptakas he smote like Indra smiting the Dānavas at the dawn of creation. So swift were his motions that even the keenest eye could not discern when he drew, aimed, or loosed an arrow. The shafts streamed forth like white swans diving upon a lake, each finding its mark. Kṛṣṇa himself marvelled to behold it.
Then the Lord of Dvārakā, surveying the field made crimson beneath the sun, spoke to Savyasāchī in solemn wonder:
“Behold, O son of Bharata, how for Duryodhana’s folly alone this vast and dreadful ruin hath come to pass!
See how the bows of many kings, once golden-backed and bright, now lie broken; the girdles and quivers loosened from their fallen forms.
Behold the straight shafts, gold-feathered, lying as snakes that have shed their skins.
The lances gleam, the coats of mail lie torn, and the earth is strewn with maces, swords, and axes, all adorned with gold.
Spears and clubs and heavy pestles lie in heaps; warriors slain still seem alive, their eyes unclosed, their arms still bright with ornaments.
See how the earth, bathed in streams of blood, glitters with Angadas, Keyūras, and severed hands—each finger fenced and jewelled.
Thighs strong as elephant-trunks lie scattered; faces still radiant with crowns and earrings shine like fallen moons upon the ground.
The chariots, once adorned with golden bells, are broken and overturned. Steeds lie bathed in blood, elephants fallen like black hills, their tongues lolling, their tusks red.
Umbrellas, banners, yak-tails, and fans lie tossed like clouds in ruin.
The earth, bright with scattered gems and necklaces of gold, gleams like the autumn sky thick with stars.
Verily, O Arjuna, the feats thou hast wrought this day are worthy of Indra himself, when he smote the hosts of the Asuras!”
Hearing these words, Arjuna gazed upon the field that lay like a sky fallen to earth, luminous with blood and gold. Then, as they turned their chariot toward the camp, a thunderous uproar rose from Duryodhana’s army—the blare of conches and cymbals, the roll of drums and the neighing of horses, the grunt of elephants, and the clash of steel.
Penetrating that sound, the steeds of Kṛṣṇa sped like the wind, and soon the two heroes beheld a marvel:
For there, amid the Kaurava host, the great Pāṇḍya, foremost of warriors skilled in arms, was smiting down the enemy like Yama himself at the world’s end. His arrows pierced elephants, steeds, and men alike; weapons hurled at him fell broken by his shafts. Alone, he moved among thousands, radiant as Indra destroying the Dānavas, and the field blazed once more with the fire of his valor.
The lord of Madura smiled to see,
The southern king’s dread mastery;
And all the field, with blood aflame,
Proclaimed the glory of his name.
Sañjaya said:
Thou didst hear his name before, O King, yet not the full measure of his might. Hear now of Pāṇḍya, lord of the southern marches—lofty in lineage, fierce in vow, and bright with the confidence of kings. In his own heart he counted no equal among bowmen: not Bhīṣma, nor Droṇa, nor Kṛpa; not Karṇa the proud, nor even Vāsudeva and Arjuna. Such was his spirit—unyielding, storm-strong, and unafraid.
Filled with a wrath like the Ordainer at the end of time, Pāṇḍya fell upon Karṇa’s array. Cars wheeled and staggered beneath his rain of arrows; standards toppled, yokes were shorn, drivers slain. As the wind scatters piled storm-clouds, so did his keen shafts disperse the force that had swelled with elephants, chargers, and chosen foot. He split tuskers like peaks struck by thunder, cutting banner, goad, and guard before he smote the riders; he sheared through lancers and horsemen, through Pulindas and Khaśas, Bāhlīkas and Niṣādas, Aṃḍhakas, Tāṅgaṇas, Southerners and Bhojas—valiant hearts all, stripped of mail and breath alike by the southern king’s relentless hand.
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Beholding this whirlwind of destruction, Aśvatthāmā advanced, fearless toward the fearless, and called to him in honeyed words that stung like steel: O king of lotus-eyes, thy birth is noble and thy training high; thy arm and bow, stretched to a circle, are a dark cloud pouring arrows upon thy foes. Save myself, I see no match for thee. Stand then, as Andhaka once before the Three-Eyed Lord; draw from thy quiver those serpents of flame and fight with me alone. Pāṇḍya answered softly, “So be it,” and the two set hand to string.
The son of Droṇa smiled and struck first—barbed shafts that burned like fire entered the king’s armour. A second storm he loosed, great arrows tenfold in motion across the sky; but Pāṇḍya with nine true shots clipped them all, then with four more smote the four steeds of his foe, and severed, with a razor-bright shaft, the bowstring that sang like thunder in Aśvatthāmā’s hands. Swift were the preceptor’s men: fresh horses yoked, fresh string drawn, and then a sky of arrows—thousands filling the compass like summer rain. Yet the southern lion, knowing his adversary’s inexhaustible art, pared each flight to tatters, and slew both wheel-guards at the chariot’s flanks with needles of iron and light.
Then the brahman-warrior drew to the ear and rained without cease. In the space of an eighth of a day he shot a weight of shafts like eight bullock-carts laden to the rim. Men looked on him and lost their wits—he seemed the Destroyer’s Destroyer, wrath within wrath. Pāṇḍya met that black monsoon with the Wind-weapon; the arrow-cloud broke, and the southern king, rejoicing, roared aloud. But Aśvatthāmā’s counter met his joy: the Malaya-banner, perfumed and bright, fell severed; his steeds were slain; his bowstring cut; his car splintered into glittering drift. The son of Droṇa, though holding his enemy at mercy, forbore the killing-stroke, desiring still the savour of battle.
Meanwhile Karṇa, elsewhere upon the plain, was breaking the Pāṇḍava elephant-legions, unseating charioteers, and covering men and beasts with straight, unerring shafts. A riderless tusker then surged through the dust—a white-tusked mountain, harnessed and furious, quick to meet any foe. Struck by Aśvatthāmā’s arrows, it turned upon Pāṇḍya. The king, well-schooled in the neck-fight of elephants, sprang up like a lion to a peak, settled his hook, and with calm wrath and perfect aim hurled a lance bright as the sun toward the preceptor’s son, crying in high delight, “Thou art slain! Thou art slain!”
The weapon crashed upon Aśvatthāmā’s diadem—gold of the finest fire, strings of pearls, gems like planets around a moon. The crown burst as a thunder-split summit; fragments fell ringing to the earth. Stung to a serpent’s fury, the brahman-warrior took up fourteen shafts—each a Rod of Death. With five he shore the four feet and the trunk of the charging elephant; with three he lopped the royal arms and head; with the remaining six he cut down the six resplendent chiefs who rode in the king’s shadow.
Gold-girt arms, with sandal stained,
Fell writhed like serpents newly slain;
A moon-bright face, with jewels crowned,
Lay still—yet lit the blood-red ground.
The tusker lay in six sundered parts, the king in four, ten pieces bright as clarified butter set for ten deities at sacrifice—grim offering to the Rakṣasas of the field. Thus was Pāṇḍya—fire in the cremation-ground of war—quenched by the water of Aśvatthāmā’s art.
Then, as Śakra worships Viṣṇu after Vāli’s fall, thy son Duryodhana came with his brothers and did honour to the preceptor’s son—the master complete in the lore of weapons—whose vow he had fulfilled upon the southern king.
Pride rode forth upon a storm,
Wind met cloud and broke its form;
Thunder answered from the height—
Peak lay split, and day was night.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Dhṛtarāṣṭra, shaken with foreboding, asked Sañjaya what Arjuna did when Pāṇḍya had fallen and Karṇa, foremost among heroes, was driving the Pāṇḍava ranks before him. “Dhanañjaya,” he said, “is mighty, dutiful, and complete in the science of arms—Śaṅkara himself has made him unconquered. Tell me all that Pārtha achieved in that dread hour.”
Sañjaya said:
After Pāṇḍya’s fall, Keśava spoke swiftly to Arjuna: “I see not the King. The other Pāṇḍavas have withdrawn. Had they stood fast, this vast host would already be broken. By Aśvatthāmā’s design, Karṇa hews down the Śṛñjayas—steeds, chariots, and elephants fall in heaps.” Hearing and beholding that peril to Yudhiṣṭhira, Pārtha said only, “Urge the horses, Hṛṣīkeśa,” and the four, quick as the wind, leapt forward; the encounter flared again, fierce as first dawn.
The Kurus and the sons of Pāṇḍu closed once more—Bhīmasena at the van of the Pāṇḍavas, and our side massed behind the Sūta’s son. Then began a battle that swelled the kingdom of Yama, for men fought with bows and arrows, with lances and axes, with short clubs, bhūṣuṇḍīs and spears, with maces and polished kuṇṭas and hooks—every engine of death the art of kṣatra knows. The sky and quarters rang with bowstring twang and palm-beats, the grind of wheels, the bellows of elephants; heroes, gladdened by the roar, strove for the only end of strife.
Drums boomed; the firmament burned with sound;
The strings sang iron, the wheels shook ground;
Where banners streamed like meteors hurled,
Men met as storms that split a world.
Under that terrible music troops grew pale; some faltered, some fell. Karṇa, the son of Adhiratha, mowed them down with arrow-scythes; twenty foremost Pañcāla chariot-lords he sent to Yama with steeds, drivers, and standards together. Swiftly, ring upon ring, Pāṇḍava captains enclosed him; but the son of Rādhā plunged among them like the bull-elephant of a herd into a lotus-lake, showering weapons as he came. His sharp shafts smote off heads and hands; shields and mail fled their owners and glittered on the earth; none he struck required a second arrow. As a lion grinds a deerfold, so did Karṇa grind Paṇḍus, Śṛñjayas, and Pañcālas within the sweep of his bow.
Then the Pañcāla chief, the sons of Draupadī, the twins, and Yuyudhāna together bore down upon him. All around them, armour-bright warriors, reckless of life, rushed in with maces and bludgeons like the lifted rods of the Destroyer; leaping, grappling, crying challenge, they smote and fell, their blood rising in sheets, their brains and eyes darkened forever. Faces fair as pomegranates were crushed and crimsoned; in that sea of battle men lopped and pierced and felled each other with axes, hooks, and spears, till the ground drank and drank.
Lotus faces, bright and slain,
Sank like stars in a scarlet rain;
Mail and moonlike helms grew dull—
Death’s hand closed every eyelash full.
Car by car, elephant by elephant, man by man, and steed by steed, they crashed in thousands. Standards and umbrellas fell with heads and trunks; human arms, cut with razor and crescent blades, dropped like branches in a storm. Many a horseman pierced by footmen sank beneath their knives, and many a footman, trampled by horse, lay iron-still. Tuskers, banner-laden, their trunks hewn off, toppled like fallen hills; chariots shattered; teams tangled; the earth was a mill of wheels and limbs.
The field became a broken sky—
Stars of gold in blood did lie;
Gems and garlands, dust and gore—
A night where suns would rise no more.
Thus, O King, while Karṇa’s bow roared and the Pāṇḍava rings drew tight, Arjuna, urged by Keśava, plunged back into the furnace; and the battle, fed by wrath and fate, flamed higher than before.
Sañjaya said:
Urged on by thy son, many elephant-warriors, wrathful and resolute to slay, pressed their tuskers against Dhṛṣṭadyumna. From the East and South they came, and from Aṅga and Vaṅga, Puṇḍra and Magadha; from Tāmraliptaka and Mekalā, Kośala and Madra; from the Daśārṇas and Niṣādas allied with the Kaliṅgas—masters of the elephant-fight—who drenched the Pāñcāla lines with lances and arrows as monsoon-clouds drench the earth.
Pr̥ṣata’s son met them with a glittering rain of shafts, striking each hill-sized beast with six, eight, or ten whetted arrows, even as goads of iron bit their flanks and hooks glinted at their ears. Seeing the Pāñcāla prince half-veiled as the sun by cloud, the Pāṇḍus and Pāñcālas roared for him and swept in with bright weapons uplifted.
Bowstrings thrummed a warrior’s song,
Palms beat time, the brave danced strong;
Steel kept rhythm, tusks kept time—
A battle’s music, stern, sublime.
On rushed the mleccha-riders; with coiling trunks their tuskers dragged down men, steeds, and cars; some they gored with glittering tips, some they hoisted high and dashed upon the earth; others, carried aloft on white-curving tusks, fell like broken stars, and fear went through the watching ranks.
Sātyaki, keen-eyed, drew first blood among the chiefs: his long, impetuous shaft struck deep into the vitals of the Vaṅga king’s elephant and felled it roaring. As the rider sprang to save himself, the Sātvata sent a second arrow to the chest and cast him down like fruit from a shaken bough.
Meanwhile Sahadeva loosed three careful shafts and came, mountain against mountain, upon the Puṇḍra king’s tusker—stripping its standard, its driver, its armour, and its life at once—then turned his gaze toward the lord of Aṅga. But Nakula checked his twin and took the challenge himself: three long arrows like Yama’s rod struck the Aṅga chief; a hundred more harrowed the elephant. In wrath the mleccha king hurled eight hundred sun-bright lances—Nakula shore each into three, and with a crescent blade struck off the royal head. Rider and beast together fell, and the field knew silence in that place.
Then the elephant-men of Aṅga, blazing with banners and gold housings, excellent-mouthed beasts like fiery hills beneath them, surged for vengeance upon Nakula. With them came Mekalās and Utkalās, Kaliṅgas and Niṣādas and the Tāmraliptakas, showering darts and spears. The Pāṇḍus, Pāñcālas, and Somakas, angered and swift, ran to close their ring about Nakula as dark clouds close round the sun.
There rose a close and savage press: chariots against tuskers—arrows like rain, lances like lightning by the thousand. Foreheads and frontal globes split; tusks and ornaments shattered; the harness of kings ran red. Sahadeva, with four and sixty rushing shafts, struck eight huge elephants to earth along with their riders; Nakula, bending his great bow, sent many more to ground in lines.
The Pāñcāla prince, Sātyaki, the sons of Draupadī, the Prabhadrakas, and Śikhaṇḍin clouded the air with arrows; the elephants, the hills of thy host, broke and fell beneath that torrent.
Rain-charged clouds of heroes poured—
And mountain-backs with thunder scored
Sank down; the storm left shards and spray,
And ridges turned to foam and clay.
So did the Pāṇḍava chariot-lords unhill thy elephant-mountains and cast their eyes across the broken field. Thy army fled like a river whose banks were washed away; and those sons of Pāṇḍu, having churned it once, churned it yet again—then, standards high and quivers bright, they wheeled as one and rushed toward Karṇa.