novelraw Arc 2 - Dushahan Karna-Vadha Parva - Chapter 8 - Bhima’s Vow
Arc 2 - Dushahan Karna-Vadha Parva - Chapter 8 - Bhima’s Vow
Sanjaya said,—During the progress of that fierce and dreadful engagement, Bhīmasena, encompassed on all sides by innumerable foes, addressed his charioteer in a voice like thunder and said: “Drive me, O Sūta, into the midst of the Dhārtarāṣṭra host. Swiftly urge on these steeds; I will bear them all down to the presence of Yama!”
Thus commanded, the charioteer urged forward Bhīma’s car, terrible and resplendent, even as a storm drives through a sea of clouds. Seeing him advance, a vast host of Kauravas, with elephants and cars and horsemen and foot, rushed to meet him from every side. Then, O King, countless arrows showered upon that foremost of Pāṇḍava cars; but Bhīma, invincible, cut off every shaft with golden-winged arrows from his mighty bow.
The sky was filled with whirling splinters of severed darts; elephants screamed, horses reared, and men fell wailing, like mountains split by the thunder.
Fierce flashed his arms, his bowstring sang, his arrows blazed like flame,
The earth grew red beneath his wrath; no man could stand or aim.
He seemed the very Death of Time with mace in hand arrayed,
When at the end of Yuga’s wheel he rends what worlds He made.
Sanjaya said,—The high-souled Bhīma, burning like Rudra’s fire, slew and scattered the host. None could resist that surge of fury. The Kaurava ranks, crushed and mangled, broke like clouds before the tempest, fleeing in panic across the field.
Then Bhīmasena, ever alert, spoke again to his charioteer: “See, O Viśoka, those standards and cars advancing—are they ours or the enemy’s? My eyes are dim with wrath; I would not shroud our own kin in shafts meant for foes. Look well about us, O Sūta. My heart is heavy: the king is in peril, and the diadem-decked Arjuna has not yet come. Yudhiṣṭhira has gone, leaving me amidst the foe—alive or fallen I know not. Yet grief shall not unman me. Though sorrow gnaws within, I will strike down these proud lords of earth. Count well my arrows, O charioteer—tell me what strength remains within my quivers.”
Viśoka bowed and spoke: “O mighty son of Pāṇḍu, thou hast yet sixty thousand shafts, ten thousand razor-headed, ten thousand broad-headed, two thousand cloth-yard long, and three thousand pradaras that rend like thunder. The weight of thy remaining weapons could not be borne by six bullock carts! Shoot, O hero, and fear no want—of maces, swords, spears, and darts thou hast thousands beyond count!”
Bhīma laughed aloud, and his eyes shone red with battle-fire.
Behold, O Sūta, how the field shall darken under storm!
My arrows fall like summer rain when Death himself is warm.
The sun shall fade behind their flight, the earth shall quake and moan,
And Kurus meet their reckoning—one or none!
Sanjaya said,—Thus speaking, Bhīma lifted his bow and sent his shafts in a rushing flood, darkening the sky. “Today,” he cried, “let all the Kauravas fall, or let the world proclaim my fame! Alone I will overthrow them, or let them strike me down! Let the gods who guard the righteous favour my arm; let Arjuna appear now like Indra invoked at a sacrifice.”
Then, as he spoke, he beheld signs in the distance—the banners shattering, elephants fleeing, and the dust of rout rising like mist before the storm.
“Look, Viśoka!” cried he. “The Kaurava host is breaking! See, the standards and steeds and warriors scatter. Surely Savyasācī has come!”
And Viśoka, straining his eyes across the field, beheld the gleam of lightning and the roll of thunder.
“How is it, O Bhīma,” said he, “that thou hearest not the song of Gāṇḍīva? Has battle’s roar deafened thy ears? Behold the Ape upon the banner—he shines amid the foe! The bowstring flashes like lightning through dark cloud. The diadem of Arjuna burns like a sun in storm, and beside him stands Keśava, his discus whirling, his conch resounding white as cloud.
There fall the trunks of elephants like forest trees hewn down; their riders too, split by his shafts, crash to the ground. Behold the conch Pāñcajanya, the Kaustubha gem upon his breast, the garland of victory upon his heart. Truly Dhanañjaya comes, urged by Kṛṣṇa, routing the host as Garuḍa scatters serpents.
Four hundred cars, seven hundred elephants, and uncounted footmen lie slain by his tempest of arrows. Thy wish is fulfilled—thy foes are broken and thy brother approaches! Long be thy might, and long thy life!”
Hearing these words, Bhīma’s heart leapt like fire.
Since thou hast brought this joyful word, O charioteer of mine,
Fourteen villages I grant thee rich in field and vine;
A hundred maids and twenty cars—take all, O loyal friend!
For thou hast brought the tidings true—the foe draws near his end.
Sanjaya said,—Thus rewarded, Viśoka bowed low as the roar of Bhīma’s conch rose like thunder over the fleeing host, heralding the union of the lion-hearted brothers on the field of destiny.
Hearing the roar of chariots and the lion-like shouts that shook the field, Dhanañjaya, eager for his brother’s sight, said unto Govinda, “Urge the steeds to greater speed!”
And Keśava replied, smiling, yet fierce with purpose, “Already do these white steeds, bright as snow and conch-shell, bear us swiftly, O Pārtha, to the place where Bhīma stands.”
Then from the Kaurava ranks rose a thousand sounds—the clash of arms, the neigh of steeds, the trumpet of elephants, and the hiss of arrows cleaving air. Lions among men, enraged and reckless, advanced against Arjuna, their standards glittering, their hosts rolling forward like a storm across the sea.
The son of Pāṇḍu, his banner streaming, his diadem burning like a flame, met them as Indra meets the hosts of Asuras when the thunderbolt is raised for the world’s defence. Alone he cut down their weapons and their limbs with razor-edged and crescent-headed shafts; umbrellas, standards, and bows fell shattered; steeds, cars, elephants, and warriors dropped to earth as forests fall before the tempest.
Their golden-armoured elephants blazed like mountains on fire when struck by his bright-winged arrows. So sped Dhanañjaya through the host, cleaving it as Indra cleft Vala of old, his shafts flashing like lightning strokes in a monsoon cloud.
Swift as a makara plunging into the sea, the tiger of men burst into the Kaurava ranks. Around him rose a tumult like the roaring of waves lashed by the storm, for chariots, steeds, and elephants came on from every side, abandoning all thought of life.
Then Partha, fearless and unwearied, loosed a tempest of arrows,
That tore through cars and elephants as wind through withered sorrows.
Four hundred princes of renown he sent to Yama’s shore,
And the host broke like the sea that strikes and shatters on the shore.
Sanjaya said,—The foremost of the Kurus fled before him, leaving the ground strewn with men and mail and steeds. And as Arjuna advanced with thunderous sound, even as Garuḍa swoops upon the serpents, that cry reached the Wind-born hero.
Hearing the voice of victory, Bhīmasena’s heart leapt high; and filled with joy, he fell upon the foe with redoubled wrath. His chariot whirled; his bow rang loud; his arrows burned the air. The Kaurava army reeled like a ship broken by wind upon the sea.
Terrible was Bhīma to behold, as if Rudra strode the field—his shafts rained death, his arms moved like whirlwinds, and wherever he turned, men and elephants fell like reeds in flame.
Then, seeing their warriors slaughtered, Duryodhana cried out in rage, “Slay Bhīma! When Vṛkodara falls, the Pāṇḍavas are slain!” And all the kings surrounded Bhīma with horse, car, and elephant, hemming him round like the stars about the full moon.
But that hero shone amid them bright and serene,
As the moon within her halo, calm and keen.
Their arrows fell like rain upon his crest,
Yet Bhīma’s wrath burned brighter in his breast.
Piercing through their lines, he slew ten thousand elephants, two hundred thousand men, five thousand steeds, and a hundred princes. From that dreadful carnage flowed a river of blood:
Its waters were crimson with life, its eddies formed of cars;
Elephants were its alligators, its banks were lined with scars.
Men were its fishes, steeds its sharks, the hair of beasts its reeds;
Jewels were its drifting foam, and arms its writhing weeds.
Thighs made its gravel, marrow its mire, heads its stones that gleam,
While bows and spears were boats upon that gruesome stream.
The timid shrank from crossing it, but heroes waded through; it rolled, O King, like the dread Vaitaraṇī of Yama’s realm. Wherever Bhīma turned, warriors fell like fruit from shaken trees.
Then Duryodhana, beholding his ranks destroyed, said to Śakuni, “O uncle, subdue the mighty Bhīma! When he is down, our foes are slain!”
Śakuni, son of Subala, valiant though cruel of heart, advanced with his brothers, surrounding Bhīma like land girding the sea. They fought fiercely; shafts flashed like serpents between them. Śakuni’s golden arrows pierced Bhīma’s chest, feathered with peacock plumes, deep as anger in his heart.
Enraged, Bhīma sped a single arrow like death itself, But Śakuni, deft of hand, cut it in seven parts. Then Bhīma’s eyes blazed crimson; with a single broad head he shored his foe’s bow in twain.
Quickly the Gandhāra prince took up another, loosing sixteen arrows: two struck Bhīma, one cut his banner, two his umbrella, four pierced his steeds. Then Bhīma hurled a heavy iron dart, its shaft gold-adorned, whirling like a serpent’s tongue; it struck Śakuni’s car and shivered it.
Furious, Śakuni seized that same dart and cast it back; it pierced Bhīma’s left arm and fell to earth like lightning from a cloud. The Dhārtarāṣṭras shouted in triumph—but Bhīma’s roar drowned theirs, shaking heaven and earth.
Then, taking up a new bow, he loosed a storm of arrows that slew the four steeds, the charioteer, and cut the banner from its pole. Abandoning his ruined car, Śakuni stood on foot, eyes red with rage, and struck Bhīma from every side with ceaseless shafts.
But the son of the Wind baffled every missile, and with keen arrows pierced the Gandhāra to the ground. Śakuni fell senseless, his life near spent, till Duryodhana himself bore him away upon his car.
Beholding his uncle borne off wounded, the Kaurava host lost heart. They turned their backs and fled in fear. Duryodhana too, filled with grief and dread, withdrew from battle to save the son of Subala.
And as he fled, the rest fled likewise; the field became a tide of fear. But Bhīma pursued, raining shafts upon the rout, till they reached the place where Karṇa stood, steadfast as a mountain.
Then, O King, thy host rallied round the son of the Sūta, taking refuge in his valour as shipwrecked men cling to an island. Comforted by his presence, they gathered once more for death, resolved upon battle even as doomed souls return to fire.
Thus did the tide of war turn again—fleeing from Bhīma, they rose behind Karṇa, the pillar of their last hope, to face their fate anew.
Sanjaya said,—When the clamour of battle rolled like the roar of the ocean, Dhṛtarāṣṭra spoke, his voice trembling with anxious hope:
“Tell me, O Sanjaya, what words were spoken by my son Duryodhana and by Śakuni, the son of Subala, when our army was broken by Bhīmasena? What did Karṇa, the foremost of warriors, do in that hour? For he is the very life and fortune of the Kurus—their armour, their fame, their last hope of victory. What also did my sons, or the heroes like Kṛpa, Kṛtavarmā, Aśvatthāman, and Duḥśāsana, attempt in that mighty conflict? Truly marvellous is the valour of the son of Pāṇḍu, who, single-handed, withstands all my sons and kings. Did the son of Rādhā act up to his vow, O Sanjaya?”
Sanjaya said,—In that fierce afternoon, O monarch, the Sūta’s son, filled with wrath and splendour, smote the ranks of the Sōmakas before the eyes of Bhīmasena. Even as Bhīma struck down thy troops, Karṇa, beholding his own array reeling, turned to Śalya, the ruler of Madra, and said:
“Drive me swiftly, O king, to the Pāñcālas. Bear me where their banners rise, where Bhīma’s rage burns fiercest. Thither, O Śalya, thither alone!”
Obedient, the mighty Śalya urged forward the white steeds swift as thought. Through the ranks of elephants and cars he drove, guiding the chariot as the sea bears a storm. The roar of that car was like thunder splitting mountains; its banner flashed like a cloud edged with lightning.
Then, O King, the Pāṇḍavas and the Pāñcālas trembled at the sight. For the car of Karṇa, cased in tiger-skins and shining with gold, advanced like a tempest-cloud filled with fire. Hundreds of his arrows sped forth, gleaming like shafts of the sun. They pierced warriors and steeds and elephants; the earth itself quivered under the fall of men and beasts.
Umbrellas, standards, and banners whirled down like forest leaves before a gale; broken cars, pierced elephants, and fallen heroes lay heaped upon the ground.
He rained sharp shafts of golden plume,
Till all the field grew red with doom;
Each bow he cut, each helm he tore—
He shone like Agni’s flaming core.
Sanjaya said,—While Karṇa thus desolated the field, many heroes of the Pāṇḍava host—Śikhaṇḍin, Bhīma, Dhṛṣṭadyumna, Nakula, Sahadeva, the sons of Draupadī, and Sātyaki—closed around him, eager to bring his end.
The valiant Sātyaki struck him with twenty arrows in the shoulder; Śikhaṇḍin with twenty-five; Dhṛṣṭadyumna with seven; the sons of Draupadī with fourscore and four; Sahadeva with seven; Nakula with a hundred; and Bhīma, in his fury, with ninety shafts that burned like fire.
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But the son of Rādhā only laughed aloud. Drawing his bow to the ear, he sent back five arrows at each, his shafts whistling like serpents in flight. With a single stroke he cut off Sātyaki’s bow and standard; with nine arrows he pierced his breast; with thirty he struck Bhīmasena. Sahadeva’s standard he lopped with a broad-headed shaft, and his charioteer he wounded with three. In the next instant, O King, he smote down the sons of Draupadī, casting them from their cars; it was a sight of wonder.
He moved amid the foe like blazing fire amid dry reeds; the Cedis and Matsyas fell before him in hundreds. Like a lion beset by deer, he slew those rushing hosts alone and unsupported. The sky was darkened by arrows; the earth was cumbered with corpses; even gods and Siddhas looked on in awe at his speed of hand.
Then Karṇa burned the army of the Pāṇḍavas as a wildfire consumes dry grass in summer. The Pāñcālas fled; their cries rose like waves breaking upon stone. None could bear his approach, for he stood like a mountain of flame without smoke.
Gold-winged shafts, cleaving heads and arms, filled the air like a storm of meteors. Standards fell like withered trees, cars crashed, elephants sank into the mire, and steeds, pierced and bleeding, rolled on the torn earth.
Bows and maces floated upon a river of blood;
Jewels shone amid the stream like stars beneath a flood.
None could tell friend from foe in the shadow of his might,
For darkness born of arrows veiled the sun from sight.
Sanjaya said,—The Pāṇḍava host, broken and blinded by Karṇa’s weapon, fled like deer from a roaring lion. Yet, O King, some among the Pāñcālas returned, making death their aim. But Karṇa, the bull among men, scattered them again in a storm of death.
Twenty car-warriors among the Pāñcālas and more than a hundred Cedis fell beneath his arrows. He made the field impassable with corpses of men, steeds, and elephants. He blazed upon the earth like Yama himself at the end of time, red-handed and unapproachable.
Even so, the Pandava heroes strove on: Dhṛṣṭadyumna, Śikhaṇḍin, and the sons of Draupadī, cutting down thy troops; while Bhīmasena elsewhere, like a tempest loosed, smote thousands.
Thus on that dreadful eve, O King, the twin hosts, torn and weary, bled into the dust. Karṇa shone resplendent as the Sun among dim stars, and Bhīma raged elsewhere like the Wind-god’s wrath made flesh. So great was the slaughter, that both armies, Pandava and Kaurava alike, seemed swallowed by the same night of destiny.
1. Arjuna Rushes Towards Karna Sanjaya said,—Meanwhile Arjuna, O monarch, having scattered the fourfold host and sighted the wrath-inflamed son of the Sūta, made a river of slaughter run across the field—tawny with flesh and marrow, bristling with bones. Human heads rose like rocks; steeds and elephants formed its banks; umbrellas drifted like pale swans, and shattered crowns foamed upon its tide. Bows and shafts darted like fish; cars bobbed like rafts; and the timid found no ford, while the resolute strode through to victory.
Red ran the river, thick with mail;
Its eddies—shields; its reeds—spear-hail.
Its lotus—necklaces unstrung;
Its rocks—the heads of princes flung.
Then Vibhatsu, slayer of hostile heroes, spoke to Vāsudeva: “There, O Kṛṣṇa—Karna’s elephant-rope standard! Bhīmasena and our chiefs are locked with that great car-warrior, while the Pāñcālas, stricken by his onset, waver and fall back. Yonder stands Duryodhana beneath the white umbrella, guarded by Kṛpa, Kṛtavarmā, and the son of Droṇa, themselves shielded by the Sūta’s son. And Shalya, deft in the reins, gleams upon Karna’s terrace. Bear me straight to him. Without slaying Karna I do not return; else, before my eyes, he will reap the warriors of the Pārthas and the Śṛñjayas.”
At his word Keśava urged the white-maned steeds; the chariot-rattle rolled like Vāsu’s thunder. Seeing that banner of the diadem-decked one draw near, Shalya addressed Karna: “He comes—the bowman of white steeds, with Kṛṣṇa for his driver. If thou canst slay him today, our good is wrought. Mark his wrath; he speeds avoiding all others—for thee alone.”
Steel-bright the chariot, storm-swift the pace;
The ape-crested banner burns through space.
He comes like cloud with thunder rolled—
The archer with the arm of gold.
Karna said,—“Now thy speech is worthy, O Madra-lord. Fear not Dhanañjaya. This day, single-handed, I will scatter the hosts of the Pāṇḍavas and strike down the two Krishnas—or, struck by them, sleep on the earth. Battle owns a double fate.”
Shalya answered,—“All great car-lords proclaim that Partha, even alone, is invincible; who, meeting him guarded by Kṛṣṇa, dares to conquer?”
Karna said,—“Such a car-warrior earth has not borne; yet behold my pledge—to contend with that very Partha. His arms—firm, cicatrice-scarred—never sweat nor tremble; he looses a cloud of shafts as though a single reed. At Khāṇḍava he, with Kṛṣṇa, gladdened Agni and won his unfailing bow, his steeds white as rain-cloud foam, inexhaustible quivers, and weapons without number. In heaven he sounded Devadatta and smote Dāityas and the Kalakeyas. He won from Maheśvara the dread Paśupata; from the Regents their flaming astras. In Virāṭa’s city he routed us single-car’d. He is foremost of bowmen; and Kṛṣṇa—Nārāyaṇa—no second in the discus. The Himavat might move from its roots, but not those two. And yet—who, save I, will face Phālguṇa and Vāsudeva together? Let the matchless combat come: I overthrow them—or they overthrow me.”
With that, Karna roared like thunder and came to Duryodhana, reverenced by princes and preceptors. “Hem them in!” he cried to Kṛpa, Kṛtavarmā, and the chiefs. “Close every path about the two Krishnas; wear them with toil; then will I, when they are deeply mangled, strike them down.” They answered, “So be it!”—and rushed.
They poured like rivers toward an ocean floor—
He took them in his silence and his roar.
They loosed; he drank their iron rain;
They fell like forests shorn by flame.
Sanjaya said,—Obeying Karna, thy lords rained shafts; but Arjuna received them as the ocean takes the streams. None could mark the instant hand to string or string to let: men, steeds, and elephants simply fell, life shorn. Smiling, he sheared their volleys and returned a storm—drawing his great bow to the full, till it shone a perfect circle. As the fierce sun of Jyeṣṭha dries up earth’s waters, so did Pārtha parch thy ranks.
Then Kṛpa, the Bhoja chief, and the king thy son, and the son of Droṇa pressed in, clouds massed upon a mountain. Arjuna flicked their care-sped shafts to splinters, and in answer set three arrows in each high breast. Aśvatthāman smote Pārtha with ten keen points, Keśava with three, and the horses with four; he even scourged the Ape on the banner. In that same breath Dhanañjaya clipped his full-drawn bow with three, shore his driver’s head with a razor edge, felled his four steeds with four, and toppled his standard—and the son of Droṇa dropped to earth. Rising, he took another serpent-bright bow and, standing on the ground, plied near-shot weapons with furious skill; but Kṛpa and Kṛtavarmā, with thy son, had already been shorn of standards, bows, and teams by Partha’s tempest. Elephants went down; chariots buckled; drivers and steeds lay heaped; thy host split like an embankment washed by flood.
Keśava wheeled and set the press upon his right. Other warriors, high-standarded, strained to follow Dhanañjaya as gods once followed Indra against Vṛtra. Śikhaṇḍin, Sātyaki, and the twin sons of Mādrī pierced the pursuers and roared; the Kuru heroes and the Śṛñjayas met breast to breast and slew, like Asuras and celestials of old.
Dark grew the quarters with shaft-flung night;
The sun’s own wheel lost half its light.
Men fell for fame—or heaven’s road—
And earth forgot which army bled.
Sanjaya said,—Yet all this while Savyasācin’s aim was Karna alone. Seeing Shalya’s reins flash on that tiger-car, seeing Duryodhana’s pearl-white umbrella beside it, he spoke once more, and Keśava drove straight on—toward the single combat that must decide the day.
Sanjaya said,—Then, O King, Dhanañjaya, the son of Pāṇḍu, seeing Bhīmasena sore pressed by many foremost warriors of the Kuru host, turned his gaze from Karṇa’s ranks and sped forth like a storm to his brother’s aid. His bow sang, his arrows hissed, and the sky seemed roofed with fletched wings; for successive showers of his shafts overspread the firmament like swarms of golden birds. Wherever they fell, men fell; wherever they gleamed, life fled.
The diadem-decked hero, his eyes aflame, became like Death himself risen upon the field of men. Broad-headed shafts, razor-edged darts, and long cloth-yard arrows flew from his hand in glittering streams. Heads were sundered from bodies; mail was rent; arms and banners fell in heaps; and the field of battle grew dark and terrible as the Vaitaraṇī—the river of the dead—rolling with blood instead of water.
Its banks were cars and steeds,
Its foam the spray of gore;
Its eddies whirled men’s severed heads—
Its waves the slain it bore.
The earth, O monarch, was filled with mangled elephants, steeds, and men, broken axles, shattered wheels, fallen standards, and driverless chariots. Four hundred elephants, huge as peaks of Himavat, decked in golden mail, maddened with fury and urged by cruel goads, fell together, their mountains of flesh pierced through and through by Pārtha’s shafts. Like cliffs shorn from a living hill, they crashed to earth and made the ground tremble.
Through that dense host Arjuna’s chariot passed like the sun through storm-clouds, its track heaped with carcasses and wrecks of cars, the soil bright with the scatter of ornaments and the gleam of armour. Gandīva’s twang filled the heaven like thunder’s roar; the shafts that flew from it blazed like meteors streaking the night. Thy army, struck by those flame-tongued arrows, reeled and broke like a ship in storm or a forest consumed by fire.
Burning they fled, O king of men,
As dry leaves whirled in flame again;
Their cries were like the crack of trees
When tempests tear the mountain breeze.
Thus smitten by the son of Kuntī, the Kaurava host that had surrounded Bhīma turned and fled in confusion. Having routed them utterly, Vibhatsu drew near his brother. There, amid corpses and broken mail, the two lions of men met and spoke briefly. Arjuna told Bhīma that Yudhiṣṭhira’s wounds were healed and his life was safe; Bhīma rejoiced and bade him press on.
Then, with Bhīma’s leave, Pārtha once more advanced. The earth and sky echoed with the rattle of his chariot; dust veiled the sun. Ten sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra—young heroes, brothers of Duḥśāsana—rushed upon him together, their hearts inflamed with courage and despair. Like hunters harrying an elephant with torches, they assailed Arjuna from every side.
The slayer of Madhu, guiding the steeds, placed them all upon his right, knowing well that soon Savyasācin would send them to the house of Yama. Arjuna smiled; his bow curved like a rainbow; and a rain of arrows fell. Standards and steeds went down, bows snapped in mid-arc, and the warriors themselves, struck with broad-headed shafts, dropped lifeless from their cars.
Ten golden heads he shore away,
Their lips still curled in wrath’s decay;
Like lotuses they fell and shone
Upon the crimson earth alone.
Thus did Arjuna, the wielder of Gandīva, slay the ten sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, their mail flashing like fire as they fell. Then, still calm and terrible, the son of Kuntī pressed forward once more—his chariot blazing, his purpose firm—the storm of battle moving with him.
Sanjaya said,—Then, O King, while the battle blazed like the fire at world’s end, ninety great car-warriors of the Kuru host rushed upon Arjuna, the ape-bannered one, whose steeds flew white as autumn cloud and whose chariot shone like a mountain of gold.
Swearing fierce oaths by heaven and the grave, those tigers among men hemmed him round on every side. But Keśava, unmoved, urged the celestial steeds onward toward Karṇa’s line, while those ninety cars pursued, showering arrows like a monsoon of steel.
Then Pārtha turned; Gandīva flashed; and before the second heartbeat, those ninety warriors, their charioteers, banners, and bows, were cut down, their lifeless forms dropping from heaven like Siddhas whose merit was spent.
Soon after, a mightier host came forth—cars and elephants, horsemen and foot—surrounding Dhanañjaya like the waves of the sea about a promontory. Swords, maces, and javelins rained upon him; but as the sun scatters darkness, so did Arjuna scatter their weapons with shafts winged in gold.
Then, at thy son’s command, a host of Mleccha warriors came forth, riding thirteen hundred maddened elephants. They roared and assailed the son of Pāṇḍu on the flank, casting lances, darts, kampanas, and barbed arrows, even with their tusks hurling weapons. But the son of Kuntī, calm amid the tumult, cut them down with crescent-tipped shafts and broad-headed arrows keen as razors.
Their standards, banners, and riders he pierced through and through;
Elephants, decked with gold, fell blazing like peaks of fire.
Necklaces burst and streamed with blood;
Their trumpeting became their funeral choir.
The sky rang with Gandīva’s twang, fierce as thunder. Elephants fled in rout, steeds ran masterless, and cars rolled like wind-torn clouds. Men fell as trees in storm, their armour shattered, their lifeblood flowing to the dust.
In that hour, Arjuna’s might shone forth like the sun rising upon doomsday. Alone he subdued elephants, steeds, and men from every quarter.
Bhīmasena, beholding his brother surrounded, left the few Kaurava remnants that still fought him and, whirling his mace like Yama’s club, rushed roaring to the field of Arjuna. Around him the Kaurava host, broken and faint, melted like wax before flame.
That mace of Bhīma, fed on flesh and blood, fell again and again. Men, steeds, and elephants crashed beneath it; their skulls burst like ripe fruit; the earth drank their marrow. The iron weapon, glutted with gore, shone dreadful as the Night of Death herself.
He smote down ten thousand steeds and countless men. The survivors fled crying out that Yama, club in hand, was among them. Then Bhīma, like a makara plunging into the sea, broke through the elephant phalanx of thy sons, and in moments laid it waste. The beasts toppled with their riders like winged mountains hurled to earth.
Having crushed that division, Bhīmasena mounted his car and followed at Arjuna’s rear. The Kaurava army, broken, blood-soaked, and trembling, stood dazed and motionless. Then Savyasācin, standing tall as Indra, loosed a thousand shafts that blazed like fire.
The dying and the dead—men, elephants, and steeds—shone crimson like a grove of Aśoka trees in bloom. The cries of “Alas! Alas!” rose from the Kaurava ranks; they turned and fled, pressed close in fear.
So fierce was Arjuna’s onset that thy warriors, pierced through and burning with pain, lost all hope for Karṇa’s life. Their mail shattered, their limbs bathed in blood, they fled like deer from a forest fire, leaving Karṇa alone in the field.
Yet some, crying “Save us, O Sūta’s son!” turned back to him for refuge. To them Karṇa, steadfast and fearless, called out—“Fear not! Come to me!”—and stretched his mighty bow.
Seeing the field emptied before Arjuna, Karṇa, that foremost of bowmen, paused and breathed deep. His eyes reddened, his heart fixed upon Partha’s death. Then, bending his bow that curved like the rainbow, the son of Adhiratha rushed once more upon the Pāñcālas in full sight of Savyasācin.
There followed a storm of arrows: the lords of earth closed upon him, their eyes aflame, raining shafts like clouds upon a mountain. And Karṇa, mighty-armed, answered with a tempest of his own, slaying thousands of Pāñcāla warriors.
Wails rose high from their ranks; blood darkened the dust;
For Karṇa, rescuer of friends, struck for his kin with unrelenting trust.
The field was crimson beneath his aim—
Two suns now burned within that flame.
After the Kaurava host had been shattered by the mighty car-warrior Arjuna, whose steeds shone white as the foam of ocean waves, Karṇa, the son of the Sūta, rose once more in wrath. His shafts fell thick upon the princes of the Pāñcālas, like a tempest bursting upon a field of clouds. The sky was dark with his arrows; the ground ran red with blood. The cries of men and horses mingled with the shrieks of vultures wheeling above the carnage.
He struck down Janamejaya’s charioteer with broad-faced arrows called Añjalikas, and with the next flight slew that warrior’s steeds. Sātānīka and Sutasoma he pierced and robbed of their bows, and Dṛṣṭadyumna he wounded deep with six keen shafts, slaying the steeds that bore him. Then, with terrible precision, he felled the horses of Sātyaki and struck down Viśoka, the son of the ruler of the Kāikeyas.
Like storm-winds tearing forest boughs,
He rent the ranks in twain;
The sky was filled with feathered shafts,
And earth drank blood like rain.
When the prince of the Kāikeyas fell, Ugrakarman, his commander, rushed forward like fire breaking through dry wood. Striking Prasena, the son of Karṇa, with swift arrows, he made that youth tremble on his car. Then the Sūta’s son, drawing his bow to the ear, loosed three crescent-tipped arrows. They sheared away Ugrakarman’s arms and head, and he fell like a śāla tree hewn at its roots.
Prasena, aflame with vengeance, showered his shafts upon Sātyaki, and the grandson of Sini, in turn, pierced the youth through and felled him lifeless to the ground. Beholding his son slain, Karṇa’s eyes blazed like the sun at noon. Turning upon Sātyaki, he cried aloud:
“Thou art slain, O Yādava lion bold,
No mortal shall withstand my might!
The shaft I loose is death’s own hand—
It ends thy breath, it quenches light!”
He sped an arrow bright as lightning, but Śikhaṇḍin, fearless and quick, cut it asunder with three arrows of his own and struck Karṇa in return. Then the son of Adhiratha, smiling in fury, lopped Śikhaṇḍin’s bow and banner, pierced him with six shafts, and cut off the head of Dṛṣṭadyumna’s son. Sutasoma he struck next with a keen, whetted arrow that drank his blood like fire drinks oil.
At that moment, Keśava, beholding the Pāñcālas fall in heaps, said unto Arjuna:
“The Pāñcālas are being consumed, O Pārtha. Go, and slay Karṇa before their line is dust.”
Arjuna smiled. Raising Gandīva, he struck the string till it sang like thunder rolling through the sky. Darkness spread with the flight of his arrows; men and beasts fell together, and even the birds fled to the mountains, unable to dwell in the stormed heavens.
The bowstring sang, the welkin shook,
As thunder splits the hill;
The arrows flashed like streaks of fire,
And death moved where they fell.
Pārtha shone radiant, his form wreathed in flame-like splendour. Behind him came Bhīmasena, mace in hand, guarding his brother’s rear. Together they advanced—two fires devouring a forest of foes. Meanwhile, Karṇa raged among the Somakas, his bow unyielding, his fury unspent.
Then five princes—Śikhaṇḍin, Uttamaujas, Yudhamanyu, Janamejaya, and Dṛṣṭadyumna—rushed at him like mountains charging the wind. Their arrows struck like rain upon the sea, but Karṇa stood unmoved, cutting their bows and banners, slaying their steeds and drivers, and piercing each with five shafts. He roared aloud, and the echo rolled like a lion’s call across the plain.
His bowstring hummed, his arrows shone,
A storm of flame and steel;
The hearts of men grew cold with dread,
The earth herself could feel.
Shining like the midday sun, Karṇa pierced Śikhaṇḍin with twelve shafts, Uttamaujas with six, Yudhamanyu with three, and the others with three apiece. Vanquished, the five heroes stood helpless, as the senses yield before the soul of the ascetic.
Then the five sons of Draupadī, riding bright-plumed cars, came to rescue their uncles, as mariners draw drowning men from stormy seas.
Sātyaki, the bull of the Sini line, cut down Karṇa’s arrows and pierced his breast with iron-tipped shafts. Even Duryodhana he struck with eight barbed points. But Karṇa, with Kṛpa, Kṛtavarmā, and thy son beside him, rained arrows on the Yādava hero. Yet Sātyaki stood firm, shining like the autumn sun that no eye can bear.
The Pāñcāla chiefs, rallying once more, surrounded him and fought like the Maruts shielding Indra in battle. The field blazed red with blood and bronze, a chaos of cries and shattered steeds.
In that storm of weapons, Duhśāsana, thy son, rushed upon Bhīmasena, loosing flights of arrows. Bhīma, roaring, met him headlong as a lion springs upon a stag.
They clashed like clouds in thunder’s hour,
Two tusked bulls locked in strife;
Their arrows pierced like serpent fangs,
Each fought as if for life.
Bhīma cut off Duhśāsana’s bow and banner with two keen arrows, pierced his brow with a third, and with a fourth hewed down the head of his charioteer. But Duhśāsana, seizing another bow, struck Vṛkodara with twelve shafts and himself held the reins, sending more arrows thick as rain. Then he loosed a blazing shaft of gold and gems that flashed like Indra’s thunderbolt and pierced Bhīma through the breast.
The son of Pāṇḍu reeled, fell upon his car with arms outflung, and lay still like one dead. But after a moment’s hush, he rose again, eyes bright as fire, and roared aloud—
From death’s own gate he rose once more,
A lion wroth with pain;
His cry was thunder—wild, untamed—
That shook the hearts of men.
Thus did the battle rage, O King, as Karṇa and the sons of Pāṇḍu drew near to their destined hour.