Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 2 - Dushahan Karna-Vadha Parva - Chapter 9 - 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;

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

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.