novelraw Arc 2 - Dushahan Karna-Vadha Parva - Chapter 10 - Duḥśāsana Slain
Arc 2 - Dushahan Karna-Vadha Parva - Chapter 10 - Duḥśāsana Slain
Sañjaya said:
Fighting fiercely, prince Duḥśāsana achieved feats most difficult to behold. With a single shaft he cut off Bhīma’s bow; with six swift arrows he pierced his charioteer; and with nine more he struck Bhīma himself. The Kuru warriors shouted with joy as their prince, radiant with prowess, showered his shafts upon the mighty son of Pāṇḍu.
But Bhīma, stung by those arrows and blazing like fire fed with ghee, seized a dart that gleamed like lightning and hurled it at the Kaurava prince. Duḥśāsana, fearless and skilled, cut that dart in mid-flight with ten arrows shot from his bow fully drawn. The warriors around him raised cries of wonder and applause.
Then again he pierced Bhīma deeply with another shaft, drawing blood like the sting of a serpent. At that sight, Bhīma’s wrath flared like a storm-tossed fire.
“Pierced I am, O prince, by thee—
Thy arrows bite like flame;
But bear thou now the weight of doom,
For Bhīma speaks thy name!”
He grasped his dreadful mace, terrible as Death itself, and cried aloud:
“O thou of wicked heart, today shall I drink thy blood upon the field!”
Duḥśāsana, unmoved, sped toward him a fierce dart that shone like the sceptre of Yama. Bhīma, his form trembling with rage, whirled his mace and hurled it with both hands. The thunderous weapon struck Duḥśāsana’s dart and shivered it to dust; then, descending with irresistible force, smote the prince upon his head.
Duḥśāsana fell from his car, hurled to a distance of ten bow-lengths. His steeds were slain, his chariot broken to fragments. His armour and ornaments, loosened by the shock, scattered across the blood-soaked ground.
Standing amid the wreck, Bhīma remembered all the wrongs wrought by Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s sons—the burning of the house of lac, the poisoning of food, the theft of the kingdom, the mockery of Draupadī. The mighty-armed hero blazed with wrath, his eyes red as the setting sun.
He saw again that cruel hall,
The queen with streaming hair;
Heard laughter vile, and vowed that day
To cleanse the shame with care.
Addressing Karṇa, Suyodhana, Kṛpa, Aśvatthāman, and Kṛtavarmā, Bhīma cried:
“Today I shall slay this wretch! Let all protect him if they can!”
Then, leaping from his car, the lion-hearted Bhīma strode upon the field like death personified. In the very sight of Suyodhana and Karṇa, he rushed toward Duḥśāsana, who lay writhing on the ground.
He placed his foot upon the fallen prince’s throat, drew his keen-edged sword, and with a single stroke tore open his breast. Bending low, he drank the warm, foaming blood that gushed from the wound.
He drank—O King—the blood that steamed,
Red as the evening’s fire;
And all the field stood still with fear,
Beholding Bhīma’s ire.
Then, casting aside the corpse, Bhīma severed the prince’s head and raised it high. With blood still staining his lips, he spoke in a voice that froze the hearts of men:
“Sweeter than my mother’s milk is this blood!
Dearer than honey, than wine, than nectar itself!
Thus is my vow fulfilled upon the field—
I have drunk the life of him who shamed our queen.”
His laughter rolled like thunder vast,
His eyes were twin flames bright;
And all who saw him quail’d in dread—
They fled before that sight.
Some warriors fell senseless; others let their weapons slip from trembling hands. Many turned and fled, crying, “This is no man—this is a Rākṣasa!” Even those that stood still beheld him through half-closed eyes, dazed by terror.
And Bhīma, stalking the field with blood upon his chest, seemed indeed like Rudra dancing at the world’s end.
Meanwhile, Citrasena, fleeing from the field, was pursued by Yudhamanyu, the Pāñcāla prince. Pierced by seven arrows, the Kuru warrior turned, struck his pursuer with nine keen shafts, but fell at last, his head cleft by Yudhamanyu’s arrow.
At the sight of his brother’s fall, Karṇa, burning with fury, advanced once more and scattered the Pāṇḍava host like wind driving smoke. Nakula met him in single combat, and the clash of their bows echoed across the plain.
Amid this tumult, Bhīma, his body drenched with blood, lifted a handful of his fallen foe’s gore and cried aloud for all to hear:
“O wretch among men, behold—I drink thy blood from thy throat!
Call me beast again, as once thou didst in that hall of shame!
We dance now as thou didst then—our laughter thine own returned!”
“The house of lac, the poisoned feast,
The queen’s disrobing vile—
All wrongs are paid in blood today,
And Justice wears a smile.”
Breathing hard, Bhīma turned to Keśava and Arjuna and spoke once more, his voice fierce as a lion’s roar:
“O heroes, my vow against Duḥśāsana is fulfilled! Soon shall I slay the other beast, Duryodhana, and strike his head beneath my foot before all the Kurus. Then shall my heart know peace.”
Saying thus, Bhīmasena, drenched in blood, lifted his mace and roared aloud,
even as the thousand-eyed Indra thundered triumphant after smiting Vṛtra.
When Nakula had been unhorsed and shorn of bow, sword, and shafts by Karṇa’s son, eleven stalwarts spurred forward to stem the flood—Drupada’s five sons, Sātyaki the grandson of Sini, and the five sons of Draupadī. Their banners streamed like flames above bounding steeds, and their drivers, deft of hand, bore them straight into the press.
Those well-armed heroes smote thy elephants, cars, and men with arrows hissing like serpents. Hṛidika’s son, Kṛpa, the son of Droṇa, Duryodhana, Śakuni’s son, and the warriors Vṛika, Kratha, and Devavṛddha, thundered forth to meet them, their chariot-rattles deep as cloud or elephant-roar. With knotted volleys they checked the Pandava advance; the field brightened and darkened with the flicker of steel.
Gold-crested tuskers, mountain-bred,
Cloud-dark hides with lightning spread—
They rushed like thunder down the line,
And broke like storm on cliff and pine.
The Kulindas came on, high upon Himalaya-born elephants, caparisoned in gold. Their prince, loosing iron-headed shafts, struck Kṛpa, his driver, and his steeds. But Śaradvata’s son answered keenly; the prince toppled with his beast. The younger brother charged, lancing Kṛpa’s car amid loud roars—till the lord of the Gandhāras shore his head as one would pluck a lotus.
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Conchs blared among thy host; car-lords swept forward. Blades and maces, darts and axes, scimitars and arrows turned the earth to a wheeling sky of iron. Men, steeds, and elephants struck one another and fell, as storm-torn cloudbanks clash under winds from every side.
Kṛtavarmā, chief of the Bhojas, smote the troops beneath Sātānīka till foot, horse, and tusker folded into dust. Aśvatthāman’s shafts brought down three towering elephants with lofty standards—as cliffs cleft by the goddess’s thunder. Another Kulinda prince pierced thy son Duryodhana in the breast; thy son answered with whetted points that felled prince and mount together in a red cataract. The survivor vaulted to another beast and hurled upon Kratha; but pierced in turn, his elephant crumpled, while Kratha himself, smitten from a different back, fell with steeds, driver, bow, and banner like a storm-uprooted tree.
Vṛika next pierced the mountain-born prince with a dozen shafts; the enraged elephant trampled Vṛika, his car and horses beneath four crushing feet. Then the Kulinda beast, itself iron-stung by Vabhru’s son, rushed; but that Magadha prince, pierced anew by Sahadeva’s son, sank to the earth. The mountaineer wheeled at Śakuni to slay him, tusks raking—till the Gandhāra chief struck and severed his life.
Sātānīka leveled swathes of men and tuskers like serpents beaten in Garuḍa-wind. A Kulinda of thy side smiled and riddled him with shafts; but Nakula’s son lopped the smiling head with a razor edge. Then Karṇa’s son—Vṛṣasena—winged three iron arrows into Sātānīka, as many into Arjuna, three into Bhīma, seven into Nakula, and a round dozen into Janārdana. Thy ranks shouted for joy at that fierce feat; yet those who knew Pārtha’s measure muttered, “This libation is already poured into fire.”
Seeing Mādrī’s son unhorsed and Janārdana blood-streaked, the diademed Arjuna drove at Vṛṣasena, who stood before his sire. Like Nāmuċi against Indra, Karṇa’s son flew to meet him, and, alone, with a single shaft marked the Pāṇḍava and shouted loud, as the asura once had done. Again he pierced Pārtha beneath the left arm, then Kṛṣṇa with nine keen points, then Pārtha with ten more. Slight wrath furrowed Arjuna’s brow in triple lines; his heart settled upon the son of Karṇa.
“Behold,” cried Pārtha, eyes aflame,
“To Yama’s gate I send thy name.
Ye boast ye slew my child—alone—
Now see me reap what you have sown.”
With Gandīva drawn to a circle, the lion of men sent a sheaf for Vṛṣasena’s end. “O Karṇa,” he called, “in thy sight I cast thy son to Death—while all you Kaurava lords stand round! After him, I cut thee down, O root of this quarrel fed by Duryodhana’s pride. And Bhīma shall fell that wretch of dice.” He loosed.
Ten arrows struck all Vṛṣasena’s vital joints; four razors followed—shearing bow, both arms, and head. The body toppled from the car like a flower-clad śāla torn from a mountain ledge. At the sight, Karṇa’s soul caught fire; grief scorched him. He turned his storming car toward the white-steeded Pārtha, wrath rising like a noon-day sun.
A father saw his bright star fall,
His heart became a blade;
He wheeled to face the storm of fate—
And thunder sought the spade.
Thus, O King, Karṇa, beholding his son struck down before his eyes by Arjuna of the ape-banner, set his mind upon the single combat; and the field held its breath as he rushed upon Keśava and Pārtha.
Beholding the gigantic and roaring Karṇa—resistless as the swelling sea, and terrible as Death with uplifted noose—advance upon the field, Keśava, that bull among men of the Daśārha race, spoke unto Arjuna with calm but urgent voice:
“O Dhanañjaya, lo! before thee comes that car-warrior whose steeds are white as milk, whose driver is the ruler of Madra. There stands the Sūta’s son, great in wrath and glory, armed with the bow Vijaya. Now summon all thy calmness and strength; for the hour of fate has come.
Behold his car—banners fluttering like flames, rows of bells chiming like celestial music, drawn by steeds of dazzling hue. See also his standard—the noose of an elephant, wrought in gold and gems—gleaming like Indra’s own bow across the sky. Hear, Pārtha, the thunder of his drums and the blare of his conchs that shake the very firmament! Hear the fierce twang of Vijaya, drowning all other sounds upon the field.
The Pāñcālas before him scatter like frightened deer at the sight of a lion. It behoveth thee, O son of Kuntī, to slay the Sūta’s son with utmost care, for none save thee may bear his shafts and live. Thou alone art capable of standing against him, even as Indra against Namuci.
For I know thy might, O Pārtha. Thou couldst, if thou willed, subdue the three worlds with all their gods and Gandharvas, with all creatures that move or rest. Didst thou not once please with battle that fierce lord of lords, the three-eyed Śiva, the wielder of the trident? Did not He, the Eternal Sthāṇu, grant thee grace and arms of power? All gods have blessed thee. Therefore, through their boon and by the favour of that destroyer of evil, slay Karṇa today, O mighty-armed one, as Indra slew Namuci of old. Victory and glory be thine!”
“Behold he comes—the son of Rādhā,
Whose wrath is fire, whose aim is sure;
His bow resounds like thunder’s laughter—
O Pārtha, stand! the trial endure.”
Then spoke Arjuna, his voice calm as wind before the storm:
“My victory, O Keśava, is certain—there is no doubt. For thou, slayer of Madhu, Lord of all, art with me. Urge on the steeds, O Hṛṣīkeśa! Today Pārtha shall not return without slaying Karṇa. Either shall thou behold him fallen, cut down by my shafts, or thou shalt see me struck down by his arrows.
Let the worlds bear witness to this battle, O Govinda—a combat so terrible that even the gods shall speak of it till Time is no more.”
“Now rolls the wheel of Time to fire,
Now fate and valour meet as one;
The world shall speak till worlds expire—
Of Arjuna and Adhiratha’s son.”
Thus spoke the mighty Arjuna, and Keśava, ever unwearied, blessed him for victory. Then, with reins of gold in hand, the Lord of Yoga urged the white steeds that shone like swans upon a silver lake. Swift as thought, that car of Pandu’s son sped forward through dust and flame—
and came to stand face to face with Karṇa’s chariot,
where the storm of destiny waited,
and the earth itself held breath.
Beholding Vṛṣasena struck down, Karṇa, scorched by grief and rage, shed hot tears for his fallen son. His eyes reddened like copper in the furnace, he summoned Dhanañjaya to single combat and came on—bow Vijaya arched like a storm, lion-voice shaking the field. Then the two cars drew near—both sheathed in tiger-skins, both radiant as the sun’s own chariot, both drawn by white, wind-swift steeds. Like twin orbs poised for eclipse, they faced each other, terrible and bright.
Standards approached: Karṇa’s banner bearing the elephant’s rope, taut as a god’s bow across the sky; Pārtha’s ape, fierce-jawed and flame-bright, crouched to spring. Drums rolled, conches blared; from both hosts rose leonine shouts and the smacking of arms. Kings beat time upon their chests; warriors whirled garments in the air. To gladden Karṇa, the Dhārtarāṣṭras filled the quarters with sound; to hearten Dhanañjaya, the Pāṇḍavas answered with a storm of trumpets. The earth shook beneath the wheel-rattle; the sky trembled with bowstrings and the hiss of arrows.
They stood alike in splendour—broad-chested, bull-necked, their limbs anointed with red sandal, scimitars at the belt, white umbrellas arched above, yak-tails swaying. Each held a bow that flashed like lightning; each was ringed by a wealth of weapons. Keśava held Arjuna’s reins with lotus-glance unblinking; Śalya, stern lord of Madra, held Karṇa’s with iron will. Challenging each other like twin bulls penned for rut, they rushed together, wrathful as Indra and Vṛtra, meteors risen at Yuga’s end.
Two suns ascended battle’s brink,
Two moons with burning eyes;
The ape and rope in heaven clash—
And omens bruise the skies.
O King, both armies drew round their champions as men throng an assembly for a great game: Karṇa the stake of thy host, Pārtha the pledge of the Pāṇḍavas. In heaven and earth a quarrel rose: gods and dānavas, gandharvas and serpents, took sides and argued fate. The welkin, with all its stars, leaned anxious for Karṇa; the vast earth, mother-like, yearned toward Pārtha. Rivers, mountains, trees and herbs inclined to the diadem-decked one; asuras, yātudhānas, guhyakas, and carrion birds drifted to the Sūta’s son. The Vedas and their limbs, the upaniṣads and lore, great serpents Vasuki and Citraseṇa, the peaks themselves—all bent toward Arjuna. The lesser snakes slid to Karṇa; wolves, wild stags, and auspicious birds moved for Pārtha’s victory. Vasus, Maruts, Sādhyas, Rudras, Viśvedevas, Aśvins, with Agni, Indra, Soma, and the Ten Quarters stood by Dhanañjaya; while the Ādityas warmed to Karṇa. Celestials with pitṛs, Yama, Kubera, and Varuṇa looked to Pārtha; pretas, piśācas, sea-monsters and jackals drifted to Karṇa. Ṛṣis of heaven and earth, with Tuṁburu and the gandharva choirs, came riding cloud and wind to witness the vow-born duel.
Then Brahmā arrived with Lords of beings; Maheśvara stood upon his car. Śakra said, “Let Arjuna prevail.” Sūrya answered, “Let my son be victor.” The Grandsire and Īśāna spoke: “Vijaya’s triumph is ordained—he who fed the Fire at Khāṇḍava, who aided you in heaven. Karṇa, consorting with dānava might, must taste defeat; so the gods’ design is served. Partha, steadfast in dharma, truth, and tapas, bears the complete science of arms; he transcends destiny when wrath enflames the Two. For these are Nara and Nārāyaṇa, creators and scorchers, with none above them.” Hearing this, Thousand-eyed Indra bowed and proclaimed, “So shall it be.” Flowers rained; celestial trumpets spoke; all quarters waited for the matchless single combat.
The two cars, both white-horsed, both clamorous and bright, drew into the circle. Heroes gathered near: to Keśava and Arjuna, to Śalya and Karṇa, each side blew its conch. Then battle commenced, stunning the timid, fierce as Śakra’s war with Śambara. The two standards, bright as Rahu and Ketu at dissolution, seemed themselves to strive: Pārtha’s ape sprang, jaws wide, upon the jewel-wrought elephant’s rope; the rope coiled back like Vaṛuṇa’s fatal noose. In omen’s sport, the banners fought before the bows.
Keśava’s lotus-gaze pierced Śalya; Śalya returned the stare. By vision alone the Yādava mastered the Madran; by sight alone the son of Kuntī bent the will of Karṇa. Then the Sūta’s son, smiling, said to Śalya, “If Pārtha slays me today, tell me, friend, what wilt thou do?” The Madran answered, “If thou art slain, I alone shall slay both Kṛṣṇa and Dhanañjaya.” Again he vowed, “If white-steeded Arjuna fells thee this day, I, on a single car, will slay Mādhava and Phālguṇa.”
Arjuna asked Govinda likewise. Kṛṣṇa smiled and spoke: “The sun may fall from heaven; the earth may split to a thousand shards; fire itself grow cold—yet Karṇa shall not slay thee, O Dhanañjaya. Should such a thing occur, know the universe dissolves. As for me, with bare arms I would strike down both Karṇa and Śalya.”
Pārtha, the ape-bannered, smiled and answered: “Śalya and Karṇa together are no match for me alone, O Janārdana. Today thou shalt see Karṇa with banner, bow, and mail, with Śalya and car and steeds—umbrella, darts, and shafts—hewn to fragments by Gandīva’s fire. Like a flower-laden tree crushed by a tusker, he shall be reduced to dust. The widowhood of Rādhā’s son’s wives is at hand; evil omens must have visited them in the night. I cannot still the wrath I bore when he mocked us in the hall, when he laughed as thou wast dragged before the kings. Today thou shalt hear the sweet words, ‘By fortune, O Vṛṣṇi, victory is thine!’ Thou shalt console Abhimanyu’s mother with a lighter heart; thou shalt comfort Kuntī, and gladden the righteous king Yudhiṣṭhira.”
“Now fate stands still, and breathes our names;
The ape and noose contend.
Let dharma judge between our bows—
And let this quarrel end.”
Thus speaking, O King, Arjuna set the string to sing; Keśava wished him victory and loosed the thought-swift steeds. The white car of Pāṇḍu’s son drew up before Karṇa’s, and the world, holding its breath between two thunderheads, awaited the first flash.