novelraw Arc 1 - Śalya-vadha Parva - Chapter 1 - Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s Fear and Grief
Arc 1 - Śalya-vadha Parva - Chapter 1 - Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s Fear and Grief
Vaiśampāyana said:
When the mighty Karṇa had fallen, struck down by the hand of Savyasāchī, silence descended upon Kurukṣetra like dusk upon a field of embers. Then Janamejaya, the listener of ancient renown, said unto the sage of pure speech:
“When Karṇa fell, O Brāhmaṇa, what did the few survivors of the Kauravas do?
Beholding the might of the sons of Pāṇḍu swelling like the tide,
How did Duryodhana, the son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, conduct himself?
Tell me all, for I am never sated with the deeds of my forefathers.”
Vaiśampāyana bowed slightly, gathering memory and grace, and began his account.
After the fall of the son of the charioteer, O King, Duryodhana sank into an ocean of despair. His heart was a broken drum; its echoes uttered only one name—“Alas, O Karṇa! O Karṇa!” Accompanied by the remnant of his shattered host, he returned to his camp as a wounded lion creeps back to its cave. No counsel soothed him. His nights were sleepless vigils of grief. Though the surviving kings spoke words from the śāstras to console him, fate’s decree had sealed their weight.
At last, accepting destiny as supreme, the son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra resolved to fight until the end. He crowned Śalya of Madra, the last of his mighty allies, as commander of his dying host. Thus anointed, the elder king led forth the remaining divisions, determined to meet their end in dharma’s name.
Then raged a battle vast and terrible, O monarch—like that between the devas and asuras at the dawn of time. Śalya, skilled in array and unmatched in valor, cut through the Pāṇḍava ranks like a plough through yielding soil. But the wheel of fate turned swiftly. When midday’s sun hung blazing above the field, Yudhiṣṭhira himself struck the Madra king down, and the Kaurava banner fell with him.
Duryodhana, bereft of kin, fled from the field, his heart consumed by fear and shame. He came upon a dark and silent lake, deep as despair, and entered its waters seeking refuge from his enemies.
In the lake’s still heart he hid his pride,
As if the world could be denied;
But dharma’s vow, once spoken clear,
Will find its mark, though none may hear.
That evening, Bhīmasena, faithful to his oath, surrounded the lake with many warriors and summoned Duryodhana forth. Bound by honor, the Kaurava prince rose from the waters and faced his foe. In the duel that followed, fierce as Time himself, Bhīma fulfilled his vow—shattering the thighs of the man who had wronged Draupadī. Thus fell Duryodhana, last scion of his house.
After his fall, three Kuru warriors yet lived—Aśvatthāmā, Kripa, and Kṛtavarmā. Inflamed by grief and vengeance, they prowled through the night like fire through dry grass, slaughtering the sleeping Pāñcālas until dawn. When morning came, Sanjaya, his heart heavy with defeat, departed from the empty camp toward Hastināpura.
He entered the city—its gates unguarded, its streets shadowed with dread. Raising his arms in anguish, the old charioteer cried aloud:
“Alas, O King! Alas, the mighty have fallen!
Karna and Śalya, Śakuni and Ulūka,
The Kambojas and the Yavanas, the Mlecchas and the Sakas—
All lie upon the dust! Time devours all!”
Hearing Sanjaya’s wailing, the citizens filled the air with lamentation. From every house rose cries of “Alas, O King!” Children and elders alike beat their breasts; men and women wandered senseless through the streets like souls deprived of guidance.
Sanjaya reached the royal palace, trembling in body and voice. There sat the blind monarch Dhṛtarāṣṭra, surrounded by Gandhārī, Vidura, his daughters-in-law, and the noble ladies of the Kuru house. Their faces were pale as ashes; their minds fixed upon the loss of Karṇa.
The charioteer bowed and spoke through tears:
“I am Sanjaya, O King of kings. The ruler of Madra, Śalya, has fallen; Subala’s son Śakuni and his valiant son Ulūka are slain. The Sāmśaptakas, the Kambojas, the Yavanas, the Sakas—all are gone. The East and South are emptied of their heroes, and the North and West are bereft alike. Duryodhana too lies upon the dust, his thighs broken by Bhīmasena, his vow repaid in full. The Pāñcālas and Cedis are slain; Dṛṣṭadyumna and Śikhaṇḍin, Uttamaujas and Yudhamanyu—all have perished. The five sons of Draupadī are no more, and even Vrishasena, the valiant son of Karṇa, lies cold.
All the elephants are fallen, all the horses, all the car-warriors slain. Of thy countless hosts, O King, only three remain—Kripa, Kṛtavarmā, and the son of Droṇa. On the side of the Pāṇḍavas, seven stand: the five brothers, Sātyaki, and Kṛṣṇa. The world, struck by the wheel of Time, is now a world of widows.”
When these dreadful words entered his ears, Dhṛtarāṣṭra fell senseless upon the ground. Vidura, faithful as breath, fell beside him. Gandhārī too, and the women of the Kuru line, collapsed as though struck by an unseen hand. For a time the royal hall was a place of stillness—like a painting of sorrow where no figure moves.
At length, the old king recovered his breath. He turned his trembling hands toward Vidura and said in a voice faint as smoke:
“O learned Kṣattṛ, thou of steadfast wisdom, thou art now my only refuge. I am lordless and bereft of sons. What is life to me?”
And again he swooned.
Water was sprinkled upon his face; fans moved gently at his side. When he awoke once more, sighs escaped him like wind from a broken jar. Sanjaya and all the women wept aloud; Gandhārī’s cries filled the chambers with echoes of lost motherhood.
When the blind king wept, the palace moaned,
The marble walls with sorrow groaned;
The lamps bent low in smokeless flame,
And whispered softly each lost name.
After a long while, Dhṛtarāṣṭra raised his face, aged by grief, and spoke once more to Vidura:
“Let the ladies withdraw; let Gandhārī and our friends retire. My mind is restless and broken.”
Obeying these words, Vidura dismissed them gently. One by one they departed, their veils dark with tears, leaving the old king to his sorrow. Then Sanjaya, his heart crushed beneath the weight of the day, stood silent before his lord. Vidura, joining his palms, spoke in words of quiet compassion, soothing the trembling monarch like a son calming his father.
Thus ended that day of mourning, when the house of Kuru, once mighty as the sea, was reduced to a single wave of lamentation beneath the sky of destiny.
O King, the bow is broken, the arrow spent,
The fire is cold, the storm is rent;
What Time decrees, none may stay—
He builds the night from the ruins of day.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When the ladies had departed, the aged king Dhṛtarāṣṭra, son of Ambikā, sank deeper into grief than before. His sighs rose like smoke from a hidden fire; his arms moved helplessly in the air as though seeking the touch of sons long perished. For a long time he sat, speechless and trembling; then, with a heavy breath that seemed to drain the life from his chest, he addressed Sanjaya, his faithful guide through ruin.
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:
“Alas, O Sūta, thy tidings strike me harder than the thunder of Indra’s mace. The sons of Pāṇḍu live, untouched, while mine—my hundred sons—are gone! Surely my heart is forged of adamant, since it shatters not upon hearing of their destruction. I think of their youth, their laughter, their play, their hands that once clung to mine; and now, knowing they are dust, I feel my chest torn open by sorrow.
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Blind though I was to their faces, my soul had eyes for their love. Hearing that they had grown into valorous men, my joy had been boundless; but now that they lie slain, my mind cannot rest, scorched as it is by grief.”
He raised his voice like a conch of mourning:
“O Duryodhana, come to me, my son, protector of thy father!
Without thee, what is left of kingship or of life?
Why dost thou lie upon the bare earth, O child of royal race,
Thy body shorn of majesty, thy brow of its crown?”
He beat his breast, recalling each tender gesture, each word once spoken.
“Where now is thy compassion, O my son?
Who shall wake me with words of reverence—
‘O Father, O King, command me’—
Clasping my neck with tears of love?
How couldst thou, mighty in battle, fall before the sons of Pāṇḍu?
Who now will lift the veil of night from my blindness
And make me feel again the world’s warmth
With the sweetness of a child’s obedience?”
He paused, choking upon memory. Then in the dim light of the hall, his voice changed, repeating the words his son had once spoken with unbending pride:
“This wide earth is as much ours as it is the sons of Prithā.
Bhagadatta and Kripa, and Śalya of Madra,
The princes of Avanti, Jayadratha and Bhūriśravā,
Bhīṣma and Droṇa, and thousands more—
All stand ready to lay down their lives for me.
Karna alone, with myself, will slay the Pāṇḍavas.
Even Vāsudeva will not don armor for them.
Thus shall I conquer and rule this world!”
Hearing those words in recollection, the blind king wept afresh.
“I believed him,” he said. “I believed that the sons of Kuntī would be slain, that victory was ours. But now, seeing all my warriors fallen, my sons and grandsons gone, what remains but the hand of destiny?
When Bhīṣma fell before Śikhaṇḍin, was that not destiny? When Droṇa, master of all arms, was deceived and slain, was that not destiny? When mighty Bhagadatta, the lord of elephants, when Jayadratha, Sudakṣiṇa, Jalasandha, Śrutāyus and Ayutāyus, and all those kings perished—was it not destiny?
When the mighty Pāṇḍya fell by Arjuna’s shaft, when Vṛhadvala and the Magadha king were cut down, when the Avanti brothers died, when the Trigartas and the Sāmśaptakas, when Alambusa, Alāyudha, Rishyashṛṅga’s son, and the hosts of the Mlecchas—all were slain, what else but destiny ruled the hour?
When Śakuni, Subala’s son, and brave Ulūka met their end, when heroes born of a thousand realms fell like trees in a storm, what can it be but destiny? The very Narāyaṇas and Gopālas, invincible in battle, perished by fate. My sons, my grandsons, my friends—all are swallowed by Time.”
The king raised his arms to the unseen heavens:
“Destiny weaves the womb and the grave;
None outruns what the Weaver gave.
He spins our joy, he cuts our thread—
And sits unmoved beside the dead.”
He sank again upon his seat, exhausted. “Sanjaya,” he murmured, “I am bereft of fortune, shorn of kin. The forest alone can now offer me peace. What profit have I in throne or palace? Old and broken, I shall seek the trees and silence.”
Then, as if in vision, he saw Bhīmasena standing before him—terrible, triumphant, dripping with the blood of his sons.
“When Bhīma speaks of the slaughter of Duryodhana, my heart will burn again. His words will be daggers; I shall not bear them. Better the forest’s dark solitude than the brightness of their victory.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Thus lamented the king, deprived of sons, burning with sorrow, his soul battered by the flood of loss. Again and again he swooned, his breath coming in hot sighs. At last, gathering some composure, he spoke once more to Sanjaya, seeking to piece together the ruin of his lineage.
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:
“O son of Gāvalgana, tell me, after Bhīṣma and Droṇa and the son of the Sūta had fallen, whom did my army make its leader? Each time a commander rose, the sons of Pāṇḍu cut him down. Bhīṣma fell before Arjuna’s eyes; Droṇa too fell before all of you; Karṇa was slain before your very gaze.
Long ago, Vidura warned me—he whose sight is true though his eyes are mortal—that Duryodhana’s folly would destroy the world. But I, blinded by affection, heeded him not. Now all that he foretold has come to pass.”
The old king bowed his head and whispered:
“Wisdom spoke and I turned away;
Now folly blooms where counsel lay.
The field I sowed with pride and ire
Has yielded ashes from its fire.”
He lifted his trembling hands toward Sanjaya. “Tell me, O faithful one, who led the host after Karṇa’s fall? Who faced Arjuna and Keśava when Śalya took command? Who guarded his flanks, his front, his rear? Tell me, how did the Madra king, strong as the ocean, fall by Yudhiṣṭhira’s hand? Tell me how my son Duryodhana perished, and how the Pāñcālas, the sons of Draupadī, and all their allies met their end.
How do the Pāṇḍavas still live, as do Kṛṣṇa, Sātyaki, Kripa, Kṛtavarmā, and the son of Droṇa? Tell me everything, O Sanjaya, thou who hast seen it all. Spare no detail of the ruin of the Bhāratas.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus spoke the aged king, his voice thick with tears, his spirit emptied of pride but not of pain. And Sanjaya, obedient to the command, prepared once more to recount the dreadful close of the war—the fall of Śalya, the flight of Duryodhana, and the final duel by the lake that ended the Kuru line.
Sañjaya said:
Hear, O King, with undivided mind, how the great carnage unfolded when the Kurus and Pāṇḍavas closed once more. After the fall of the Sūta’s son beneath the shafts of the son of Pāṇḍu, thy host—rallied again and again, yet again and again unstrung—reeled like a forest after fire. Partha’s lion-roars rolled over the plain; at that sound, fear pierced the hearts of thy sons. For, after Karṇa’s end, no warrior in thy army found the heart to steady the ranks or display proud prowess. They looked like ship-wrecked traders on a fathomless sea without plank or raft. Slain was the one they called protector; and thy men, desiring a shore of safety, stared upon the wide waters and found only storm.
When hope’s high pillar cracks at last,
The standards sag, the drums fall fast;
Where once a thousand voices sang,
The air keeps only arrows’ clang.
Struck by Savyasāchī, thy troops fell back at dusk like bulls with broken horns, like serpents shorn of fangs. The foremost among thy heroes fallen, the rest, confused and hewn with keen shafts, fled in dread. Bereft of mail and weapons, many lost their senses and knew not whither to fly. Crying “’Tis I whom Vibhatsu pursues!” “’Tis I whom Vṛkodara hunts!” Some trampled their own in a blind rout; some, pale as ash, dropped where they stood. Cars crushed horsemen; elephants broke cars; bands of foot, scattered by hurtling steeds, were smitten as they fled. Like stragglers from a caravan beset by beasts and robbers, thy army drifted into ruin.
Elephants with riders slain, and others with trunks hewn, imagined the whole world filled with Partha. Beholding his own men thus chased by Bhīmasena, Duryodhana groaned “Alas! Alas!” And spoke to his charioteer: “Place me at the rear; with bow in hand i’ll bar the way. If I stand firm, Partha shall not pass, even as the ocean transgresseth not its shores. Urge on. Today, slaying Arjuna with his charioteer, and the proud Vṛkodara with the rest, I shall discharge my debt to Karṇa.”
He swore by fame and by his friend,
To balance fate and foil its end;
But vows, though tempered hard and bright,
Must meet the grinding wheel of Night.
His driver, praising words that befitted a prince, urged on the steeds gilt with gold. Then many brave ones, dispossessed of beasts and cars, and five-and-twenty thousand foot, O sire, advanced slowly to renew the fight. Bhīmasena, wrath aflame, with the son of Pṛṣata encompassing them by all four arms of war, shattered that mass with arrows. Challenged by name, surrounded and provoked, Bhīma leapt from his car, taking the mace. Observant of fair fight, he would not smite the fallen from the height of wheels; standing on earth, he whirled the iron, gold-adorned, slung for death, a weapon like the Destroyer at the end of the age. Those foot, bereft of kin and mad with grief, rushed upon him like moths at a flame—and perished at the glance of Death.
Iron sang and skulls replied,
Dust rose dark as evening-tide;
Where Bhīma’s star of fury burned,
A thousand fates to cinders turned.
With sword and mace he careered like a hawk stooping, and those twenty-five thousand warriors fell beneath his hands. Having broken that brave division, the mighty one, whose prowess none could baffle, stood again with Dṛṣṭadyumna before him. Meanwhile Dhanañjaya sped toward the car-division; and the twins of Mādrī with Sātyaki, strong-armed, rushed upon Śakuni, eager to end him. They hewed down his swarming horse, then closed with the Gāndhāra king—fierce grew the fight.
Then Partha, O King, drove straight into thy car-ranks, his great bow—renowned in the three worlds—sounding like cloud and drum. Seeing that chariot with white steeds and Keśava at the reins, many of thy men fled in fear. Five-and-twenty thousand foot, bereft of beast and car, ringed Partha round. But the Panchāla prince, with Bhīmasena at his fore, made swift work of that brave circle and stood victorious. Dṛṣṭadyumna—mighty bowman, beautiful to behold, a crusher of great battalions—came on with pigeons-white horses and the high kōvidāra on his standard; at the sight of him, many broke and fled.
The sons of Mādrī, with Sātyaki between them, chased fleet Śakuni, master of sudden darts, and soon were seen pressing him. Chekitāna and the five sons of Draupadī, having cut down large bodies of thy men, blew their conches; hearing the rout, they pursued like unvanquished bulls charging the cowed. Seeing a remnant stand, the ambidextrous son of Pāṇḍu burned with wrath and suddenly roofed them in arrows. Dust veiled the field; darkness fell as if at once; we saw only the hiss of shafts and heard only cries. Then thy troops, O Monarch, fled on all sides, fear-stricken.
When his host broke, thy son, stung to frenzy, drove against friend and foe alike and roared a challenge to all the Pāṇḍavas—like Vāli of old defying the gods. The Pāṇḍavas, united and aflame, answered with reproach and a storm of weapons; yet thy son, fearless, smote them back with shafts. The prowess we then beheld in him was marvellous; for all the Pāṇḍavas together could not straightway pass him.
Alone he stood against the tide,
A crumbling cliff that dared abide;
Though waves of steel devoured the shore,
He gripped his ground and called for more.
Then Duryodhana saw, at a little distance, his mangled troops—ready to flee. He rallied them with a prince’s fire, desiring to hearten their hearts: “Whither will ye fly—plain or mountain—where the sons of Pāṇḍu will not reach you? The Pāṇḍava force is now but a remnant; both the Krishnas are sorely bruised. Stand here as one—we shall have victory. If ye break, the foe, pursuing, will slay you. Death in battle is our good: the death a Kṣatriya seeks brings no grief, but bliss eternal. Better submit to the wrath of Bhīmasena than forsake the duty of our fathers. Flight is the greatest sin. There is no straighter path to heaven, O Kuru warriors, than steadfast battle. What others win in long years, the fighter wins in a day.”
Die firm, not fleeing—thus is told
The road that kings to heaven hold;
To stand, to strike, to keep the line—
On such small stones we build the divine.
Fired by the king’s hard counsel, the great car-warriors, unable to endure defeat, turned once more and rushed upon the Pāṇḍavas to put forth their full strength. A battle began again—exceedingly fierce—like the war of gods and asuras. Then thy son Duryodhana, with all his force, hurled himself against the Pāṇḍavas at the head of whom stood Yudhiṣṭhira.