Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 1 - Śalya-vadha Parva - Chapter 4 - Śalya’s Wrath

Sañjaya said:

Seeing his charioteer fallen, Śalya—iron-mace in hand—stood fast like a bull at bay. Bhīma, brandishing his terrible mace, rushed upon him. In that instant the Madra king seemed a living blaze: Yuga-fire unbound, or Death with his snare, or Kailāsa with its crest, or Vāsava with the thunderbolt, or Maheśvara with the trident, or an elephant maddened in rut. Conches blared, trumpets clamored, and lion-roars rolled; both armies ringed them round, crying, “Excellent!—none but Rāma of the Yādavas could bear Bhīma’s shock; none but Bhīma could abide the Madra’s mace!”

They circled like roaring bulls, leaping, feinting—two lions among men, equal in footwork and in the terrible craft of the club. Śalya’s mace, swaddled in cloth of gold, glowed like a sheet of fire; Bhīma’s flashed like lightning in cloud. When iron struck iron, sparks streamed skyward; when Bhīma smote, Śalya’s club spouted blazing cinders; they fought like tusked giants or horned bulls, exchanging thunder for thunder. Limbs blood-bright, they shone the more—two flowering kiṁśukas under storm. Śalya’s blows hammered Bhīma—yet Vṛkodara did not stir, a mountain in monsoon. Bhīma’s blows crashed on Śalya—yet the Madra did not tremble, a crag that will not move. Their maces boomed like sky-drums; then, pausing a heartbeat, they closed again, eight paces apart, weapons upraised, circling tighter to strike crest on crest like mountains wrestling in an earthquake. So crushed, both fell together like twin Indra-poles cast down—

And the hosts cried, “Alas!”

Iron to iron sang and cried,

The dust took fire, the noon-tide died;

Two peaks of pride to earth were thrown—

Yet neither yielded up his own.

Kripa sprang in, lifted Śalya to his car, and bore him off. But within a blink, Bhīma rose—reeling like a drunkard, mace aloft—challenging the Madra king anew. Then thy warriors, with weapons lifted and drums aflame, rushed with Duryodhana at their head; the Pāṇḍavas answered with lion-cries and surging shafts. Thy son singled Chekitāna and, with a keen lance, pierced his chest; the hero fell senseless on his car. The Pandava archers, seeing their comrade struck, answered with ceaseless rain and moved like fire among thy divisions.

Kripa and Kṛtavarmā and Subala’s son, keeping Śalya before them, pressed Yudhiṣṭhira. Duryodhana sought out Dhṛṣṭadyumna, slayer of Droṇa. Three thousand cars—thy son’s dispatch, headed by Droṇa’s child—closed with Vijaya. Thy men drove into the Pandava sea like swans into a lake. The earth wind raised a red dust; we knew fighters only by the names flung back and forth—until the blood washed daylight clean again. None turned back. Hope of heaven and vow of duty steeled each arm; for master’s wage, for friend’s cause, they roared their hard imperatives—Slay, pierce, strike, cut down!

Śalya, longing for Yudhiṣṭhira’s fall, struck the son of Dharma with many keen shafts. But the king, learned in the secret places of the frame, answered with fourteen cloth-yard arrows placed where life is near. The Madra, wrath-swollen, returned with Kanka-feathered storms, and once again a straight, hard shaft scored Yudhiṣṭhira in the sight of all. The son of Prithā, angered and renowned, repaid with peacock- and Kanka-feathered flights; then Chandrasena felt seventy wounds, the charioteer nine, Drumaseṇa four and sixty. With his wheel-guards slain, Śalya slew five-and-twenty Cedis, then marked Sātyaki with five-and-twenty, Bhīma with seven, and the twins with a hundred. Still he ran his car like a storm-god, and the king of Dharma speared his standard’s crest with a broad-head—Śalya’s banner fell like a mountain peak torn free.

The banner broke; the war-wind moaned;

The Madra’s eyes with ember shone;

He loosed a cloud of iron rain—

And day grew old with sudden pain.

Śalya’s wrath grew vaster; his showers pressed Sātyaki, Bhīma, and the sons of Mādrī, and settled upon Yudhiṣṭhira in a woven net, a storm-front shouldering the sky. We saw a wall of arrow-cloud before the king’s breast; Śalya’s straight shafts drummed without end. Then Yudhiṣṭhira, under those tight and bitter rains, felt his strength ebb—as Jambha once before the wielder of the thunderbolt.

Under the storm the Dharma-tree

Bent low but would not cease to be;

Its root was faith, its fruit was flame—

And fate had come to speak its name.

Sañjaya said:

When king Yudhiṣṭhira, the son of Dharma, was sorely pressed beneath the storm of the Madra king, the heroes of the Pāṇḍava line—Sātyaki, Bhīmasena, and the sons of Mādrī—closed round Śalya with their cars like planets encircling the Sun. They poured arrows thick as rain on mountain, and Śalya, standing alone yet unbent, met that tempest with the calm of fire against the wind. From all sides arose cries of wonder. The Siddhas clapped their hands; the sages watching from the air exclaimed, “Marvellous is this battle! Mighty is the strength of men!”

Then Bhīmasena, whose wrath was as flame behind iron, pierced Śalya with one shaft like a spear-pointed thought, and with seven more that sang. Sātyaki, eager to lift the son of Dharma, let fly a hundred and roared like a lion in the hills. Nakula struck him with five arrows; Sahadeva followed with seven, then seven again. The Madra king, patient and fierce, took up a bow of huge strain, its string humming like storm, and answered. Five and twenty shafts he set in Sātyaki; three and seventy he buried in Bhīma; seven in Nakula; and with a broad-head he cut away the stringed bow from Sahadeva’s hand, then pierced him thrice and seventy.

But Sahadeva, resolute in rage, seized another bow and smote his mother’s brother with five arrows bright as serpents. With one straight shaft he struck the charioteer in the chest, and thrice again the king. Bhīma sent seventy arrows in reply; Sātyaki nine; and Yudhiṣṭhira himself sixty, their flight a scarlet rain. From Śalya’s wounds blood streamed down in rivulets, red as the torrents that streak a mountain of iron ore. Yet he, unwearied, returned each greeting with five clean cuts—one for each assailant—so deftly that the watchers cried aloud in wonder.

With a broad-bladed shaft he shivered Yudhiṣṭhira’s bowstring, but the son of Dharma took another and covered the Madra, his steeds, and driver and car, with a curtain of arrows. Śalya struck back with ten keen heads; then Sātyaki, seeing his king thus wounded, rained a sudden cloud of shafts upon the Madra. Śalya, cool and quick, cut Sātyaki’s bow with a razor arrow and smote each Pāṇḍava thrice.

Gold flashed in flight, the air was flame,

And praise and cries were one same name;

The earth grew red with breath and blade—

And still no heart of hero swayed.

Sātyaki, unbroken, snatched up another bow and hurled a gleaming lance with jeweled haft; Bhīma shot a cloth-yard arrow blazing like a serpent; Nakula cast a dart; Sahadeva his mace; Yudhiṣṭhira a sataghni thick with spikes. But the Madra king, light of hand and terrible in skill, cut down every missile mid-flight as they came, and roared aloud. Sātyaki’s lance he split with many broadheads; Bhīma’s golden shaft he clove in two; Nakula’s dart he met with showers of steel; Sahadeva’s mace he turned aside; and the king’s spiked sataghni he sliced with a pair of arrows, before the eyes of all.

Then Sātyaki, burning with shame, took up another bow and shot two arrows in the Madra’s breast and three in his driver’s. Śalya, angered, struck each foe with ten shafts, quick and heavy as hunters stabbing elephants. The four heroes could no longer stand before him; he bore down on them like a blazing wheel through dust. Seeing his might, Duryodhana lifted his hand in triumph and thought, “The Pāṇḍavas, the Pāñcālas, the Śṛñjayas—all are already slain!”

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Then Bhīma, resolute to spend his life in that fury, rushed once more against Śalya. Nakula, Sahadeva, and Sātyaki closed in too, their arrows crossing like bright nets in the sky. Though encircled on all sides by these four lions, the Madra lord held firm and fought them all.

Yudhiṣṭhira, seeing the peril, cut down one of the guards of Śalya’s car-wheel with a razor-edged shaft. When that protector fell, Śalya roared and drenched the Pāṇḍava host in arrows. The son of Dharma watched the rain of gold-winged shafts that fell like sunlight broken into flame, and his heart turned within him:

"How shall the words of Mādhava come true? Will the king of Madra, in his wrath, sweep away my host like fire through grass?"

Then the Pāṇḍavas gathered their strength—elephants trumpeting, horses rearing, chariots rolling—and drove upon the Madra lord from every side. But Śalya, like the wind that shreds a cloud, scattered that storm of arrows and spears. His gold-tipped shafts coursed the air like flocks of glittering birds; the whole sky was webbed with them, no span left empty. A darkness of arrows fell, till day itself seemed lost; and in that shadow the gods and Gandharvas gazed in awe.

Shrouding the Pāṇḍavas and the sons of Pṛthā in that dreadful veil, Śalya roared again and again like a lion. The Pāṇḍava car-warriors, blinded by his storm, halted before him—save those who followed Bhīma and the steadfast king of Dharma, who still advanced through the rain.

Then thunder met the mountain’s tread,

And hope and havoc fought and bled;

Where Śalya’s storm through darkness whirled,

The fate of men hung on that world.

Sañjaya said:

Meanwhile, O King, Dhanañjaya, the wielder of Gāṇḍīva, was assailed in battle by Aśvatthāman and the furious Trigartas—heroes whose hearts were knit with Drona’s son. Pierced with many arrows that shone like tongues of flame, Arjuna in turn smote Aśvatthāman with three keen shafts and each Trigarta chief with two. Then the mighty-armed Pārtha, drawing the full circuit of his bow, covered his assailants with a shower of arrows like a rain-cloud bursting on a hill.

Though wounded till they bristled like porcupines, thy warriors, O monarch, fled not before Pārtha. With Aśvatthāman at their head, they circled the son of Pāṇḍu, drenching him with shafts whose gold wings gleamed in the light. The terrace of Arjuna’s car shone like a golden shrine strewn with blossoms of steel. The two Kṛṣṇas—warrior and charioteer—stood veiled in that storm, and the Kaurava ranks shouted in wonder, thinking victory near.

So dense was the fall of arrows that the yoke, shaft, wheels, and traces of Arjuna’s car disappeared beneath it. Never before, O King, had such a sight been seen or heard. His chariot flamed with shafts like a heavenly car lit by a hundred torches. Then Arjuna, smiling faintly, drew the bow to his ear and loosed a torrent of straight-flying arrows, like a monsoon cloud deluging the earth.

Each shaft bore his name upon it; and when they struck, the Kauravas thought that the field itself was filled with many Parthas. The battlefront blazed like a furnace. Gandiva’s twang was the wind that fanned it; thy soldiers were the fuel it devoured.

Wherever Arjuna’s chariot moved, heaps of wreckage followed—wheels and yokes, quivers and standards, lances and umbrellas, scattered diadems and severed arms bright with bracelets. Heads rolled, earrings flashing; thighs and trunks lay strewn like broken idols. The earth ran red and the field turned impassable as Rudra’s own hunting ground. Terror seized the timid, but the brave rejoiced.

Having crushed two thousand cars with their guards, Pārtha glowed like fire without smoke, blazing to consume all that moved and all that stood. Even as Agni at the world’s end devours creation, so did Arjuna burn thy host that day.

Then Aśvatthāman, his banners flickering, spurred his white steeds and moved to challenge Pārtha. Those two lions among men—each drawn by milk-white horses, each peerless in war—met in a storm of arrows like rival clouds pouring rain at summer’s end. Their shafts crossed mid-air in blinding flashes; their bows sang like twin tempests. Each smote the other as bulls clash horn to horn, equal in might and wrath.

Aśvatthāman struck Arjuna with twelve golden arrows and Keśava with ten. Then, smiling softly as one who remembers an old bond, Arjuna drew Gandiva full and answered. In a breath he made the preceptor’s son carless, driverless, and steedless; then, sparing him, pierced him gently with three shafts.

Standing firm upon his stranded car, Aśvatthāman hurled a great mallet bound in gold, heavy as the mace of Death. Arjuna cleft it into seven flying sparks. Then Drona’s son seized a spiked mace like a mountain peak and cast it roaring through the sky; Pārtha sliced it into five fragments with flawless aim. That broken weapon fell earthward with a sound that chilled the hearts of kings.

Again Arjuna’s arrows found the warrior’s flesh—three more, deep and straight. Yet Aśvatthāman stood unmoved, drawing breath through his teeth, fierce and proud, his courage hard as iron. Then, turning aside, he espied Suratha, the Pāñcāla hero, and veiled him suddenly in a cloud of shafts.

Suratha, roaring like a storm, drove forth his car, its rattle like thunder among the hills, and covered Drona’s son with flame-bright arrows. Seeing him rush in wrath, Aśvatthāman’s anger flared like a struck serpent. His brow wrinkled into three lines; his tongue flicked across his lips; he drew the bow to the cheek and sent a single cloth-yard shaft whistling through the air like the rod of Death himself.

The arrow pierced Suratha’s heart and entered the earth beyond, rending her breast like Indra’s bolt. The warrior toppled from his car like a mountain peak shorn away by lightning.

Aśvatthāman climbed the fallen hero’s chariot and took his stand anew. Then, guarded by the Sāṃśaptakas, he faced Arjuna once more. It was noon when they met—one against many—and the slaughter swelled the kingdom of Yama. Alone and unsupported, Arjuna fought them all at once, his chariot wheeling through the ranks like Indra’s car amid the Asuras of old.

The wind was flame, the dust was red,

The sky was pierced, the earth was fed;

And Arjuna shone, the storm within—

A god of wrath mid fields of sin.

Thus raged the battle between Aśvatthāman and the son of Pāṇḍu—

Terrible to see, wondrous to hear—like that primeval war when Indra smote the legions of darkness.

Sañjaya said:

Then Duryodhana, the Kuru king, and Dhṛṣṭadyumna, son of Pṛṣata, met in fierce encounter. Arrows and darts flew between them like rain from swelling clouds in the month of Śrāvaṇa. Duryodhana, strong of arm, pierced the slayer of Droṇa with five keen shafts, then with seven more that gleamed like fire. But Dhṛṣṭadyumna, steady and wrathful, answered with seventy arrows that shivered the king’s armor. Seeing their brother afflicted, the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra surrounded the son of Pṛṣata with a host of chariots. Hemmed in by those atirathas, the Pañcāla hero turned like a wheel of fire, displaying his mastery of arms amid the storm.

On another quarter, Śikhaṇḍin, with the Prabhadrakas at his back, engaged Kripa and Kṛtavarmā, each a master of war. Around them the din rose to the heavens, for every warrior had cast his life upon the field, resolved to die rather than retreat.

Śalya too, his bow singing like a tempest, poured arrows upon all sides, striking the Pāṇḍavas with Sātyaki and Vṛkodara among them. Calm and dreadful, the king of Madra fought at once with Nakula and Sahadeva, whose valor was like Death himself risen in twin form. His shafts cut through armor and banners alike, and the Pandava ranks reeled, seeking no refuge save their own courage.

Then Nakula, beholding his elder brother Yudhiṣṭhira sorely pressed by Śalya’s hand, sped forth like a hawk upon the wind. With laughter bright as wrath, he veiled the Madra king in arrows. Ten iron shafts he drove into Śalya’s breast—each polished and feathered with gold, whetted on stone, and launched with the force of thunder. But the king of Madra, fierce and undaunted, struck back with straight shafts, reddening his nephew’s armor with blood.

Yudhiṣṭhira, Bhīma, Sātyaki, and Sahadeva then closed around Śalya’s chariot. That lion among kings, general of the Kuru host, faced them all as mountains face the storm. The clash of their cars filled the quarters and made the earth tremble. Śalya struck Yudhiṣṭhira with three arrows, Bhīma with seven, Sātyaki with a hundred, and Sahadeva with three. Then, with a razor-edged shaft, he sliced the bow from Nakula’s hand, the string snapping like lightning. Yet Nakula, unshaken, seized another bow and covered his uncle once more in a cloud of shafts.

Yudhiṣṭhira and Sahadeva each pierced Śalya in the chest with ten arrows; Bhīma smote him with sixty Kanka-feathered shafts, and Sātyaki with nine. Angered, the Madra king pierced Sātyaki in return with nine arrows, then with seventy more, and with another swift stroke he cut the hero’s bow at the grip and slew his four steeds. Sātyaki, carless and bleeding, was showered with a hundred arrows that fell from all sides. Śalya’s shafts then struck both sons of Mādrī, and Bhīma, and even Yudhiṣṭhira, ten each; the sight filled heaven and earth with wonder.

So mighty was the Madra’s valor that the united sons of Pāṇḍu could not press him back. Then Sātyaki, mounting another car and gathering his breath, saw his comrades faltering beneath Śalya’s storm and rushed once more into the fray. Śalya, laughing aloud, wheeled his chariot to meet him, as one tusker meets another in the wild. Their collision resounded across the field, fierce and radiant as that ancient war between the Asura Śambara and the lord of the gods.

Seeing the Madra king before him, Sātyaki pierced him with ten arrows and cried aloud—

“Wait, O Śalya! Stand and fight!”

Deeply pierced, the Madra turned and sent a volley of barbed shafts, feathered like the plumage of Garuḍa. At once, the sons of Pāṇḍu, beholding Sātyaki engaged with their uncle, spurred forward to strike. Blood poured from every side, and the battle became a vision of roaring lions locked in struggle for prey.

The air darkened with arrows; their golden feathers flashed like serpents freed of slough, so that the very heavens seemed aflame. The roar of chariots and the hiss of arrows drowned all other sound. Alone and unsupported, Śalya fought on, a blazing wheel amid the storm, holding back the gathered might of Pāṇḍava and Pañcāla. His shafts fell thick as rain from monsoon clouds, each feathered with Kanka and peacock plumes, each gleaming like a streak of fire.

And men beheld the Madra king’s chariot coursing through that dreadful field like Indra’s car when he smote the hosts of the Asuras in the wars of old.

Gold-winged arrows veiled the sky,

Thunder rolled where heroes die;

One man stood where many fell—

And battle’s heart became his hell.