novelraw Arc 2 - Hrada-Praveśa Parva - Chapter 1 - Duryodhana Hides
Arc 2 - Hrada-Praveśa Parva - Chapter 1 - Duryodhana Hides
Sañjaya said:
When the dice-lord fell and his banners darkened with blood, the last Gandhāras flared like straw in a high wind. They rushed to die for Subala’s son—but Arjuna broke their charge with the Gāṇḍīva’s broadheads, and Bhīma, serpent-eyed, raked the gaps. Hooves stumbled; hands loosed weapons; men went down like ears of grain in a storm.
Beholding his remnant melt, Duryodhana gathered what was left—some hundreds of cars, broken elephants, tired horse and foot—and cried, “Meet them all, slay them quickly, and return!” They went; the Pāṇḍavas met them with poison-feathered shafts; the field answered with silence. Dust rose and hid the quarters; dust fell and showed them empty.
Eleven akṣauhiṇīs had come for the Kuru king. Now only Duryodhana stood, pierced and staring, while the sons of Pāṇḍu roared their grim joy. The whiz of their arrows unmanned him. With no car, no beasts, no brothers, he turned east, mace in hand, and fled on foot toward a lake.
The wise words of Vidura burned in him as he ran. He slipped into the waters, working a king’s small illusion—parting the lake to hollow out a chamber—hiding there, alone with his breath and wounds.
Meanwhile the Pāṇḍavas, with Dṛṣṭadyumna at their head, crushed the last Kaurava knots. When I was taken and brought before them, the Vr̥ṣṇi lion Sātyaki raised his sword—
but Vyāsa, island-born, appeared and said, “Let Sanjaya go.”
Freed, I walked out blood-soaked into the evening and found my master’s son, standing solitary with tears in his eyes and a mace across his shoulder. I told him all: his brothers fallen, his host destroyed. He touched my hand and said, “Tell the blind king this—Duryodhana has entered the lake. Friendless, dispossessed, I will rest in the waters.” Then he sank from sight.
Soon Kṛpa, Aśvatthāman, and Kṛtavarman reached me, mangled and breathless, asking, “Does the king live?” I showed them the lake. They wept—“He knows not we live! With him, we could still fight!”—but when the Pāṇḍavas drew near, they lifted me onto Kṛpa’s car and fled to camp.
The sun went down. Outriders spread the news—all the princes are slain. The city-road filled with hurried litters and mule-carts. Palace women who had never met the sun’s gaze were borne through alleys under the open stare of grief. “Oh! Alas!” rose like seabirds’ keening; veils were torn; hair was loosed; foreheads struck by hands.
In that flood of flight stood Yuyutsu, the only Kuru prince who had chosen righteousness. “The king is beaten; the camp is broken; the people are fleeing,” he thought, “I must bring the queens safely home—and seek Yudhiṣṭhira’s leave.” The dharma-king embraced him and sent him on. Thus Yuyutsu entered Hāstinapura at dusk with the royal women, tears thick in his throat, and found Vidura already grieving.
“By fortune, you live,” said Vidura, “and by duty, you have kept the house’s honor. Rest. Return to Yudhiṣṭhira at dawn.” And the old counselor, passing into a palace emptied of comfort, felt sorrow rise again like night tide.
So the camp grew hollow;
the city filled with wail;
the king of the Kurus hid in water,
and the war’s last ember—
three friends and a storming vow—
flickered toward its final wind.
Sañjaya said:
The Pāṇḍavas stormed to Dvaipāyana lake in a thunder of wheels and conchs. The waters lay cool and glass-clear—yet Duryodhana, by craft, had made a chamber in their depths and hid there, mace across his breast.
Yudhiṣṭhira stood on the bank and called into the stillness:
“King, the war is spent; your host is dust. Come up and fight—or yield what remains of earth and live.”
Silence. Then Kṛṣṇa laughed softly and bade Bhīma strike the shore with his palm; Arjuna loosed barbed words like arrows. The lake answered with a ripple; within, the Kuru heard their roars like cloud-peals and burned with shame.
At last Duryodhana rose, beaded with water, bright as a Naga from his pool. He looked left and right—the field empty of his own, the sons of Pāṇḍu ringed around like fire.
Yudhiṣṭhira spoke again, dharma plain in his voice:
“Choose. If you defeat any one of us in fair combat, you shall have the kingdom; if you fall, the earth is ours.”
The Kuru measured each: Arjuna with Gandīva, Sātyaki lion-swift, the twins keen, the Pāñcāla prince grim, and Bhīma, oath-hot, mace in hand. He chose as Kuru princes choose: “Gadā-yuddha—mace to mace—with Bhīmasena.”
They circled a levelled ground; the rules were named; the maces weighed. Kṛpa, Kṛtavarman, and Aśvatthāman, far off beneath a banyan, fretted in the dusk; the Pāṇḍava ranks drew tight; the air went still.
The clubs rose like thunderheads.
First clash: a crash like falling timbers. Sparks leapt. Bhīma drove like a storm-bull; Duryodhana met him, footwork flawless, hips and shoulders one, the mace a wheeling star. Blows rang—on guard-rims, on mail, on earth. Dust lifted. Again they met—shoulder feints, waist turns, haft-slides—each a master, each bleeding, neither yielding.
Then Kṛṣṇa, remembering a vile past gesture in a crowded hall, struck his own thigh with four fingers—silent signal, vow remembered. Bhīma’s eyes flashed. The maces sang once more—feint high, weight low— and with a terrible cry Vṛkodara drove the iron into Duryodhana’s thigh.
Bone broke like dry cane.
The Kuru king fell, writhing, still clutching his mace. A roar went up and a murmur with it—praise and blame braided—“Victory!” “Unfair!”—for the rule of the bout lay broken with the bone. Bhīma stood heaving, vow fulfilled; Kṛṣṇa held the silence like a rein; Yudhiṣṭhira’s face darkened, then cleared—fate had chosen its road.
On the far edge of night, under the banyan, three survivors listened to the rumor of that blow. In their hearts, another fire was kindled—the last, black ember of the war.
Sañjaya said:
When the three Kaurava survivors had departed from that desolate field, the sons of Pāṇḍu, blazing with the light of victory, came upon the Lake Dvaipāyana, where Duryodhana, the last scion of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s hope, had taken refuge.
The waters gleamed beneath the twilight like molten sapphire, calm yet enchanted— for the Kuru prince, versed in the mystic art of illusion, had entered their depths and solidified the element itself for his hiding.
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Seeing that shimmering expanse of deceptive peace, Yudhiṣṭhira said to Vāsudeva:
“Behold, O Mādhava, how the son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra
hath woven illusion over these waters!
Having slain his kin, he lieth now concealed,
thinking to cheat both death and destiny.
Yet even if the thunder-wielder aid him,
none shall save this wretch from my wrath today!”
Then Kṛṣṇa, smiling faintly, replied:
“O son of Dharma, illusion is conquered by illusion,
craft by craft, and guile by guile.
Even the gods have triumphed by means and measures,
not by naked force alone.
Vṛtra, Bali, and the sons of Pulastya fell by divine design;
and Indra himself holds heaven by cunning deeds.
Do thou, O Bhārata, employ the wisdom of act and contrivance,
and thus destroy this master of deceit!”
At these words, Yudhiṣṭhira, steadfast and calm, looked upon the enchanted waters and cried aloud, his voice echoing through the forested shore:
“Why, O Suyodhana, son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra,
hast thou sunk thyself in this lake,
after bringing ruin upon the Kuru race?
Thou who didst vaunt thy courage in every court,
why hide now like a serpent beneath the rock?
Arise, O king! The sons of Pāṇḍu await thee!
If thou art Kuru-born, come forth and fight.
Remember the code of thy birth,
the duty of kings sprung from valor’s line.
The hero seeks death, not safety, in battle—
heaven’s gate opens not for cowards who flee!”
The still water shivered; a hollow voice emerged from its depths—Duryodhana’s, heavy with weariness and pride:
“Not fear, O son of Kunti, nor love of life,
hath driven me to these waters.
My car was shattered, my steeds slain, my bow unstrung,
my warriors fallen on every side.
Alone I stood amid corpses and ruin—
so I entered this lake, only to rest, not to hide.
When I have gathered strength, I shall face you all again.
Then, if fate so wills, I shall conquer or be slain.”
But Yudhiṣṭhira, unmoved, answered sternly:
“Rest is long enough for the weary!
We have searched this field for thee, O Kuru,
and the sun of thy fortune sets with the day.
Arise, fight, and fulfil thy dharma!
Either win this earth with arms, or lose it to the fire of righteousness.
Choose, O Suyodhana—so decrees destiny!”
From the shadows came again the voice of the fallen prince, soft now with fatal resignation:
“All for whom I sought sovereignty—my brothers, my kin—lie dead.
What joy in a throne that stands on blood?
The earth, shorn of heroes, is like a widow draped in dust.
Let her be thine, Yudhiṣṭhira; I shall retire to the woods,
wearing deerskin, feeding on roots, friendless and forlorn.
What king desires to rule a realm of ashes?”
Then spoke Yudhiṣṭhira, his words cutting like the wind over a winter plain:
“Do not prate of gifts, O Duryodhana, for the earth is not thine to give!
Thou didst deny us even the space a needle might pierce,
and now, when fate hath stripped thee bare,
thou wouldst yield the world thou canst no longer hold?
This is no charity I seek, but justice.
Fight, as a Kṣatriya must, and prove thy worth.
Thou who sought our deaths by fire, by poison, by deceit,
shalt now repay thy debt upon the field.
Rise, rise, O son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra—
the day hath come to balance the scales!”
Thus upon the banks of that enchanted lake, the last words of challenge were spoken, and the air itself seemed to wait. The sun hung like a crimson seal upon the horizon, and destiny, long withheld, prepared to strike.
Dhritarashtra said, “Thus admonished by his foes, how indeed did that scorcher of enemies, my heroic and royal son—wrathful by nature—then behave? Never before had he listened to such words! He had always been treated with the respect due to a king. He, who once grieved to stand beneath another’s umbrella, thinking he had taken another’s shelter, who could not endure even the sun’s effulgence for the pride that burned within him—how could he endure the harsh taunts of his enemies? You have seen with your own eyes, O Sanjaya, how the whole earth, with even her Mlecchas and wandering tribes, had depended on his grace. Rebuked thus by the sons of Pandu, lying hidden in those lonely waters, deprived of his followers and attendants—alas, what did my son say when he heard their bitter and repeated words? Tell me everything, O Sanjaya!”
Sanjaya said, “Thus rebuked by Yudhishthira and his brothers, thy royal son lay within the waters, deeply afflicted. Long sighs burst from his breast, and his arms moved restlessly in the dark lake. Setting his heart upon battle, Duryodhana answered from within those depths. His voice came low and resonant, proud even in defeat.
‘Ye sons of Pandu,’ he said, ‘each of you is surrounded by friends, by cars, by steeds. I alone am left—weaponless, weary, and on foot. How can one man, stripped of all, fight against many? If you desire fairness, O Yudhishthira, let me meet you one by one. It is not right that many should strike one, especially when he is unarmed, fatigued, wounded, and forsaken. Yet I do not fear you—neither thee, nor Bhima, nor Arjuna, nor Krishna, nor the Pancalas, nor the twins, nor Satyaki, nor all your hosts together. Alone, I shall face you all! For fame and righteousness are one; both are the foundation of a warrior’s name. I shall rise from these waters and fight you! Like the year that meets all seasons, I shall meet you all in battle. Wait, O sons of Pandu—like the sun that drives away the stars, I shall destroy you, though I am without car or weapon. Today, I shall pay the debt I owe to all those noble Kshatriyas who have fallen for me—to Bahlika and Drona, to Bhishma and Karna, to Jayadratha and Bhagadatta, to Shalya, Bhurishrava, and to Shakuni my uncle, and to all friends and kinsmen slain in my cause. That debt I shall discharge by slaying you with your brothers!’”
Then Yudhishthira replied, calm and grave. “By good fortune, O Suyodhana, thou rememberest the duties of a Kshatriya. By good fortune, thy heart inclines to battle. By good fortune, thou art a hero, for thou wishest single-handed to face us all. Choose, then, thy weapon and thy foe. We will stand by as witnesses. I grant thee this boon: if thou slayest any one of us, thou shalt be king once more. Otherwise, slain by us, go to heaven!”
Duryodhana answered, “If this be so, O son of Dharma, I choose the mace as my weapon. Let any one among you who deems himself my equal come forth to fight me on foot, armed with a mace. Let this great single combat take place today—a combat of might against might! I will vanquish you all—Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula, Sahadeva, the Pancalas, and the Srinjayas. Not even Indra himself do I fear!”
Yudhishthira said, “Rise, O son of Gandhari! Rise and fight! Alone as thou art, face us one at a time, armed with thy mace. Be a man, O Duryodhana, and fight with care, for today thou must lay down thy life, even if Shakra himself aids thee.”
Stung by these words, Duryodhana heaved like a great serpent roused from sleep. The waters of the lake trembled and surged. Then, cleaving the surface with a roar, he rose—towering, terrible, armed with his iron mace bound with gold, his body dripping crimson and foam. The waters streamed from his limbs like rivers from a mountain’s side. He stood beneath the sun, shining like Rudra himself with his trident raised. The earth seemed to darken beneath his gaze, and men and gods alike beheld him with awe.
He rose like a mountain breaking through the sea,
With iron in his hand and fire in his breath;
The debts of blood he vowed to pay this day,
By slaying foes or meeting righteous death.
Beholding him, the Pandavas and the Pancalas rejoiced and clasped each other’s hands. But that joy pierced Duryodhana’s pride like a dart. His eyes rolled red with rage, his brow furrowed deep, his lip bitten hard. “You sons of Pandu,” he cried, “you shall taste the fruit of your taunts! This very day, I will send you, with all your allies, to the halls of Yama!”
Rising thus from the waters, mace in hand, Duryodhana stood shining like a golden hill in the light of the setting sun. The blood that flowed from his wounds mingled with water and shone upon his limbs like molten gold. The Pandavas thought him the very image of the Destroyer come to earth. His voice, deep as thunder, rolled across the field as he called for combat.
“You will fight me one by one, O sons of Pandu! It is not right that many should contend with one—especially when he stands unarmoured, weary, and alone. Let the gods themselves behold this fair combat. I shall fight all of you as I stand. And thou, O Yudhishthira, shalt judge the righteousness of what is done!”
Then Yudhishthira, with eyes dark as storm clouds, said, “And where, O Duryodhana, was this sense of righteousness when many great warriors together slew Abhimanyu? You speak now of fairness, yet you forget the cruelty of war. The duty of a Kshatriya, fierce and pitiless, knows no compassion. When fate blinds men, virtue is forgotten. But still, I grant thee fairness, as befits my vow. Arm thyself, bind thy hair, and choose thy foe. If thou canst slay him among us whom thou choosest, the kingdom shall again be thine. If not, slain by him, thou shalt attain heaven. Ask yet another boon, save only thy life.”
Then the son of Gandhari donned his golden armour and his shining crown. His form gleamed like the sun on a golden peak. Mace in hand, he stood forth, and his voice rang out clear and proud: “Among you five brothers, let any one face me! Sahadeva, Bhima, Nakula, Phalguna, or even thee, O king! Whosoever comes, I will meet him, and the end of this long war shall be decided between us. Within this hour, my words shall be proved true or false. Let him who dares take up his mace and stand before me!”
And as he spoke, the world seemed to hold its breath. The still lake, the crimson sky, the battle-torn earth—all awaited the stroke of fate that would end an age.