Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 2 - Hrada-Praveśa Parva - Chapter 2 - Bhima Answers Duryodhana’s Challenge

Sañjaya said: While Duryodhana thundered forth his defiance, Vasudeva, wrathful yet clear-eyed, turned to Yudhiṣṭhira and rebuked the king’s rash grant. “What perilous words hast thou spoken, O bull of Bharata’s race — that the slaying of one among you shall restore the kingship to Suyodhana? If Duryodhana names Arjuna or Nakula or Sahadeva as the foe, what then shall follow? For thirteen long years this son of Gandhari hath practised with the mace upon an iron image. He is skilled by craft and cunning; Bhimasena alone surpasses him in raw might. In a contest of might and skill, skill often wins. Thou hast thus set a game of chance in motion, a game like the dice-play before, and placed us in needless jeopardy. Who, now that sovereignty is within reach, would cast it away when only one foe remains? I see no god on heaven’s vault who could safely promise to overthrow Duryodhana in fair fight. By such words thou temptest Fate; yet perhaps the very order of dharma forbids the Pandavas their rightful crown.”

Bhimasena rose then, his voice like a clarion. “O Slayer of Madhu,” he cried to Krishna, “be not cast down. However difficult, I will this day bring these hostilities to an end. I shall slay Suyodhana. Yudhiṣṭhira’s victory is certain. My mace is heavier than his by half again; I will take it and meet him. Let all — Janardana and the Panchalas and the elders — be spectators. I would fight the three worlds if they stood arrayed against me. This wrath, long nourished in my breast, I shall vomit upon that wretch; I will pluck out the dart that has long stuck in thy heart, O king. Today I will recover thine honour. Today Suyodhana shall lose life, kingdom, and pride. And Dhṛtarāṣṭra shall, hearing of his son’s fall, remember the wrongs suggested by that arch-schemer Shakuni.”

Vasudeva rejoiced at Bhima’s vow and praised him: “Relying on thee, mighty Vrikodara, Yudhiṣṭhira shall regain his blazing prosperity. By thy hand many of the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra have already fallen. Kings, princes, and elephants of great valor have met their end at thy strokes. Slay Duryodhana, O son of Kunti, and confer the earth upon Yudhiṣṭhira as Vishnu grants the worlds to his chosen.”

Bhima, towering, answered with words of iron and oath. “I will face him, O Janardana. I shall lay low that shameless wretch and end the wrongs he and his sire have heaped upon us. Remember Varanavata; remember the insult to Draupadī in the assembly; remember the dice and the night of undoing. Bhīṣma lies on his bed of arrows because of thee; Droṇa is no more; Karṇa is slain; Shalya falls; Shakuni is gone. Thy brothers and sons, slain; thy hosts, broken; yet one remains — the root of this strife. This one I will destroy with my mace; this I vow without doubt. Today I shall quench his pride and the hope for his sovereignty; I shall pay his misdeeds in full to the sons of Pandu.”

Duryodhana answered with scorn. “Words are vain. Fight me now! See me stand before you, armed with a club that is like Himavat’s cliff. Who among you, wretch, will dare overthrow me? Even Purandara among the gods would fail in such fair fight. Thy words, O Bhīma, have harmed you not at all in the past; by my might I forced you to wander in the woods, to hide in disguise. Our losses have been equal. If now I fall, it will be glorious; if I fall by deceit, your infamy will remain. Thou shouldst not roar like autumn clouds empty of rain. Show thy strength now!”

The Pandavas and the Srinjayas, inflamed with the wish for victory, welcomed Bhīma’s challenge with loud acclaim. Horses neighed and elephants trumpeted; arms gleamed and weapons leapt to hand as if the field itself answered the summons. And Bhīma, that bull among men, advanced like an enraged elephant summoned to battle, his heart set like a thunderbolt.

He swore by blood and arrowed bed and shame,

By Draupadī’s dishonour and the night of dice;

“Let this proud root of strife meet fire and flame,

My mace shall weigh his sun with righteous vice.”

Thus did the two champions stand opposed: Duryodhana skilled in craft and cunning, cased in bragged-of prowess; Bhīma, Vrikodara, a living avalanche of force and vow. The assembly watched—their breaths stilled, their hopes and fears balanced—while fate itself seemed to wait upon the first stroke to declare which of skill or might, of pride or dharma, would triumph that day.

Sañjaya said: When that fierce and fated battle was about to begin, O king, and all the high-souled sons of Pāṇḍu had taken their seats to behold it, news reached the ears of the great Rāma — the wielder of the plough, whose banner bears the palm-tree. Both Duryodhana and Bhīmasena were his disciples in the art of mace-fighting, and hearing that they were about to contend for the last time, he came swiftly to the field, drawn by both affection and curiosity.

As he approached, the earth itself seemed to brighten with the gleam of his fair form. His two hands, mighty as the tusks of an elephant, held the plough and the pestle — his ancient weapons. Beholding him arrive, the sons of Pāṇḍu and Keśava himself rose joyfully, advancing to receive him. They bowed before the son of Rohiṇī, and performed all due rites of welcome. When the greetings were complete, they spoke in reverence, saying, “Be witness, O Rāma, to the skill of thy two disciples in battle!”

Rāma, casting his clear gaze upon Kṛṣṇa and the Pāṇḍavas, then upon Duryodhana who stood armed with his mace, smiled and said, “Two and forty days have passed since I left my home. I departed under the star Puṣya, and now return beneath Śravaṇa. Destiny has brought me back to behold this encounter — the meeting of my two pupils, each a lion among men.”

At that hour, Bhīmasena and Duryodhana shone like twin peaks of a mountain range, maces lifted high, their broad chests gleaming with sweat and ornaments. The air trembled with their contained fury. Yudhiṣṭhira, rising from his seat, embraced the plough-bearing elder and inquired after his welfare. The two Krishnas, Keśava and Sātyaki, bowed with deep joy before him and clasped him as brothers clasp one beloved. The sons of Mādrī and the five sons of Draupadī also bowed low to Rāma of infinite strength and stood aside in reverence.

Bhīma, that son of the wind, and Duryodhana, the son of the blind king, each lifted their mace and saluted their preceptor. Around them the kings of earth assembled, honouring Rāma with joined palms and saying, “Bear witness, O mighty-armed one, to this last great combat!” Rāma, possessed of immeasurable energy, embraced the Pāṇḍavas and the Śṛñjayas, asking after their welfare. In return, they too enquired after his, with hearts gladdened by his presence.

Then, the son of Rohiṇī, lord of strength and beauty, saluted in turn all the noble kings according to age and affection, and at last affectionately embraced Janārdana and Sātyaki. He smelled their heads as an elder does in blessing, and they worshipped him in turn as Indra and Upendra worship Brahmā, the Lord of all beings.

When these courtesies were ended, Dharma’s son spoke softly to him: “Behold, O Rāma, this dread encounter between brothers — let thy gaze witness its end.” Thus entreated and worshipped by all, the elder brother of Keśava took his seat among them. His blue garments shone like the sea, his complexion like moonlight upon white lotus. Surrounded by kings and warriors, Rāma sat in majesty, radiant as the full moon encircled by stars.

And then the world held its breath, O king, as those two sons of yours, glowing like planets set for collision, lifted their maces for the last time. The air thickened; the sky darkened with omen. What had begun long ago — a quarrel born of pride, envy, and fate — now approached its final reckoning. And there, beneath the gaze of gods and men alike, began that dreadful encounter whose memory chills the heart — the mace-battle of Bhīma and Duryodhana, the destined end of a dynasty.

Janamejaya said, “On the eve of the great slaughter between Kurus and Pāṇḍus, Rāma of the plough, having taken leave of Keśava, departed from Dvārakā with many Vṛṣṇis. He had declared, ‘I shall aid neither Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s son nor the sons of Pāṇḍu; I will go where I will.’ Thus he went. Tell me, O Brāhmaṇa, how he returned; how he came to that field and witnessed the battle. Recount it fully, for thy skill in narration is proven.”

Vaiśampāyana said: When the high-souled sons of Pāṇḍu had taken post at Upaplavya, they sent the slayer of Madhu to Hastināpura seeking concord and the good of all beings. Keśava spoke true and healing counsel to Dhṛtarāṣṭra, as told before; yet the old king would not hearken. The mission failing, Kṛṣṇa returned to Upaplavya and said to the Pāṇḍavas: “The Kauravas, urged by Fate, set aside my words. Come now beneath the star Puṣya; let us march to the field.”

This content has been misappropriated from NovelBin; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Then, while both hosts were being marshalled, the strong-armed son of Rohiṇī, foremost in might, addressed his younger brother: “O slayer of Madhu, let us aid the Kurus.” But Keśava would not consent. Angered, the wielder of the plough turned his face to pilgrimage along the Sarasvatī, departing under the asterism Maitra, with the Yādavas in his train. Kṛtavarmā chose the Kaurava side; Sātyaki and Vāsudeva stood with the Pāṇḍavas. Rāma set out beneath Puṣya, while the slayer of Madhu placed the sons of Pāṇḍu in his van and moved upon the Kurus.

On the road Rāma commanded his attendants: “Bring what is needful for holy wandering: sacred fire from Dvārakā and our priests; gold and silver; kine, robes, steeds; elephants, cars, mules and camels; all that serves the journey to the tīrthas. Bring, too, officiants and hundreds of foremost Brāhmaṇas. Hasten to the Sarasvatī.” Thus instructed, they made ready; and at that season of Kurū tumult, Baladeva set forth upon vows.

He moved along the river’s ancient course with priests, friends, and many noble Brāhmaṇas; with elephants and horses, with carts drawn by kine and mules and camels. Alms flowed wherever the pilgrims passed: weary and worn, young and old, were fed without stint; Brāhmaṇas were gratified with the viands they desired; garments and beds, fine coverlets and comfort, were set out for those in need of ease. Whoever asked—Brāhmaṇa or Kṣatriya—was given freely. To the thirsty they gave drink, to the hungry savory food, to travelers conveyance, to the poor ornaments and robes. The road shone with stalls and shops, with crowds and bright wares; trees bowed with fruit; the very earth seemed jewelled. In every holy place upon the Sarasvatī, Rāma of firm vows poured gifts: thousands of milk-cows with cloth-draped flanks and horns cased in gold, steeds of many breeds, vehicles, and attendants of beauty. Thus giving, thus purified, he journeyed until he reached Kurukṣetra.

A hush of hymn and hoof in dust,

A white-plough banner in the light—

Where Rāma’s train moves full of trust,

Alms fall like rain and wrongs take flight.

“Tell me,” said Janamejaya, “the traits and births of the Sarasvatī’s holy fords, their merits, and the rule of sojourning. My curiosity is sharpened, O best of those who know Brahman.”

Vaiśampāyana said: Vast is that theme, O king, yet I shall unfold it. With priests and friends, Baladeva first approached Prabhāsa, the foremost tīrtha. There once Soma, lord of the constellations, smitten by phthisis, regained his vigor; therefore is it called Prabhāsa—where the Moon recovered his prabhā, his radiance.

Janamejaya said, “For what cause was Soma afflicted? How did he bathe there and recover his brightness? Speak fully, O great muni.”

Vaiśampāyana said: Dakṣa had seven-and-twenty daughters whom he gave in marriage to Soma. These, linked with the nakṣatras, help men to number time. Among them Rohiṇī surpassed in beauty; in her the Moon delighted and dwelt long, neglecting her sisters. They went to their sire and complained: “Soma regards us not; he courts Rohiṇī alone. We shall remain by thee in austerity.” Dakṣa commanded Soma: “Deal equally with thy wives; let no sin stain thee.” The daughters returned, but Soma continued partial. Again they sought Dakṣa, who warned the Moon a second time: “Behave equally! Let me not curse thee.” Disregarding him, Soma clung to Rohiṇī. Then Dakṣa, angered, cursed him with phthisis. Wasting day by day, Candramas resorted to sacrifices; but the wasting held. Herbs lost their savor and virtue, and creatures grew lean; for as Soma waned, so waned the life-sap in plants and beings. The gods, alarmed, asked the Moon his plight; learning the cause, they went to Dakṣa: “Be gracious. The Moon is but a sliver; by his wasting, creepers and herbs decay; we too grow thin. Without us, what becomes of the worlds? Withdraw thy curse.”

Dakṣa replied, “My words are not made otherwise; yet by device they may be tempered. Let Śaśin behave equally towards all his wives. Let him bathe in the foremost tīrtha of the Sarasvatī, and he shall wax again. For half the month let him wane, and for half let him wax—thus my speech stands true. Let him go to the western ocean where Sarasvatī meets the sea and there adore Maheśvara; then he will regain form and beauty.”

So Soma repaired to the Sarasvatī, reached Prabhāsa, and on the new-moon bath regained his cool rays, again illumining the worlds. Creatures, returning from Prabhāsa with him, came to Dakṣa; the Lord of creation dismissed them well-pleased and counseled the Moon: “Do not slight women; never disregard Brāhmaṇas. Obey.” Having thus regained his sheen, Soma returned to his abode and the beings rejoiced as before. Hence, on each new-moon day, the hare-marked god bathes at Prabhāsa and renews his splendor; therefore that tīrtha bears its name.

Rohiṇī’s smile, a silver snare;

The sisters’ tears, time’s drooping vine;

Dakṣa’s word halves dark and fair—

At Prabhāsa rises the Moon to shine.

From Prabhāsa, Balarāma of undecaying glory went on to Cāmasodbheda, bestowed costly gifts, lodged one night, and bathed with rite. Thence the elder of Keśava hastened to Udapāna. Though there the Sarasvatī seems lost, those crowned with ascetic success know—by the merit they reap, by the land’s coolness and the herbs’ freshness—that the river flows unseen through earth’s deep pathways.

Thus did the wielder of the plough, moving from ford to ford with generosity and vow, stitch heaven’s law to mortal need. And thus, having circled the sacred waters, he drew near to Kurukṣetra—so that, when the maces rose for the final reckoning, the elder of Vṛṣṇis would be present to behold how dharma and destiny chose their end.

Vaiśampāyana said: Baladeva moved on to Udapāna, the ford on the Sarasvatī sanctified by the austerities of the illustrious Ṛṣi Trita. There, after rich gifts to Brāhmaṇas and ablutions made, the wielder of the plough felt his heart grow light. In that place Trita had once drunk Soma—strangely, wondrously—while standing within a pit; and there, too, he pronounced the curse that changed his brothers’ fate.

Janamejaya said: Tell me the birth of Udapāna. How fell the sage into a hole? Why did his brothers cast him there and depart? How did he complete his rite and drink Soma in such a place?

Vaiśampāyana said: In an older age there were three brothers radiant as suns—Ekata, Dvita, and Trita—sons of Gautama the virtuous. In vows and self-restraint they pleased their sire, and Gautama, content with his offspring, departed to the region befitting him. The kings who had been his yajamānas still honored the sons; among them, by act and Vedic mastery, Trita rose foremost, as Gautama had been.

Once Ekata and Dvita resolved upon a sacrifice and longed for wealth. Their plan was formed: “Let Trita go before us; we will call upon our patrons, gather beasts, assist at their rites, and drink the Soma. Thus shall we gain the merit and the kine.” So they set out—Trita glad at heart, walking in the van; his brothers behind, driving a wealth of animals eastward along the river’s bank. Seeing the herd, a thought like smoke darkened their counsel: “Trita is skillful; he can win other kine. Let us take these and leave him.”

Night fell upon their plotting. A wolf glimmered on the path. Near at hand, the earth yawned in a deep, dust-veiled well. Trita, foremost on the road, saw the beast, started back, and slipped into the pit—fathomless, fearsome, wrapped in creepers. His cry rose up; Ekata and Dvita, hearing, knew his plight. Between the fear of the wolf and the fever of greed, they fled on, abandoning their brother to darkness.

Alone in the well, the great ascetic thought himself fallen to a hell of dust and roots. One grief burned above the rest: that he might die unfulfilled, never having drunk the Soma that crowns the rite. Then, steadying his mind, he gathered the sacrifice within his heart.

A quivering vine hung down the shaft—he saw in it the soma-latā.

Dry stones lay at his feet—he made of them sweet grains in thought.

He found, in emptiness, ablution’s flow and ghṛta’s gold;

He kindled fire where none was seen, and took the Hotṛ’s role.

Inwardly he intoned Ṛk, Yajus, and Sāman; he allocated shares for the gods by proper mantras; he imagined clarified butter from imagined waters; he drank the inner Soma and gave out a voice that shook the mid-sky. The sound reached heaven. Bṛhaspati listened, and the priests of the celestials said, “Trita performs a sacrifice. We must go; if angered, he could fashion other gods.” The hosts of heaven hastened and found the saint resplendent in that strange altar of earth and shadow.

“We have come for our shares,” they said. “Behold me,” answered Trita, “fallen into a well, my senses almost spent.” Yet he offered duly, and the gods, gratified, granted boons. He asked not wealth, nor long life, but release from the pit, and this: “Let any man who bathes in this well obtain the fruit of Soma-drink.” At his word the Sarasvatī herself welled into the shaft; lifting him, she bore him up in her cool arms. Trita worshipped the gods; they blessed his vows and vanished to their stations.

He met his brothers on the road and wrath took righteous shape upon his tongue: “Greedy and faithless, you abandoned me. Be wolves, fierce and sharp-toothed; haunt the forests. Let your offspring be leopards, bears, and apes.” Truth armed his curse; they changed as he spoke.

A brief wreath of fate for the faithless pair:

Greed made their hearts a den of night;

The sage rose up on the river’s prayer,

And dharma’s word became their plight.

Thus Udapāna became a ford of wonder: its waters touched by Trita’s vow, its bath conferring the fruit of Soma to the pure in heart. Valadeva, immeasurable in valor, touched those waters, scattered largesse among Brāhmaṇas, praised the tīrtha again and again, and turned his white-plough banner downstream. From Udapāna he journeyed on to Vināśana, still along the Sarasvatī’s mysterious course—where the river is said to vanish from sight yet flows, unseen, through the secret paths of earth.