novelraw Arc 3 - Gadā-yuddha Parva - Chapter 1 - The End Of The War
Arc 3 - Gadā-yuddha Parva - Chapter 1 - The End Of The War
Vaiśampāyana said:
Even so, O Janamejaya, did that final and dreadful battle unfold — the duel of the maces, fierce as the end of an age. When all the earth lay strewn with kings and the hosts of men were no more, destiny gathered itself for this last encounter.
Then the aged Dhṛtarāṣṭra, his heart consumed by grief, spoke to Sañjaya in a trembling voice:
“When Rāma of the plough came to the field, and my son stood face to face with Bhīma, how did that combat begin? Tell me, O Sañjaya, what my blind eyes may never see.”
Sañjaya said:
When Balarāma arrived, radiant as the midday sun, thy son Duryodhana, proud of arm and eager for the test, felt joy arise in his heart. The Pāṇḍavas too beheld the hero of the Yadus approach, and Yudhiṣṭhira, ever reverent to virtue, rose to greet him. With folded palms he honoured the strong-armed son of Rohiṇī, offered him a seat adorned with gems, and enquired after his welfare.
Then spoke Rāma of the fair countenance, his words deep and noble:
“O king, the Ṛṣis have said that Kurukṣetra is sanctified beyond compare —
pure as heaven itself, purging the sins of those who fall in battle.
Whoso lays down his life upon this ground,
fighting righteously, ascends to the abode of the gods.
Here the brave find immortality, not death.
Therefore will I go to Samantapañchaka,
the northern altar of Brahman, where sacrifice never ends.”
Yudhiṣṭhira bowed and said, “So be it.”
But Duryodhana, lifting his heavy mace and burning with wrath, strode forth to the appointed place. The sons of Pāṇḍu followed him, and all the sky resounded with the blare of conches and the roll of drums.
The gods looked down from the heavens and cried aloud, “Excellent! Excellent!” The Cāraṇas and Siddhas, swift as thought, gathered to witness the final act of destiny.
The combatants came to the southern bank of the Sarasvatī, to a ground smooth and level, free from sand and stone. There the duel would be fought.
Bhīma stood, clad in golden armour, his mace gleaming like a thunderbolt. His form swelled with power like that of mighty Garuḍa, wings spread to strike. His eyes were red with fury, his breath came fast like a storm among the hills.
Facing him stood Duryodhana, helm bright as the morning sun, armour bound close about his frame. Licking the corners of his mouth in fierce delight, he shone like Meru ablaze with gold. His glance was sharp as a serpent’s fang; his limbs seemed carved from iron.
Thus they faced each other —
lion before lion,
mountain before mountain,
the rage of one mirrored in the other’s eyes.
Each was the disciple of Rāma,
each master of the mace.
Their forms recalled Vāsava and Māyā,
or Madhu and Kaitabha,
or twin tigers on the edge of a burning forest.
Then Duryodhana roared across the field, raising his mace like an elephant trumpeting in challenge. Bhīma, his great weapon lifted high, replied with a cry that shook the firmament — the voice of the lion that breaks the silence of the woods.
They rushed together —
like two storms colliding,
like Kāla and Mṛtyu at the world’s end,
like two oceans crashing upon each other in fury.
Their glances were lightning; their hearts were thunder. The wind stilled, the birds ceased in mid-flight, and even the waters of the Sarasvatī seemed to pause.
The hosts of gods and sages watched from the sky. Each combatant looked like a rising sun — dazzling, merciless, and intent on consuming the other.
“See,” cried the seers, “how the earth herself holds her breath!
These are no men, but fire and storm given form.
Bhīma the furious, Duryodhana the proud —
both born for this hour, both bound to its doom.”
Then, before the gathered kings, Duryodhana turned to Yudhiṣṭhira and said with proud voice:
“Behold, O sons of Pāṇḍu,
protected by your Kaikeyas and Pāñcālas,
how I, unaided, stand ready for this battle.
Sit ye all and witness the duel
between me and Bhīmasena —
the last contest of Kuru blood.”
So saying, he raised his mace and struck the earth in challenge.
The Pāṇḍavas and the assembled monarchs seated themselves in a vast circle around the field. It shone like a conclave of the gods upon Meru’s peak. And in their midst sat the mighty Balarāma, fair of hue, robed in blue silk, gleaming like the full moon encircled by the stars.
There the two heroes — iron against iron, wrath against wrath — stood facing each other, breathing fury. Bitter words passed between them, sharp as arrows. Their voices rolled like thunder, and their eyes flashed fire.
And thus they stood, O king —
Bhīma and Duryodhana,
equal in strength, equal in hatred,
like Śakra and Vṛtra reborn for battle,
each awaiting the other’s fall.
Vaiśampāyana said:
At the outset, O Janamejaya, before the maces even struck, there arose a battle of words — fierce as fire, trembling with wrath and pride.
When the old king Dhṛtarāṣṭra heard of it, grief overpowered him, and he said, his voice broken with lament:
“Alas for man, who is bound to such an end!
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My son, once the lord of eleven akṣauhiṇīs,
before whom all the kings of earth bowed their heads,
now goes forth alone on foot,
bearing his own mace upon his shoulder!
He who ruled the world, now stands unprotected,
his glory scattered like dust in the wind.
Truly, it is Destiny alone that rules all things.
Woe to my son, whose hour has come!”
So spoke the blind monarch, and fell into silence, his soul choked with sorrow.
Then Sañjaya said:
The deep-voiced Duryodhana roared aloud like a thundercloud, delighting in the coming strife. His mighty arms quivered with energy as he challenged Bhīma, son of Prithā, to battle.
When the Kuru prince thus cried out for combat, dire omens shook the air. Fierce winds rose in sudden gusts, whirling dust in blinding clouds. The quarters of the sky grew dark as twilight, and thunderbolts clove the heavens with unearthly sound. Meteors burst from the firmament like serpents of fire. Rahu seized the Sun before his time, and the earth trembled, shaking her forests and mountains.
Hot winds, thick with stones and ash, swept over the field; the peaks of distant hills crumbled; beasts fled in panic; jackals with fiery mouths howled on every side. Wells and rivers overflowed without cause; voices rang through the air where none were seen. All nature groaned in foreboding, as though creation itself dreaded what was to come.
Then Bhīmasena, beholding those portents, turned to Yudhiṣṭhira and spoke with terrible calm:
“This Suyodhana of crooked soul shall not prevail against me.
Today, O son of Dharma, I shall cast out the wrath
that has burned in my heart for years.
As Arjuna once poured fire upon the forest of Khaṇḍava,
so shall I pour my fury upon this wretch of Kuru’s line.
Today I will pluck from thy heart the thorn of grief, and with my mace crown thee in victory. The poison he gave us, the snakes he set upon us in sleep, the fire at Vāraṇāvata, the insult to Draupadī, the deceit of dice, the years of exile, our life of hiding like beasts in the woods — all these wrongs shall find their end today!
This sinful son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra shall breathe his last upon this soil.
Never again shall he behold Hastināpura’s gates,
nor the faces of his father and mother.
Today the line of Śantanu will lie fallen upon the dust,
its pride broken, its fortune spent!”
So spoke Vṛkodara, his eyes blazing like twin suns. The earth itself seemed to quake beneath his words.
Then he raised his mace and cried again to Duryodhana:
“Remember, O cruel one,
the burning house at Vāraṇāvata,
the shame of Draupadī in her time of purity,
the cheating at dice,
the hunger and hardship of our forest years.
Remember the fall of Bhīṣma, thy grandsire,
struck down for thy sake by the son of Drupada.
Remember Droṇa, Karṇa, Śalya, and Śakuni —
all slain by the doom thou hast called upon thyself.
I see before me the cause of all our sorrows,
and I shall not leave thee breathing this day.”
Then, proud and fearless, Duryodhana replied:
“Enough of words, O glutton of battles!
Long hast thou bellowed like a bull.
Come, let thy arms prove what thy tongue proclaims!
I, Duryodhana, shall quench thy thirst for strife.
Long have I desired this duel —
the gods themselves have granted it at last.
Cease thy boasting, son of Kuntī,
and strike if thou art able!”
At his words, the assembled kings and warriors shouted in fierce joy. The air was filled with the sound of conches and the stamping of steeds. Duryodhana’s hair bristled with delight, his heart fixed on the coming clash.
The gathered monarchs clapped their hands and cried out like keepers urging two enraged elephants to battle.
Then Bhīma, the son of Pāṇḍu, raised his heavy mace — the thunderbolt of men — and rushed upon Duryodhana like a tempest let loose. The earth shook beneath his tread, elephants trumpeted, and the weapons of the Pāṇḍavas blazed with spontaneous light, as if heaven itself bore witness that the hour of vengeance had come.
Sañjaya said:
Duryodhana, undaunted, charged with a roar. The two met like bull against bull, maces cracking like thunder. Blood-slick and blazing with fury, they looked like twin kiṃśuka trees in bloom, spinning and feinting, circling and closing—each waiting for the other’s opening.
Bhīma’s footwork was a storm: tight circles, sudden rushes, hard checks, back-thrusts, draw-outs, arrests—every guard and counter from the school of the plough. Duryodhana matched him for craft, cool and deadly, the great iron head of his mace whistling arcs that raised sparks in the air and fear in the hearts of the Paṇḍavas.
They took the maṇḍala wheels—Duryodhana to the right, Bhīma to the left—and traded shattering blows. The Kuru prince smashed Bhīma’s flank; Bhīma answered with a whirlwind swing that set his mace roaring like Indra’s bolt. Again Duryodhana struck—so fast the air itself flashed. Again Bhīma’s weapon boomed, smoking at the rim.
Then, slipping the line, Suyodhana clipped Bhīma’s head with a brutal crown-shot. Bhīma didn’t so much as sway—his stillness drew a murmur of awe from every side. He hurled back a blazing counter; Duryodhana read the fall and voided clean with the Kauśika leap. He smashed Bhīma’s chest; the son of Pāṇḍu staggered, and for a breath the Pañchālas’ hope dimmed.
Roused to wrath, Bhīma surged like a lion into an elephant, wound up, and hammered Duryodhana’s flank. The Kuru dropped to a knee; the Śṛñjayas’ shout tore the dusk. Snakelike, Duryodhana rose, eyes burning, and split Bhīma’s brow. Blood streamed; Bhīma stood like a mountain in rain.
Then Bhīma’s iron thunderhead crashed—Duryodhana toppled like a flowering śāla in a gale. The Paṇḍavas roared. But the Kuru king, tough as old armor, heaved up from the dust and, wheeling with savage grace, clubbed Bhīma flat. Heaven cried out; flowers fell; Bhīma’s mail sprang, burst by the blow.
For a heartbeat fear stole through the Paṇḍava ranks.
And Vṛkodara—face blood-red, eyes rolling—wiped the gore away, drew a slow breath, found his feet, and stood again.
Sañjaya said:
As the fight raged on between those two tigers among men, Arjuna, his gaze fixed upon the circling maces, turned to Keśava beside him and asked quietly,
“Between these two, O Janārdana—Bhīma and Duryodhana—who, in thy judgment, is the mightier? In skill, in strength, in the merit of arms—how dost thou see them?”
Śrī Kṛṣṇa smiled faintly and said:
“In training they are equals, Pārtha. Both learned from the same master.
Yet Bhīma’s strength surpasses measure,
while Duryodhana’s skill and steadiness are deeper and more practised.
If the fight runs fair, Bhīma will never fell him.
But if guile aids power, the tide will turn.
Remember, the gods themselves won their triumphs through stratagem.
Śakra tricked Virocana,
and the thunder-wielder deceived Vṛtra to drain his might.
The vow once made must now be kept.
Did not Bhīma swear before the dice-board
to break this man’s thighs in battle?
Let him fulfil that oath, even by deception,
for Duryodhana’s whole life has been deceit.
Were he to rely on his sheer strength alone, Yudhiṣṭhira’s hard-won victory would tremble once again on the edge of ruin. It was folly in the king to stake all upon a single duel.
Know, O Dhanañjaya, that those who rise again from ruin are most to be feared.
The sages say:
‘When the broken remnant of a host returns to battle,
having cast off the hope of life,
even Indra cannot withstand them.’
This Duryodhana had fled and hidden in the lake,
his army slain, his pride crushed.
Yet fate has lifted him again;
he fights now with the calm of one who has already died.
For thirteen years he has trained his body in the art of the mace.
If Bhīma does not strike foul,
the son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra may yet seize back a kingdom already lost.”
Hearing Keśava’s counsel, Arjuna struck his own left thigh, loud and sharp, where Bhīma could see. The son of the Wind, catching that signal, understood.
Then, circling with uplifted mace, Bhīma changed his rhythm— his footwork weaving mandala, gomūtraka, and yomaka steps— each movement beautiful and deceptive. Duryodhana, equally skilled, matched him turn for turn, their maces flashing like molten gold in the sunset. The air itself trembled at every meeting of those weapons, and sparks flared like stars torn from the sky.
Like twin Garuḍas clutching for the same serpent they circled,
like twin oceans crashing in tempest they thundered.
Sweat and blood mingled on their skins;
their limbs gleamed crimson, like blossoms of the forest kiṃśuka in spring.
When exhaustion came, they paused only long enough to draw breath. Then again, with roars that shook the heavens, they closed.
Each sought the other’s lapse, each feigned and struck—
Bhīma with his storming power, Duryodhana with cold precision.
The ground quaked beneath them; the sky flared with their sparks.
And still they fought, beautiful and terrible to behold.
At last, when Bhīma feigned an opening, Duryodhana smiled and rushed. In that instant Bhīma hurled his mace, heavy as a mountain peak. Duryodhana slipped aside—the weapon smashed earth and stone in vain. Countering, he struck Bhīma a terrible blow that tore through mail and flesh, drawing a torrent of blood. The son of Pāṇḍu swayed but did not fall; gathering himself, he stood silent, though his vision swam red.
Thinking him unshaken, Duryodhana waited, measuring the next strike. Then Bhīma, mustering the last of his fury, leapt forward with a roar that shook the sky. Seeing him rush, the Kuru prince rose lightly on his toes, ready to spring upward in the Āvasthāna feint.
That was the moment Kṛṣṇa had foreseen.
Bhīma shouted, “For the vow!”—and swung low.
His mace, driven by the power of the thunder,
struck full upon Duryodhana’s thighs.
There was a sound like the rending of a mountain. The proud king’s legs broke beneath him, and he fell, crashing to the earth.
At that instant, O monarch, the world itself seemed to shudder. Fierce winds rose and howled; dust fell from the sky; mountains shook upon their roots. Meteors flamed across the heavens, and blood-red rain fell with thunder. Ghostly voices wailed in the air; beasts cried out in terror; the rivers turned back their courses.
From the unseen came the howling of Yakṣas, Rākṣasas, and Piśācas; the sky glowed with unearthly fire. Men and women seemed to change faces; wells gushed blood; the very earth groaned beneath the weight of fate fulfilled.
Thus fell Duryodhana, lord of the Kurus, last of his line to stand against destiny—his thighs shattered, his body trembling like a toppled pillar of stone.
The gods and Gandharvas departed murmuring of the marvel they had seen.
And the Pāṇḍavas, beholding the broken prince upon the ground, knew that the long night of Kurukṣetra had at last come to its end.