novelraw Arc 3 - Gadā-yuddha Parva - Chapter 2 - Krishna’s Strage request as a Charioteer
Arc 3 - Gadā-yuddha Parva - Chapter 2 - Krishna’s Strage request as a Charioteer
Sañjaya said:
Beholding Duryodhana lying on the earth like a great śāla tree torn from its roots by a storm, the sons of Pāṇḍu were filled with fierce joy. Around them the Somakas and Pāñcālas stood wide-eyed, their hair bristling, for the proud elephant of the Kurus had at last been brought down by the lion of the Pāṇḍavas.
Then Bhīmasena, his chest heaving, strode to where Duryodhana lay. His eyes were red as molten copper; his breath came like the hiss of a serpent. Planting his foot beside the fallen king, he spoke in a voice that rolled like thunder:
“O wretch! Once, in the midst of the assembly, when Draupadī stood weeping and shamed, thou didst laugh, crying ‘Cow! Cow!’
Now bear the fruit of that word.”
Saying this, he set his foot upon the head of the stricken prince and pressed it down.
“We dance now, O Kaurava,” he cried, “as ye once danced at us.
You had your dice and your deceit; we have but our arms.
We fought fair—by strength alone—and this is the harvest!”
Thus raging, Bhīma, blood-stained and trembling with victory, laughed aloud and turned to his brothers:
“Behold, O Yudhiṣṭhira, O Keśava, O Dhanañjaya,
the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra who once dragged our queen in her time of purity!
Behold them fallen by the merit of Yājñasenī’s vows!
They who mocked us as empty grains—‘sesame without seed’—
have perished with their kin and followers.
Whether heaven claims us or hell receives us,
this vengeance is fulfilled!”
And again, lifting the mace high upon his shoulder, he pressed his foot upon Duryodhana’s head.
But many among the Pāñcāla chiefs, men of noble hearts, turned away in silence. They could not bear the sight of the proud Bhīma, trampling his fallen foe.
Then Yudhiṣṭhira, the son of Dharma, his eyes moist with tears, spoke with a trembling voice:
“Enough, Bhīma. Thy vow is accomplished—whether by fair stroke or foul, it is done.
Cease now. Do not crush his head beneath thy foot.
Remember—he is a king, thy cousin, the lord once of eleven hosts.
Though fallen, he was our kinsman.
Do not dishonour him now, for this act is not worthy of thee.
The world praised thee as righteous—let that praise not turn to reproach.
He is ruined, bereft of sons, of brothers, of hope; pity him.
The fire of wrath has done its work—quench it now.”
At these words Bhīma grew still. The roar of triumph died upon his lips.
Then Yudhiṣṭhira, his heart torn with compassion, went to the broken king and said softly:
“O Duryodhana, give not thyself to anger nor to grief.
This end is thine own making, born of greed and pride.
None else is to blame. Destiny has wrought this cruel balance
—thou hast slain us in our hearts, and we have slain thee in thy flesh.
Look around thee: thy brothers, thy sons, thy friends—all lie fallen.
Thy sin brought this upon them.
Yet, O king, thy death is enviable; thou diest as a warrior should.
We live on in sorrow, burdened by the memory of those we loved.
The widows of thy house will curse our name;
the wailing of the bereaved will haunt our sleep.
Thou goest to the realms of heroes—
we remain to taste the ashes of victory.”
Having spoken thus, the son of Dharma stood silent beside his fallen foe, breathing heavily.
The wind moaned through the torn banners, the sun sank blood-red behind the field of death, and all who stood there—friend and foe alike—felt the weight of destiny upon their hearts.
Sañjaya said:
When Dhṛtarāṣṭra heard how his son had been struck upon the thighs, he asked with trembling voice, “O Sūta, what said Rāma of the plough, mighty son of Rohiṇī, master of the mace and keeper of its sacred laws, when he beheld that blow?”
Sañjaya replied:
At the sight of Duryodhana fallen, his thighs shattered by Bhīma’s mace, Rāma’s heart flared with indignation. Raising his great arms, his voice deep as thunder, he cried before all kings assembled:
“Fie upon Bhīma! Fie upon such foul play!
Never in the noble art of gadā-yuddha
may one strike below the navel!
This act defiles the code of warriors—
it is treachery disguised as valour!
Vṛkodara hath broken the law of arms!”
Wrath blazing like fire at the end of the age, the son of Rohiṇī seized his weapon of the plough and rushed toward Bhīmasena, towering like a golden mountain. But Kṛṣṇa, whose mercy never failed, stepped forth and clasped his elder brother in his arms. The two sons of Vasudeva—one dark as a raincloud, the other bright as moonlight—shone together like sun and moon upon the field of blood.
Then Keśava spoke softly, seeking to calm the storm:
“O Balarāma, lord of strength, stay thy wrath.
Six are the ways of victory:
one’s own rise, the rise of friends,
the fall of foes, the fall of their allies,
and the fall of those allies’ kin.
When danger comes to self or friend,
a wise man seeks the remedy.
The sons of Pāṇḍu are our kin by blood,
our sister’s children—bound to us by love.
Greatly have they suffered;
their grief was born of Duryodhana’s guile.
Bhīma vowed before all men
that he would break this proud one’s thighs;
Maitreya the sage foretold the same.
Where then is fault, if destiny fulfils its word?
Be not wroth, O slayer of Pralamba.
Their triumph is ours,
for their blood is our own.”
But Rāma answered sternly, his brow still clouded:
“Morality lives by harmony—
of dharma, artha, and kāma.
Yet dharma is wounded by profit’s greed,
and pleasure blinds the righteous eye.
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He who keeps these three in balance
attains true joy.
But Bhīma, driven by fury, hath broken that law;
what thou callest righteousness is but ruin in disguise.”
Kṛṣṇa bowed his head slightly and said:
“O brother, thou art the pillar of dharma.
Yet know—the age of Kali draws near,
when even righteousness bends before time.
Let the vow be counted kept,
and the debt of vengeance paid.”
Still unsatisfied, Balarāma lifted his gaze toward the west and declared before all:
“Let the world know!
Bhīma the son of Pāṇḍu hath slain unfairly,
and his name shall carry the mark of crooked battle.
But Duryodhana, steadfast and brave,
hath offered his life as sacrifice.
His altar was the field,
his fire the fury of his foes,
his final ablution—the glory of death.
Blessed is the Kuru king;
eternal shall be his fame.”
So speaking, the white-robed elder, bright as the crest of a cloud, ascended his chariot and departed for Dvārakā. As he went, a hush fell upon the field; the Pāṇḍavas and their allies stood heavy-hearted, their joy clouded by shame.
Then Keśava turned to Yudhiṣṭhira, who stood with head bowed, weary and uncertain, and said gently:
“O son of Dharma, why dost thou endure this deed?
Bhīma’s foot upon the fallen king—
is this the justice of thy heart?
Why watch in silence, O righteous one?”
Yudhiṣṭhira answered sorrowfully:
“O Kṛṣṇa, this act is not my wish, nor do I rejoice in it.
But how could I restrain Bhīma, whose soul burns
with memories of exile, of insult, of deceit?
We were cheated at dice, mocked, and banished.
His wrath has long been caged—today it found its mark.
Let him taste this bitter victory,
whether it be sin or righteousness.
The debt of our grief is paid.”
Hearing him, Kṛṣṇa sighed and said, “So be it.” And though the law had been wounded, he blessed the sons of Pāṇḍu, for he knew that their triumph was written by fate.
Bhīmasena then approached Yudhiṣṭhira, joy blazing upon his face. Folding his hands, he bowed to his elder brother and said:
“The earth is thine again, O king—
free of thorn and foe!
Rule her now in peace,
for he who sowed the seed of this war lies still upon her breast.
Duhśāsana, Karṇa, Śakuni—all are fallen.
The mother of sorrows may rest at last,
for her sons have kept their vow.”
Yudhiṣṭhira looked upon him and answered quietly:
“The war is done. Suyodhana lies low.
We have won the world through Kṛṣṇa’s counsel.
Be glad, Bhīma, for thy vow is fulfilled
and thy mother’s honour avenged.”
Thus, amidst the silence of the dying day, the brothers stood together over the fallen king, while fate, having run its course, drew its shadow across the field of Kurukṣetra.
Sañjaya said:
When the son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra fell, struck down by the thunder of Bhīmasena’s mace, the earth herself seemed to shudder beneath the cry that rose from the victorious host. The Pāṇḍavas, with Keśava beside them, beheld Duryodhana lying upon the ground like a proud tusker slain by a lion, and joy surged through their weary hearts. Around them the Pañcālas and the Śṛñjayas raised their weapons high; they waved their silken scarves in the air and shouted till the wind trembled with their voices.
Some bent their bows and loosed arrows skyward in exultation; some blew their conchs so that the horizon shook with sound; others beat upon their drums, and the echo rolled like thunder across the plain. Warriors leapt and laughed, embracing one another in disbelief.
Then from all sides voices cried to Bhīmasena:
“O mighty Vṛkodara, thou hast achieved what none could dream!
The lion has struck down the lord of the Kurus,
the master of a hundred arts of war,
whose mace spun like lightning!
None but thou could have reached this far shore of battle—
none but thou could have crushed his helm and broken his pride!
Thou hast fulfilled thy vow, O son of Pāṇḍu,
and wiped away the stain of Draupadī’s grief!
As Indra slew Vṛtra, so hast thou slain Duryodhana!
Thy fame shall endure as long as mountains stand!”
So sang the bards and warriors, till the field of Kurukṣetra resounded with praise. But Keśava, the Lord of restraint, lifted his hand and spoke:
“Enough, O kings. Do not strike the slain with cruel words.
This wretch, by his own folly, met his death long before this hour.
He who scorned the counsel of Vidura, Droṇa, Kṛpa, and Sañjaya,
who denied to the sons of Pāṇḍu their rightful share,
perished then, though his body breathed.
Spend not bitter breath upon one who is now but dust.
Mount your cars; let us depart.
The man of sin and his followers lie fallen,
and the earth breathes free again.”
As these words fell from Kṛṣṇa’s lips, Duryodhana stirred. Half-rising on his arms, his body twisted with pain, he glared like a serpent shorn of its tail. His voice, hoarse with wrath, hissed across the field:
“O son of a slave! Dost thou still speak of dharma?
I was struck down by guile—below the navel,
against the law of mace-combat!
Thou didst whisper the hint to Bhīma,
and Arjuna signalled with thy eyes.
Thinkest thou I saw it not?
Was Bhīṣma slain fairly, set against Śikhaṇḍin’s form?
Was Droṇa slain justly, fooled by the false cry of his son’s death?
Did not Ghaṭotkaca’s death cheat Karṇa of his sacred dart?
Didst thou not let Sātyaki smite Bhūriśravā
while that noble warrior prayed with folded hands?
And Karṇa—when his wheel sank and he struggled in the mire—
thou hadst Arjuna strike him down!
O dark deceiver, thy victory is woven of crooked means!
Hadst thou fought fairly, O Kṛṣṇa,
thou and thine could never have prevailed against us!”
Then Kṛṣṇa answered, his voice calm as the ocean after storm:
“Thy own deeds have slain thee, O son of Gāndhārī.
Thy greed and scorn have dragged Bhīṣma and Droṇa to their deaths,
and Karṇa too perished walking thy path.
Thou gavest poison to Bhīma,
soughtest to burn thy kin in the house of lac,
and in the assembly hall didst shame Draupadī,
she who was as fire to touch.
Thou cheatedst Yudhiṣṭhira at dice,
and sentest Jayadratha to steal another man’s wife.
Abhimanyu, a child, thou slew surrounded by thy host.
Say now, whose is the sin?
The fruit thou eatest is the harvest of thine own hand.”
But Duryodhana, still proud amid the dust, smiled faintly and replied:
“I have ruled the earth, given gifts, and fought my fill.
The death a Kṣatriya covets—death in battle—hath come to me.
Who is more blessed than I?
I go to heaven with my brothers and friends,
while ye remain upon this sorrowing earth,
torn by grief and haunted by victory.”
When these words were spoken, the heavens responded.
From the sky fell a shower of fragrant blossoms; the Gandharvas struck their celestial instruments, the Apsaras sang in sweet accord, and voices of the Siddhas cried aloud:
“Glory to King Duryodhana, the mighty son of Kuru!”
Cool winds moved upon the field, and the sky shone blue as sapphire.
The sons of Pāṇḍu, beholding this strange wonder, grew silent and downcast. Whispers unseen filled the air—voices lamenting that Bhīṣma, Droṇa, Karṇa, and Bhūriśravā had fallen by guile. Their hearts grew heavy, and they wept, unsure whether victory was virtue or sin.
Then Keśava, reading their thoughts, spoke once more:
“Grieve not, O sons of Pāṇḍu.
Against such warriors—Bhīṣma the unconquered, Droṇa the preceptor,
Karṇa the peerless, and Duryodhana the master of the mace—
no mortal strength could prevail in fair fight.
For your sake I wrought illusion,
as the gods themselves once did against the Asuras.
When foes are many and fate demands,
wisdom hides her face beneath strategy.
Take heart: the war is ended,
the earth is free, and your destiny fulfilled.”
Thus consoled, the Pāṇḍavas and the Pañcālas raised once more their conchs and roared like lions across the crimson plain. Keśava himself, bright with victory yet shadowed by sorrow, blew the conch Pāñcajanya.
And as the sun sank upon Kurukṣetra, the dust of war settled upon still bodies and broken crowns,
and the wind carried both triumph and lament—the mingled breath of victory and loss.
Sañjaya said:
When the Kaurava king had fallen and the battle was ended, the surviving kings—mighty men whose arms were like iron bludgeons—departed joyfully toward their tents, blowing their conchs in triumph. The Pāṇḍavas too, with Kṛṣṇa in their midst, turned toward the Kaurava encampment. With them went Yuyutsu, ever loyal to dharma; Sātyaki the Yādava lion; Dhṛṣṭadyumna, slayer of Droṇa; Śikhaṇḍin, the cause of Bhīṣma’s fall; and the five sons of Draupadī, still radiant with the fire of battle.
The camp of the Kurus lay silent, stripped of splendour. The pavilion of Duryodhana—once a royal court adorned with silks and gems, echoing with music—stood now deserted, its glory extinguished with its lord. It seemed like a festival ground after the crowd has departed, or a lake whose waters have been drained of their elephants. Only aged counsellors, women, and eunuchs lingered there, their faces pale with grief.
In that same hall, Duryodhana and his brothers had once stood, attired in robes of gold and saffron, bowing to their elders with joined hands. Now the sons of Pāṇḍu entered it as masters.
Then Keśava, ever mindful of what was auspicious, turned to the wielder of Gāṇḍīva and said softly:
“Lay down thy bow and the quivers that never empty, O Pārtha.
Dismount first from the chariot; I shall descend after thee.
This is for thy good, O sinless one.”
Arjuna obeyed, stepping down with reverence. The Lord of all creatures then released the reins and alighted from the chariot. No sooner had Kṛṣṇa set his foot upon the ground than the great banner of the ape upon Arjuna’s car vanished like a dream, and in the next instant the whole vehicle—yoke, wheels, and shafts—burst suddenly into flame. No fire had been seen; yet in a moment the divine chariot was reduced to ashes.
The sons of Pāṇḍu stood amazed, their faces bright with wonder. Bowing with joined hands, Arjuna spoke:
“O Govinda, what marvel is this?
Why hath my car, that bore us through the storm of battle,
been consumed to ashes before our eyes?
Tell me, O blessed one, if it be meet for me to hear.”
Kṛṣṇa smiled and replied:
“That car, O Arjuna, had long been consumed by the weapons of Droṇa and Karṇa.
It endured only because I sat upon it.
Now that our purpose is fulfilled and I have left it,
the energy of those divine missiles hath reclaimed its own.”
Then, embracing Yudhiṣṭhira, the slayer of foes spoke again, his words calm but proud:
“By good fortune, O son of Kuntī, thou hast won the earth!
By good fortune thy enemies lie fallen!
By good fortune thou, Bhīma, Arjuna, and the sons of Mādrī
hast escaped this sea of destruction alive.
Do now what befits a king who hath regained his realm.
When first thou camest to me at Upaplavya,
offering honey and gifts of welcome,
thou didst place Dhanañjaya in my care and say,
‘This Arjuna is thy brother and friend; protect him in every peril.’
So have I done, O King.
The vow is fulfilled, and victory is thine.”
Yudhiṣṭhira, hearing Kṛṣṇa’s words, bowed low, tears in his eyes and the hairs of his body standing erect. He said:
“O Keśava, none but thee, not even the wielder of the thunderbolt,
could have withstood the fiery shafts of Droṇa and Karṇa.
Through thy grace, the Sāmsaptakas were broken;
through thy grace, Arjuna’s arms never wavered;
through thy grace, we have survived this ocean of slaughter.
As Vyāsa once told me,
‘Where Kṛṣṇa is, there is righteousness;
and where righteousness is, there is victory.’
So have his words come true.”
After this exchange, the sons of Pāṇḍu entered the royal camp and claimed the treasures of the Kurus—vast stores of gold and silver, gems and pearls, costly garments, ornaments, silken banners, and herds beyond counting. Male and female slaves, horses and elephants, vessels and chariots—all these they took, the wealth of kings gathered over generations.
And when they had unyoked their steeds, they rested a while in silence, weary and filled with the strange stillness that follows conquest.
Then Kṛṣṇa, that unerring guide, said quietly:
“Let us not remain within the camp this night.
Such is the custom after great slaughter,
for purity and peace of spirit.”
The Pāṇḍavas assented, and, taking Sātyaki with them, went forth with Kṛṣṇa to the banks of the holy stream Oghavatī. There, beneath the stars, they rested upon the earth, their foes destroyed and their destiny fulfilled.
Before dawn, Keśava harnessed his chariot once more and said farewell to the sons of Pāṇḍu.
“I go now to Hastināpura,” he said, “to comfort Gāndhārī,
the mother whose sons lie slain.”
At their bidding he departed swiftly, his steeds Shaibya and Sugrīva drawing the gleaming car. Thus did Vāsudeva, lord of compassion, speed through the fading dust of Kurukṣetra toward the city of the blind king— to speak with the mother who had lost everything to fate.