novelraw Arc 3 - Gadā-yuddha Parva - Chapter 3 - Destiny and Time the Last Victors of the War
Arc 3 - Gadā-yuddha Parva - Chapter 3 - Destiny and Time the Last Victors of the War
Sañjaya said:
When the fury of battle had subsided and the earth lay strewn with the fallen, the surviving kings—strong-armed men whose limbs were like iron maces—returned to their tents, their hearts light with deliverance. Conch shells sounded across the darkening plain, their voices rising like a hymn of exhaustion and relief.
The sons of Pāṇḍu too, with Kṛṣṇa at their head, turned their chariots toward the Kaurava camp. Behind them rode Yuyutsu, steadfast in virtue; Sātyaki of the Vṛṣṇis; Dhṛṣṭadyumna, proud slayer of Droṇa; Śikhaṇḍin, avenger of Bhīṣma; and the five sons of Draupadī, still bright with the dust and glory of war. Other great bowmen followed in silence, the field of Kurukṣetra echoing only with the weary tread of their beasts.
They came to the royal pavilion of Duryodhana. Once it had shone like the palace of Indra, adorned with jewels and garlands, its halls ringing with music and command. Now it stood forlorn—its silks torn, its lamps extinguished—like an arena after the crowds have gone, or a city whose festival has died, or a lake emptied of its elephants. Within remained only aged counsellors, attendants, and the pale-faced women of the royal household, their wails trembling through the vast and hollow court.
The sons of Pāṇḍu dismounted. Then Keśava, ever mindful of what was pure and fitting, said to Arjuna:
“Lay down thy Gāṇḍīva, O Pārtha,
and the twin quivers that know no exhaustion.
Descend first, O sinless one; I shall follow thee.
This is for thy good, O best of the Bhāratas.”
Obedient, Dhanañjaya alighted. Then Kṛṣṇa, relinquishing the reins, stepped down from the chariot. The moment his divine feet touched the ground, the celestial banner of the great Ape vanished into air. And lo—without spark or flame, the car of Arjuna burst into fire! Its golden yoke, its steeds, its shafts and wheels, all flared and sank into ashes, as though the sky itself had claimed its due.
The sons of Pāṇḍu stood astonished. With folded hands and reverence, Arjuna bowed to Kṛṣṇa and said:
“O Govinda, what wonder is this?
Before our very eyes my car is consumed!
Why hath it burned, O mighty-armed one?
If it be not sinful for me to hear, tell me the cause.”
Smiling gently, Vāsudeva replied:
“That chariot, O Arjuna, had long been scorched by the fire of divine weapons. Only my presence held it together in battle. Now that thy task is accomplished and I have left it, the energy of those brahma-missiles hath reclaimed it. Behold, its destiny fulfilled.”
Then, turning with quiet pride, Keśava embraced Yudhiṣṭhira and said:
“By good fortune, O son of Kuntī, thou hast won the earth!
By good fortune thy foes are fallen,
and ye—Bhīma, Arjuna, and the sons of Mādrī—have crossed the sea of death.
Now do what befits a ruler restored.
Remember, O king, how at Upaplavya thou didst welcome me,
offering honey and words of trust, saying,
‘Protect Dhanañjaya, O Kṛṣṇa, my brother and my friend.’
I gave thee my word—so have I done.
Thy victory is secured, and thy heroes live.”
Yudhiṣṭhira, with tears bright upon his lashes, bowed low and said:
“O Keśava, who but thou—even Śakra himself—
could have withstood the weapons of Droṇa and Karṇa?
Through thy grace the Sāṃsaptakas were broken,
through thy grace Arjuna never turned away,
through thy grace we have crossed this dark flood of sorrow.
Truly did Vyāsa speak:
Where Kṛṣṇa is, there is dharma;
and where dharma is, there is victory.”
Thus speaking, they entered the fallen camp of the Kurus and claimed its treasures—chests of gold and silver, pearls and gems, ornaments and silken robes, ivory, skins, and rich brocades, servants and steeds, elephants and chariots. The wealth of many kings lay before them, bright and terrible, gleaming in the dim light of the slain.
Having unyoked their steeds, they rested a while in silence, gazing upon the ashes of the day. Then Kṛṣṇa said:
“Let us not remain within the camp this night.
After great slaughter, purity must first be observed.
Let us keep vigil beneath the open sky.”
They consented. Taking Sātyaki with them, the five brothers followed Kṛṣṇa to the banks of the holy Oghavatī. There, beneath the tranquil stars, they lay upon the earth, victors without joy, their hearts still echoing with the sounds of battle.
When the dawn was pale upon the horizon, Keśava harnessed his horses once more. Mounting his radiant chariot drawn by Shaibya and Sugrīva, he prepared to depart. Then the sons of Pāṇḍu said to him:
“Go, O Mādhava, to Hastināpura.
Comfort the sorrowing Gāndhārī,
the mother who has lost her sons.”
Thus bidden, the Lord of the Yādavas bowed and sped northward through the quiet morning, his golden car cutting across the blood-stained plain. Toward Hastināpura he went, where the blind king and the widowed queen waited in grief— and destiny’s last meeting was yet to come.
Sañjaya said:
Hear, O King, how thy son, the proud Duryodhana, spoke when destiny laid him low.
Struck down, his thighs shattered, his body covered with dust, the Kuru monarch lay upon the earth like a broken banner after the storm. His long hair, loosened and matted with soil, he gathered slowly with trembling hands. His breath came heavy and hot, hissing like a wounded serpent’s. Wrath and anguish burned within him, and tears—born of pain and pride alike—fell thick upon the ground. For a while he smote the earth with his fists like an enraged elephant, gnashing his teeth, his eyes flashing red. Then, shaking his locks and drawing long breaths, he spoke to me in a voice broken by both fury and despair:
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“Alas, O Sañjaya, I—who once had Bhīṣma, the son of Śāntanu, as my protector, and Karṇa, foremost among bowmen, and Droṇa, master of celestial arms, and the wise Śakuni, and Aśvatthāmā, and mighty Śalya, and Kṛtavarmā— I, who ruled eleven divisions of troops, am now cast upon the earth, my limbs shattered by Bhīmasena’s treachery! Truly, none may rise against Time.
Tell those who yet live among my followers that I was struck down
by foul play—by the blow of Bhīma’s mace below the navel!
Unrighteous were the acts that slew Bhūriśravā, Bhīṣma, and Droṇa;
and now another stain is added—
this cruel and lawless act against me.
The world shall condemn these sons of Pāṇḍu!
What joy can dwell in a victory won by deceit?
What wise man takes pride in triumph born of sin?
The son of Pāṇḍu, blinded by wrath,
has trampled my head beneath his foot—
me, who once shone with glory, surrounded by friends and kings!
Tell me, Sañjaya, is such conduct worthy of honour or of shame?”
Then, sighing deeply, he gazed eastward and spoke again—his words now calm, solemn, and touched with pride:
“Go to my father, Dhṛtarāṣṭra, and my mother, Gāndhārī,
and speak these words for their comfort:
‘I have lived a king’s life. I performed sacrifices and upheld the law, rewarded my servants, and ruled the earth with her seas. I conquered foes and stood over their heads. I gave wealth to my kin and favours to my friends. I protected those who sought refuge, honoured my elders, and cherished my dependents. I pursued the threefold aim—dharma, artha, and kāma— and I have known joy in them all. I rode steeds of the finest breed, I studied the Vedas and gave gifts without measure. My life has been full of splendour, and I go now to the realm of heroes.’
Fortunate am I, for I was never vanquished in servitude, nor bowed to the command of an enemy. My prosperity departs only with my life— not before.
Blessed indeed is the death that comes upon a kṣatriya
while lying upon the field of Samantapañcaka,
the sacred earth of sacrifice and battle.
I have not fallen by cowardice or deceit of my own;
if deceit there was, it was theirs.
My slaughter, like the slaying of one asleep or poisoned,
shall bear its fruit upon them.
Say to Aśvatthāmā, Kṛtavarmā, and Kṛpa:
“Trust not the sons of Pāṇḍu!
They are breakers of vows and violators of law!”
Tell them, too, that I, Duryodhana, slain unrighteously by Bhīma,
follow now my friends—Droṇa and Karṇa and Śalya,
the gallant Vṛṣasena, the wily Śakuni,
the mighty Bhagadatta and Somadatta’s son,
Jayadratha of Sindhu,
my brothers headed by Duḥśāsana,
and my son Lakṣmaṇa—
all heroes fallen for my sake.’”
Then his voice trembled as he remembered the women of his house:
“Alas, how shall my sister live, widowed and bereft of her brothers?
How shall my old father endure this blow,
blind and surrounded by lamenting queens?
The mother of my son Lakṣmaṇa,
robbed of both husband and child,
will surely follow me into death.
If the learned ascetic Cārvāka, the master of speech,
hears of my fall, he will avenge it, I know.
Yet I rejoice in one thing—
I die upon the sacred soil of Samantapañcaka,
and by that death I shall win celestial realms.”
Having uttered these words, Duryodhana sank back upon the blood-stained ground. His attendants and warriors, hearing his lament, fled weeping in all directions. The very earth shuddered; the forests trembled; the seas moaned, and the quarters grew dark as smoke.
Messengers went swiftly to the camp of Droṇa’s son, bearing tidings of what had passed—the unlawful blow, the fall of the king, and his last words. Hearing all, Aśvatthāmā, Kṛtavarmā, and Kṛpa sat long in silence, their faces clouded with grief and wrath. Then, heavy at heart, they departed, each nursing his sorrow like a hidden fire.
Thus ended the last lament of Duryodhana—the proud son of Gāndhārī,
fallen not by fear but by fate,
his glory broken, yet his pride unbent.
Sañjaya said:
When the messengers brought tidings of Duryodhana’s fall, the three mighty survivors of the Kaurava host—Aśvatthāmā, Kṛpa, and Kṛtavarmā of the Sātvata race—came swiftly on their steeds, wounded, weary, yet burning with grief and wrath. The field of Kurukṣetra lay silent beneath the pale light of dusk, strewn with the slain, echoing faintly with the cries of carrion birds.
There, upon the blood-soaked earth, they beheld the son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra. Like a great śāla tree torn from the roots by the storm, he lay fallen, his golden armour dark with dust, his limbs bathed in blood. His mighty arms—once the terror of foes—were stretched helpless beside him. His breath came in fierce gasps; his brows were furrowed with pain and rage; his eyes rolled like those of a wounded lion still seeking its slayer. Around him gathered vultures, wolves, and other dread beasts, drawn by the scent of blood, like greedy dependants once drawn by the scent of his wealth.
Seeing him thus—Duryodhana, lord of eleven divisions, the proud king who had once ruled the world—those warriors were struck dumb with sorrow. They leapt from their chariots and ran to his side. Sitting upon the ground, they surrounded him like disciples about a fallen master.
Then Aśvatthāmā, son of Droṇa, spoke, his eyes red and wet with tears, his breath hissing through his teeth like that of a serpent:
“O King, truly nothing in this world endures.
Behold thee—once the lord of all the earth—
lying alone upon the dust, thy splendour darkened!
Where now are Duḥśāsana and Karṇa,
the friends who fought by thy side?
Where are the thousands of thy kings and allies?
Thou who didst lead the Kṣatriyas crowned with sacred waters—
behold, thou art laid low, thy diadem in the dust!
Where is thy white umbrella? Where are the yak-tail fans
that once waved above thee like clouds above the sun?
Where is thy army, O lord of men?
The wheel of Time hath turned its face—
prosperity is but a mirage, fleeting as foam upon the wave.
Even thou, who wert like Indra among kings,
liest now abandoned upon the ground!”
Hearing his lament, Duryodhana slowly raised his head. Wiping his tears with trembling fingers, he spoke to them in a faint yet steady voice:
“This is the decree of the Creator, O warriors—
that every being must perish in its appointed hour.
Death comes to all, and death hath come to me.
I, who ruled the earth, am now overthrown.
Yet by good fortune I never turned back from battle;
by good fortune I fall not in flight, but facing my foes.
By good fortune I die upon the field,
surrounded by my kin and comrades slain.
Behold me, O friends, and grieve not.
Ye have done all that loyalty demanded;
destiny alone hath conquered us.
Know this for certain:
none may escape the will of Time.
I bear no hatred to Kṛṣṇa, for I know His greatness.
He hath not swerved me from my kṣatriya’s path.
Let none weep for me—I go where heroes go.”
When he had spoken thus, his voice faltered, and tears once more flowed down his dust-stained face. The sight of their dying king, torn by pain yet proud in spirit, ignited a terrible flame in Aśvatthāmā’s heart. His eyes blazed like coals, and his voice broke with fury:
“My father was slain by deceit—by a cruel trick of war!
Yet that wrong burns me not so fiercely
as seeing thee, O King, cast down thus.
Hear me, O ruler of men, I swear by my truth,
by my gifts and my penances, by all my merit and faith—
before the eyes of Keśava Himself,
I shall this night send the Pāñcālas to Yama’s abode!
Only command me, O King!”
At these words, the dying Duryodhana’s eyes brightened, and his lips curved in a faint smile. Turning to Kṛpa, he said hoarsely:
“Bring me, O Brāhmaṇa, a vessel of water—quickly!”
Obedient, the wise son of Śaradvat fetched a pot brimming with clear water and stood before him. Then Duryodhana said:
“If thou wouldst do me this last kindness,
let Droṇa’s son be made commander of what remains.
Even a Brāhmaṇa may wield arms at a king’s command,
when the cause is righteous and the foe accursed.”
Hearing these words, Kṛpa poured the sanctified water upon Aśvatthāmā’s hands, installing him as general of the Kaurava host. The rite completed, Aśvatthāmā bent low, embraced his fallen lord, and rose, his wrath consuming him like fire.
Then, uttering a roar that shook the darkened field, he mounted his chariot. The ten directions echoed with his cry—a sound like that of Rudra himself loosed in wrath.
And there, upon the cold ground of Kurukṣetra, lay Duryodhana—his body crimson with blood, his breath shallow, his spirit hovering between worlds. The night descended, dreadful and vast, wrapping the slain in shadow. Aśvatthāmā, Kṛpa, and Kṛtavarmā, their hearts scorched by grief, rode away swiftly into the gloom—
pondering vengeance, and the terrible destiny yet to unfold.
Thus ended the Śalya Parva, the eighteenth book of the Mahābhārata,
wherein is told the fall of mighty kings, the slaying of Śalya, the duel of maces between Bhīma and Duryodhana, and the final breaking of the Kaurava pride.
In this Parva are described the last battles of the Great War—
the despair of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, the wrath of Baladeva,
the lament of Duryodhana upon the dust of Kurukṣetra,
and the oath of Aśvatthāmā that was to darken the night that followed.
He who listens to this sacred narration
is freed from hatred, pride, and envy,
and learns that victory and defeat alike
are but toys in the hands of Time.
Thus ends the Śalya Parva—
the Book of the Charioteer King—
in the Great Epic of the Bharatas.