novelraw Arc 4 - Sauptika Parva - Chapter 3 - The Slain Conquerors
Arc 4 - Sauptika Parva - Chapter 3 - The Slain Conquerors
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said: “Why did not the son of Droṇa accomplish such a deed earlier, when he strove to secure victory for Duryodhana? Why only after the wretched king was slain?”
Sañjaya said: “He dared not, for the Pārthas stood awake, and Keśava, and Sātyaki. In their presence—not even Indra could prevail. It was the absence of those lion-hearted ones, and the sleep that bound the rest, that gave him this opening. So the three—Aśvatthāmā, Kṛpa, and Kṛtavarmā—having wrought a vast slaughter, met and cried ‘Good fortune!’ They embraced the preceptor’s son. And he, exultant, said, ‘The Pañcālas lie dead, the sons of Draupadī are fallen, the Somakas and the remnant of the Matsyas—slain by my hand. Let us hasten to the king. If he yet lives, this news will be our gift to him.’”
Sañjaya said: Having slain the Pañcālas and the sons of Draupadī, the three Kuru heroes came to where Duryodhana lay. Life had not wholly fled him. He lay with thighs broken, vomiting blood at whiles, eyes cast down, teeth clenched against the pain. Around him, wolves and hyenas, grim-faced and patient, watched from the dark; with failing hands he kept them off. Seeing him thus, Aśvatthāma, Kṛpa, and Kṛtavarmā—last embers of his host—sat about him in grief, like a sacrifice ringed by three fires.
Time, that turns the proud to dust, had laid him low;
The mace of gold lay faithful by his side.
Kings once bowed, the earth now pillowed his head—
And hungry beasts kept vigil for their share.
Kṛpa wiped the blood from the king’s face and wept. “Nothing is difficult for Destiny. He who led eleven akṣauhiṇīs lies on bare earth. Behold the golden mace—never faithless in battle—still at thy hand, like a loving wife beside her lord. Thou who didst strike down many to the dust art thyself struck down; thou to whom kings bowed, now ringed by beasts of prey. Brāhmaṇas once stood at thy door for gifts; today, flesh-eaters wait for a feast.”
Aśvatthāma’s lament followed, hot with wrath. “O tiger among kings, men named thee foremost with bow and mace; even Rāma of the Vṛṣṇis proclaimed thee his worthy pupil. How, then, could Bhīma mark a lapse? Time is heavier than all—Bhīmasena broke thy thighs in a ‘fair’ summons to fight. Fie on Yudhiṣṭhira who saw a fallen head touched by a foot and bore it! Warriors will reproach Vṛkodara while the world lasts. Yet thou hast a kṣatriya’s end—face to the foe. I grieve for Gandhārī and the blind king, left childless to wander. Fie on Kṛṣṇa and on Arjuna, who speak of dharma, yet watched while thou wert slain. Where now shall we go, who prospered by thy grace—who filled our houses, honoured the twice-born, and made great gifts because of thee?”
He bent close to the fainting king. “If breath yet stirs, hear what heals thy heart. On the Pāṇḍava side seven live—the five brothers, Keśava, and Sātyaki. On ours, three—myself, Kṛpa, and Kṛtavarmā. The sons of Draupadī are fallen; Dṛṣṭadyumna’s line is ended; Pañcālas and Matsyas—what remained—lie slain. I struck Dṛṣṭadyumna at night, as a beast is struck.”
At those words, sweet as cool water to a parched mouth, Duryodhana’s senses rallied. “What neither Gāṅgeya nor Karṇa nor thy sire could achieve, thou hast done—Dṛṣṭadyumna and Śikhaṇḍin are fallen. I am as Maghavan in my delight. Blessings upon you. Prosper, and meet me again in heaven.”
He fell silent then. Casting off sorrow for kin and friends, he let go the life-breath. His soul went upward to the bright path; his body alone remained. So ended Duryodhana—who kindled the war and at last was consumed by it. The three embraced him many times and looked long upon his face; then they climbed to their cars.
O King, I heard Aśvatthāma’s lament and turned my chariot at dawn toward the city. Thus the armies of Kauravas and Pāṇḍavas were broken. Great and terrible was the slaughter—born of thy crooked policy.
The night had taken her due, the day unveiled the ash;
Where banners walked, the wind knew only shreds.
Fate wrote its lesson across the blood-dark ground,
And grief, like smoke, went up from every house.
Vaiśampāyana continued: Hearing of his son’s death, Dhṛtarāṣṭra heaved long, burning sighs, and sank into anxious silence.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When the black night had passed and the pale dawn returned, the charioteer of Dṛṣṭadyumna came before King Yudhiṣṭhira. His face was ashen, his garments torn, his voice trembling as he spoke.
“O King,” he said, “the sons of Draupadī are slain—together with all the children of Drupada. In their sleep, trusting in victory, they were struck down. During the night, the cruel Aśvatthāmā, with Kṛpa and Kṛtavarmā, entered thy camp and made it a field of death. Men, elephants, steeds—all were hewn down by darts and lances, by axes and maces. The whole host, O monarch, was consumed like a forest felled by axes. I alone have escaped, fleeing while Kritavarmā turned his wrath elsewhere. I am the last remnant of thy great army.”
At these words, Yudhiṣṭhira, who had borne all the blows of war without flinching, fell senseless to the ground. His brothers and companions rushed forward—Sātyaki caught him in his arms; Bhīma and Arjuna bent over him; Nakula and Sahadeva wept beside him. When at last the son of Dharma opened his eyes, his voice came low and broken:
“Alas! having conquered, we are conquered again. Who can grasp the play of Fate? The vanquished rise victorious, the victors fall. We slew brothers and friends and sires and sons, for the sake of those now dead by heedlessness. Our triumph has turned to ashes. This victory is defeat. For whom did we commit this sin of kin-slaying? They have fallen to the very hands of the defeated.
“Through heedlessness have they perished—those who escaped even Karṇa, whose arrows were his teeth and sword his tongue, whose bow roared like thunder, whose heart was a storm of wrath. Those princes who crossed the ocean of Droṇa—where elephants were alligators, arrows were waves, and the twang of the bow was the tide’s roar—have been drowned at last in a shallow stream of sleep.
“Ah, heedlessness!—there is no deadlier snare. Prosperity forsakes the heedless; calamity clings to him like his own shadow. Behold! even those who endured the fire of Bhīṣma’s wrath have been consumed by carelessness. Indra won heaven through watchfulness; we, through negligence, have lost even earth. The sons of kings—each a lion—are slain like merchants who, after crossing the ocean, perish in a ford.
“And Kṛṣṇā—O my heart—what will become of her? She who lost her father and brothers in the war, whose sons have now been cut down, will fall into a sea of grief. Her fair limbs will waste away with sorrow. She will sink, I know, upon the ground and never rise again. For her, joy is ended forever.”
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Thus lamenting, Yudhiṣṭhira spoke to Nakula: “Go, bring Draupadī hither with the women of the Pāñcāla house.” Obedient, Nakula mounted his chariot and hastened to the quarters where the princess dwelt among her kin.
Yudhiṣṭhira himself, tears streaming down his face, went out with his brothers and friends to the field that had once blazed with banners. There he beheld his sons and his companions—heads sundered, bodies mangled, blood staining the earth. Ravens and jackals cried above them, vultures wheeled through the air. Seeing that dreadful sight, the king of righteousness uttered a cry and fell upon the ground like a tree struck by lightning. His brothers and followers sank down beside him, and the field of Kurukṣetra, which had heard the roars of battle, now echoed only with the weeping of the victors.
Thus ended that night—the last darkness of the war—
When triumph turned to dust and joy to mourning.
The sons of Dharma, crowned with ruin, stood upon a silent plain;
And the morning light fell cold upon the dead.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When King Yudhiṣṭhira beheld his sons, grandsons, and friends strewn lifeless upon the field, his spirit sank beneath a weight of sorrow too heavy to bear. His mind wandered back to each familiar face—each child and kinsman slain. Tears flooded his eyes, his limbs trembled, and he fell senseless to the ground while his companions, hearts trembling with grief, tried in vain to console him.
Then Nakula came swiftly, his chariot radiant like the sun. Beside him sat the princess Kṛṣṇā—Draupadī—her form quivering like a plantain stem in the wind. The news of her sons’ slaughter had reached her at Upaplavya, and grief had consumed her strength. Her lotus-like eyes were dimmed, her face shadowed as if the very Sun were shrouded in cloud. When she saw Yudhiṣṭhira, she sank upon the earth, struck down by anguish.
The mighty Vṛkodara, Bhīma, hastened to her. Lifting her gently in his arms, he tried to comfort her. But her voice, torn with sorrow, broke forth in bitter lament:
“By fortune, O King, thou hast won the earth entire—and by misfortune thou shalt enjoy her alone, thy sons lying dead upon the field. By fortune, thy mind knows no torment for Subhadrā’s son, who walked like a lion cub upon the earth. By fortune, thy thoughts do not dwell on my sons—those heroes who upheld the kṣatriya’s vow and died in their sleep. But I—remembering their faces, hearing of their slaughter by Droṇa’s sinful son—burn as if set in a raging fire.
“If Aśvatthāmā, that wicked wretch, be not slain for this deed—if ye, O sons of Pṛthā, do not strike him down and all his followers—then hear me now: I will sit upon the earth in prāya until death takes me!”
So speaking, the daughter of Yajñasena sat beside Yudhiṣṭhira, her eyes fixed upon the ground in terrible resolve.
The king, noble and steadfast, addressed her in sorrow:
“O auspicious lady, thou knowest the path of righteousness. All thy sons and brothers have fallen as true kṣatriyas, facing their fate. Grieve not, for they have reached a warrior’s heaven. As for Droṇa’s son, he hath fled far into the forest. How canst thou be sure of his fall?”
Draupadī, her voice steady despite her tears, replied:
“I have heard that Droṇa’s son was born with a jewel upon his head. When that gem, torn from him after his death, is brought before me, then, and then only, will I endure to live. Place it upon thy brow, O King, and I shall find peace.”
Having spoken thus to Yudhiṣṭhira, the sorrowing queen turned to Bhīmasena. Her eyes, though veiled with tears, shone with the fire of vengeance:
“O Bhīma, remember the law of thy order. Slay that man of sin as Indra slew Śambara. None in this world equals thee in might. Was it not thou who became our refuge at Vāraṇāvata when death hemmed us in? Was it not thou who struck down Hiḍimba and freed us from peril? And in Virāṭa’s city, when my honour trembled in the balance, was it not thou who rescued me? As thou didst then, O Partha, rescue me now—destroy Droṇa’s son and bring me peace!”
Hearing her words, heavy with grief and wrath, Bhīmasena’s heart blazed like dry wood touched by flame. He could endure no more. Springing to his chariot adorned with gold, he grasped his great bow, the string already drawn and the arrow set. “Nakula,” he said, “take the reins.”
The horses, eager and swift as the wind, leapt forward. Their hooves struck sparks from the earth as Bhīma, invincible and wrathful, sped from the camp—following the trail of Aśvatthāmā’s wheels, his bow stretched to the limit, his heart set upon vengeance.
Thus the avenger went forth, like Rudra in wrath,
The dust of his chariot rising like smoke from a pyre,
While Draupadī, her tears unspent,
Watched him vanish into the burning dawn.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When Bhīmasena, in wrath and grief, had gone forth alone, Keśava of the Yādavas, lotus-eyed and radiant as the morning sun, turned to Yudhiṣṭhira and spoke with grave urgency:
“O son of Pāṇḍu, thy brother, blinded by sorrow for his sons, rushes forth unguarded toward Aśvatthāmā, burning to avenge the slaughter. Bhīma is dearest to thee among thy brothers; why dost thou sit still, seeing him stride into peril? Know, O Bharata, that Droṇa, the subduer of cities, once imparted to his son the dread weapon called Brahmaśiras—a power that can consume the world itself.
That illustrious preceptor, foremost among bowmen, taught the same weapon to Dhanañjaya also, out of love and delight for him. When his son begged it of him, the sage, unwilling, yielded at last—but not without warning. He said to Aśvatthāmā: ‘Even in the direst danger, my son, never use this weapon against mankind. Use it not in wrath, lest it consume creation.’ Thus did Droṇa, master of duty, restrain his impetuous child. But perceiving the darkness in that youth’s heart, he added again, ‘O bull among men, I see thou wilt not walk the path of righteousness.’
Hearing those words, the proud and restless son wandered in bitterness over the earth, scorning peace or restraint.
In those days, O King, while ye dwelt in the forest, that same Aśvatthāmā came to Dvārakā and took shelter among the Vṛṣṇis. One day he sought me out, coming alone to the seashore when I too was alone. Smiling faintly, he said:
‘O Kṛṣṇa, the weapon called Brahmaśiras, revered by gods and Gandharvas, my father’s own, given him by Agastya after long austerities—that weapon is now mine, even as it was his. In return for it, grant me thy discus, O Dāśārha, that wheel which slays all foes.’
He stood before me, palms joined, begging earnestly for my Sudarśana. Desiring to test him, I said:
‘None among gods, Dānavas, men, or serpents equals a hundredth of my might. Yet take thy choice—here are my bow, my dart, my mace, and this discus. Choose one, if thou canst wield it.’
At this, Droṇa’s son, bold with pride, stepped forward and grasped my discus—its thousand spokes gleaming like lightning, its rim hard as thunder. With his left hand he strained to lift it, but it stirred not. Then, setting both hands upon it, he heaved with all his strength; still it moved no more than a mountain’s root. Spent and trembling, he stood abashed.
When at last he ceased, I spoke to him gently:
‘That foremost of men, the wielder of Gāṇḍīva with white steeds to his car, whose banner bears the ape of Indra—he who once challenged the blue-throated Lord himself to combat and won Śaṅkara’s grace—that Pārtha, my dearest friend, for whom there is nothing I would not give, never asked me what thou hast dared to ask.
‘My son Pradyumna, born of Rukmiṇī after twelve years of penance on Himavat, a portion of Sanatkumāra himself—he too never sought this discus. Nor Rāma of the plough, nor Sāmba, nor Gada, nor any of the Vṛṣṇis or Andhakas ever asked it of me. Tell me, O preceptor’s son, against whom wouldst thou wield such a weapon?’
Aśvatthāmā answered darkly, ‘After worshipping thee, O Keśava, I meant to fight thee! It was for this I craved the discus adored by gods and demons. Had I gained it, I would have been invincible. Since I have failed, speak kindly to me before I depart. That dread weapon rests rightly with thee, for none else in all the worlds can bear it.’
So saying, he took away horses, wealth, and jewels and departed from Dvārakā, wrathful and restless of heart.
Therefore, O King, I tell thee—guard Vṛkodara well. Aśvatthāmā, the wicked-souled, knows the weapon that scorches even the heavens. If wrath should seize him again, he may let loose the Brahmaśiras, and no being in this world could survive its flame.”
Thus spoke Keśava, his voice calm yet edged with warning,
And the dawn light fell pale upon the field of death—
Where grief was king, and vengeance rode forth unbridled,
While fate stood silent, watching its own design unfold.