novelraw Arc 5 - Sambhava - Chapter 20 - Svayaṁvara in Kasi
Arc 5 - Sambhava - Chapter 20 - Svayaṁvara in Kasi
Vaiśampāyana continued:
O monarch, after the sacred nuptials were complete, the mighty King Śāntanu installed his fragrant bride Satyavatī—radiant in virtue and divine in destiny—within the royal palace at Hastināpura.
From their union was born a son—noble, valiant, and gifted with piercing intellect. They named him Citrāṅgada, a youth of heroic bearing and great energy, who shone like a blazing fire among princes.
Not long after, another son was born to them, whom they named Vichitravīrya—a boy with strong arms and the makings of a mighty bowman. His fate, however, would be shaped not by battle but by lineage and loss.
But Time, who bows before none,
Laid its shadow upon Śāntanu.
And the noble king, having fulfilled his earthly tasks,
Departed to the heavenly realms, borne by merit and dharma.
After Śāntanu’s ascent, the kingdom stood in grief.
Then Bhīṣma, ever steadfast and obedient to dharma and to the will of Satyavatī, took up the mantle of protector and guide. He installed Citrāṅgada, the elder prince and vanquisher of foes, upon the throne of the Kurus.
Citrāṅgada soon proved his mettle. With the fire of a Kṣatriya and the arrogance of a lion, he subdued kings and claimed dominion across the earth.
No mortal dared face his bow,
No warrior matched his stride.
He struck like Indra, ruled like Yama,
And walked with the pride of one unconquered.
But as destiny would have it, word of his conquests reached a namesake—Citrāṅgada, lord of the Gandharvas, proud and peerless among the celestial hosts.
Wishing to test the measure of this mortal king who bore his name, the Gandharva challenged him to combat.
On the sacred field of Kurukṣetra,
Where fate often gathers its threads,
There raged a fierce duel between god and man—
A war of strength, illusion, and will.
For three full years, on the banks of the Sarasvatī, they battled—flooding the skies with arrows, shaking the earth with blows.
But at last, the Gandharva, skilled in celestial arts and deceptive warcraft, slew the Kuru prince.
Thus fell Citrāṅgada, tiger among men,
Cut down not by mortal hands,
But by fate in a Gandharva’s form.
Then Bhīṣma, though heart-struck with grief, performed the obsequies of his brother with sacred rites and unwavering calm. For such is the path of dharma: to act without despair.
He then placed the young Vichitravīrya, still a boy, upon the throne of the Kurus, and ruled the kingdom in his name. The child-king, devoted and gentle, submitted himself wholly to Bhīṣma’s guidance, like a flame protected by a mountain.
And Bhīṣma, son of Gaṅgā,
Upholder of laws, guardian of truth,
Ruled in his brother’s stead—
A regent born not of ambition,
But of vow, and sacrifice, and faith.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
O descendant of the Kurūs, after the death of Citrāṅgada, and with Vichitravīrya still in tender years, the great Bhīṣma ruled the realm with unwavering devotion—ever under the guidance of Satyavatī, his mother by vow.
Years passed.
When Vichitravīrya, the young scion of the Kuru race, came of age—a prince bright with promise and royal stature—Bhīṣma turned his heart to the next sacred duty: his brother’s marriage.
At that time, word reached Hastināpura: the king of Kāśī was preparing a grand svayaṁvara for his three daughters—Ambā, Ambikā, and Ambālikā—maidens of matchless beauty, each said to rival the Apsaras in grace.
The kingdoms stirred with thunderous drums,
For princes and kings had begun to arrive,
To stake their honor and win a bride
By valor, wealth, or destiny’s tide.
At the behest of Satyavatī, the mighty Bhīṣma, ever loyal to dharma and the house of Kurus, mounted his chariot alone. Like a lion among men, he departed toward Vārāṇasī, the sacred city by the Ganges.
There, in the great assembly, he beheld a sea of monarchs—arrayed in silks and armor, their eyes set on the daughters of Kāśī.
And there too stood the three maidens, gleaming like moonlight, waiting to choose their husbands by gaze and garland.
But Bhīṣma, tiger among men and thunderbolt among warriors, rose from the midst of that host with unshaken might. He did not wait for garlands, nor for contest.
With arms like steel and heart like flame,
He took the reins and called each name—
And then he seized the maidens three,
As rivers seized by destiny.
He placed them upon his chariot—swift as wind, resplendent as fire—and turned to the assembled kings, whose faces darkened with wrath.
Then, in a voice deep and resonant like the drum of heaven, he proclaimed:
“The wise have declared:
When an accomplished one has been invited,
A maiden may be bestowed upon him—
Clad in jewels and with noble gifts.
Others may bestow their daughters
For the worth of a single cow.
I, Bhīṣma, son of Śāntanu,
Have come here not for sport,
But for the sake of my brother,
To choose brides for the house of Kuru.
Let any who dares oppose me
Step forth and prove his right—
Not by words, but by the bow.”
Then, standing tall upon his chariot, bow in hand and gaze unshaken, Bhīṣma, the son of Gaṅgā, addressed the enraged monarchs and the king of Kāśī in a voice that echoed like a storm:
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“O kings! Hear what the sages have taught from time immemorial.
Eight forms of marriage are sanctioned in the śāstras.
The first four, praised by Brāhmaṇas and upheld in the Vedas, are sacred and virtuous:
Brāhma Vivāha – When a maiden is gifted to a worthy groom of noble conduct, without expectation, after adorning her with ornaments and inviting him respectfully.
Daiva Vivāha – When a daughter is gifted to a priest during a yajña, as part of the sacrificial fee.
Ārṣa Vivāha – When the bride is given in exchange for a symbolic gift, such as a pair of cattle—out of reverence, not price.
Prājāpatya Vivāha – When the bride’s father gives her away with a formal blessing, saying, “May you both perform your duties together.”
These are pure and righteous, extolled in the śāstras and honored among virtuous men.
The next two, though common among Kṣatriyas, are valorous and accepted in warrior law:
Gandharva Vivāha – A union born of mutual desire, where man and woman join in secret or public consent, without formal rites.
Rākṣasa Vivāha – When a warrior forcibly carries off a maiden from the midst of her svayaṁvara after defeating or slaying the opposing suitors. This form, though violent, is permitted for Kṣatriyas when performed with honor.
Know, O kings, that I have chosen the Rākṣasa way—
Not out of lust or pride, but for my brother, and for the dharma of our house.
Then come the last two, condemned by the wise and never sanctioned by dharma:
Asura Vivāha – When the bride is purchased with wealth, as if she were an object of trade.
Piśāca Vivāha – The most despicable form, where a maiden is taken in secret, often while she sleeps or is intoxicated, without her knowledge or consent.
These two—Asura and Piśāca—are never to be practiced.
They bring ruin upon families and sin upon the soul.
Thus do the learned describe the eight forms. Of these, I follow the one anciently ordained for Kṣatriyas—
to seize the bride by valor, in the face of rivals.
Therefore, I bear these maidens away by force,
As per the dharma of kings and heroes.
Let any among you, O lords of Earth,
Who deem themselves worthy,
Stand forth now to fight—
Or forever hold your peace beneath my wheels.”
The wind howled in answer,
The sky grew dark with wrath.
Bhīṣma’s chariot roared like a storm,
Bearing the three radiant maidens—Ambā, Ambikā, and Ambālikā—
Like lightning bound in gold.
With them seated beside him, their hearts a tempest of fear and fate, Bhīṣma turned his chariot and sped away from Vārāṇasī, casting behind him a voice that struck like a war-drum:
“Strive now, O kings, to defeat me—
Or be remembered in silence.”
And the assembled monarchs, their pride stung and honor provoked, rose like waves behind him. Horses were yoked, drums were beaten, and conches rang across the field.
The chase had begun.
Bhīṣma’s chariot flew like a hawk,
But behind him surged a sea of wrath—
For love, for vengeance, for pride.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
O Janamejaya, when the mighty monarchs heard Bhīṣma's thundering challenge and saw the three daughters of Kāśī borne away like stars vanishing into cloud, they rose as one, aflame with wrath.
They slapped their arms, bit their lips,
And their eyes burned red with fury.
Like lions provoked from slumber,
They shook off their ornaments and shouted aloud,
Their voices echoing like crashing waves.
At once, their charioteers raced forward—bringing forth dazzling chariots with steeds white as moonlight or black as the storm. Armor clashed and flashed like meteors streaking the sky, as the warriors mounted their cars, hearts pounding with the call to battle.
Bows were strung, swords belted,
Quivers filled with death.
They were the lords of earth,
But they moved like gods in anger.
With their armies behind them and banners whipping in the wind, they pursued Bhīṣma, the lone Kuru prince—who bore the maidens with calm resolve, his banner aloft like a flame in the storm.
Then broke forth a battle that shook the sky:
One against many, the field a sea—
Ten thousand arrows loosed at once
Against the one who bore a vow
Mightier than a hundred hosts.
But Bhīṣma, son of Gaṅgā, unshaken and radiant with celestial splendor, met that storm not with retreat—but with a storm of his own.
His arrows fell like autumn rain,
Swift, innumerable, fine as down.
Before the torrent of kings reached him,
He had shattered their shafts in air.
The warriors closed in from every side—encircling him like storm-clouds surrounding a mountain of iron.
But Bhīṣma stood,
And with three sharp arrows
Pierced the heart of every king before him.
He was alone, yet the field echoed with the cry of many—
For his fury moved like Indra’s thunderbolt.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Then the gathered kings, their pride inflamed, loosed their arrows like a river unleashed. Each one struck Bhīṣma with five fierce shafts, tipped in poison, born of wrath.
But Bhīṣma, the unconquerable, parried their assault with swift skill and countered each king with two arrows—sharp, precise, and burning with silent fury.
The field roared with thunder and steel.
Missiles flew like rain from broken skies.
Yet Bhīṣma stood, calm amid chaos,
A storm within the storm.
So fierce became the clash, so dense the hail of arrows, so bright the gleam of whirling steel, that men who watched from afar trembled—as though witnessing the war of gods and asuras reborn upon Earth.
Arms were hewn, heads were split,
Armor shattered like clay in fire.
Bows snapped, banners fell,
And the ground was strewn with the fallen.
Bhīṣma, son of Gaṅgā, moved with the grace of lightning and the wrath of a lion. With his chariot circling like the wheel of Time, he cut down hundreds, even thousands, of flags, shields, and crowns.
Such was his art, such his divine swiftness,
That even his foes cried aloud:
“Behold the terrible one!
He is not a man—but something more.”
Though the kings came in pride and rage, they left in silence and awe. For none could match Bhīṣma, the son of the vow, the slayer of pride, and protector of the Kuru line.
Having vanquished the host of kings, he turned not to boast or gloat, but sped his chariot toward Hastināpura, the three maidens beside him—Ambā, Ambikā, and Ambālikā—silent as stars carried by the wind.
The wheels of his chariot sang his victory,
But his heart beat only for duty.
For he had fought not for conquest,
But for Vichitravīrya’s crown,
And for the dharma of the house of Bharata.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
O King, as Bhīṣma, son of Śāntanu, rode victorious with the maidens of Kāśī beside him, the earth still echoing with the cries of defeated kings, there arose one last roar in the distance—like the rumble of a bull in heat.
It was the mighty King Śalya, ruler of Madra, a car-warrior of immeasurable prowess, who burst forth from behind like an elephant enraged, scenting challenge and glory.
Like a tusked beast crashing through trees,
He came charging with fury unbound,
Seeking not dharma, but conquest—
For the sake of the maidens and pride alike.
Catching up to Bhīṣma, he cried aloud:
“Stay! O son of Gaṅgā, stay!
Face me before thou claimest victory.”
Then Bhīṣma, that tiger among men, already ablaze with the fire of battle, turned his chariot, his bow drawn like a serpent coiled.
His brow furrowed, his eyes sharp as flame,
He stood still—not in retreat,
But in the stillness that precedes the storm.
Obedient to Kṣatriya dharma, he halted, saying, “So be it.”
The kings who had survived the earlier clash now gathered once more—this time not to fight, but to watch. They knew the air would burn, for this was no ordinary duel.
Two warriors, proud as lions,
Clashed like twin storms upon the field.
One fought for honor, one for claim—
But both bore the blood of kings.
Then Śalya, his hands quick as wind, showered Bhīṣma with arrows—hundreds, thousands, a rain of steel and fire. The sky darkened with his shafts.
The assembled kings—those who had moments earlier battled and bled—now stood in awe.
“Behold the Madra king!
How swift his hand! How fierce his aim!”
Thus they cried, voices lifted in applause.
Yet Bhīṣma, ever the lion-hearted, heard not their praise but only the challenge. His anger surged like fire in dry grass.
“Stay!” he cried, his voice thundering back.
“Thy arrows are quick, but mine are fate.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Then, with the fire of righteous wrath blazing in his chest, Bhīṣma, son of Śāntanu, raised his voice like thunder and said unto his charioteer:
“Drive the chariot to where Śalya stands—
That I may strike him down,
As Garuḍa fells the serpent in mid-flight.”
At once the chariot surged forward, wheels hissing, the sky itself holding its breath.
Then Bhīṣma, steady as the pole-star, fixed upon his bow the sacred Varuṇa astra—weapon of the Lord of Oceans, the tamer of floods. With a chant and a pull, he loosed it.
Like waves crashing down from heaven,
The missile struck with divine force,
And Śalya’s steeds, noble and swift,
Staggered and fell, afflicted by celestial might.
Even as the crowd gasped, Bhīṣma deflected Śalya’s arrows with calm mastery, and in a flash of resolve, slew Śalya’s charioteer—thus halting his rival’s movement, cutting off his advance.
Then came the thunder of the Aindra astra—
Bhīṣma’s next invocation, radiant and fierce,
A weapon that glowed with the power of Indra himself.
It struck the remaining steeds, and they too fell.
Thus stood Śalya, alone and weaponless, his chariot broken, his pride wounded.
But Bhīṣma, the ever-dharma-bound,
Lifted his bow—but did not strike.
For his wrath was righteous, never cruel,
And he spared the vanquished king.
“Thy valor is proven,” he seemed to say.
“But this war was never for pride or plunder—
It was for the honor of the Kuru line.”
Śalya, humbled yet whole, bowed and returned to his kingdom. He ruled thereafter with wisdom, his fire tempered by defeat.
And the other kings, who had come for glory, who had watched Bhīṣma like one watches a mountain move, now departed too—bearing tales of the terrible vow, the invincible warrior, the protector of the Kuru throne.
Thus did Bhīṣma return to Hastināpura,
With the three maidens of Kāśī,
His name now a flame across the Earth,
And the heavens whispering, “Behold—Bhīṣma lives.”
Vaiśampāyana continued:
That foremost of warriors, that tiger among men, Bhīṣma, having routed the monarchs and preserved the honor of the Kurus, departed with the maidens toward Hastināpura, swift as the wind.
Through forests deep and rivers wide,
Over hills and groves where deer roam free,
The prince rode forth, his victory serene,
Bearing the daughters of Kāśī like sacred flame—
With tenderness, with honor, with unbroken dharma.
They crossed the kingdoms in peace, for none now dared to rise against the son of Gaṅgā. And when they arrived at Hastināpura, the great city of the Bharatas, Bhīṣma approached his brother Vichitravīrya, and in a voice rich with devotion, offered him the three maidens:
“Behold, O prince of the Kuru line,
These daughters of Kāśī’s royal house—
Adorned with beauty, knowledge, and grace.
I have brought them for thee,
That the lineage may flourish,
And the house of Śāntanu shall shine anew.”
There was joy in the palace, for the wedding preparations began. Satyavatī, wise and regal, lent her guidance. Bhīṣma, though himself celibate by vow, arranged all with the care of a father and the precision of a king.
But then, like a soft wind stirring hidden fire, came a voice—gentle, resolute, and filled with quiet pain.
It was Ambā, the eldest of the three,
Her eyes lowered, her smile faint—
But her words struck like fate.
She said:
“O son of Gaṅgā, slayer of kings,
At heart, I had already chosen another.
The King of Saubha and I were pledged—
By gaze, by promise, by secret hope.
My father had consented; he, too, had set his heart on me.
And at the svayaṁvara, I would have garlanded him.
O Bhīṣma, thou art dharma’s own flame—
Thou knowest well the path of right.
Knowing this, do now as thou deemest just.”
The words fell like a shadow across a sunlit path.
Victory still held its banner,
But the wind had shifted.
Then Bhīṣma, silent and still, stood like a mountain before a storm—not out of confusion, but reflection. For he had upheld law and vow, yet now dharma called from another path.
Vaiśampāyana continued:
Being ever conversant with dharma, Bhīṣma, the son of Gaṅgā, took counsel with the learned Brāhmaṇas, masters of the Veda, and in their presence he gave permission to Ambā, the eldest, to act according to her will.
He bowed to her choice,
For dharma bows before truth.
And thus she departed, free to follow the thread of her first love.
But the other two maidens, Ambikā and Ambālikā, fair and noble, he bestowed with all due rites and sanctity upon his brother Vichitravīrya, the youthful king of the Kurus.
The palace filled with fragrance and festivity,
For these daughters of Kāśī were like living Lakṣmīs—
Golden in form, tall as sacrificial pillars,
With curls as dark as the night, and grace like flowing streams.
Their eyes shone with love, and their hearts held joy—
For Vichitravīrya, though still young in years,
Was radiant as the Aśvin twins, and strong in both form and fame.
Thus passed seven years in delight,
As the prince remained in the company of his queens,
Their bond deep as moonlight on water.
Yet time, O King, like fire beneath silk, works unseen.
In the prime of his youth,
While joy still bloomed in his veins,
Vichitravīrya was seized by a wasting disease—
Phthisis, the silent foe, the thief of breath.
Wise men gathered, remedies were sought, prayers and rites performed. But the wheel of fate had turned.
And so, like the sun at dusk,
Vichitravīrya set—
His life snuffed by the unseen hand,
Leaving the Kuru line bereft once more.
Bhīṣma, though bound by vow and forged by sacrifice, was stricken with grief. Along with Satyavatī, he summoned the priests and elders, and with sorrowful hearts, they performed the sacred obsequies—
so that the departed soul might journey in peace to the land beyond.
Thus ended the reign of Vichitravīrya,
And once again, the house of Kuru stood childless—
Its future a silent flame, flickering in the wind.