Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Vaiśampāyana said:

When the night of counsel was past, and dawn’s crimson banners rose over Hastināpura’s towers, King Duryodhana, son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, roused his captains and marshalled his mighty host. Eleven Akṣauhiṇīs of men, beasts, and chariots stood ready to move at his command—an army vast as the swelling ocean, girded by dust like the foam of waves.

With keen intelligence born of pride and fear, the Kuru prince arranged his legions according to worth—superior in the van, middling in the heart, and lesser men in the rear. Timber and planks were heaped for the mending of shattered cars, and stores of bowstrings, quivers, tiger-skins, and hides for sheathing the sides of war-chariots were prepared in thousands. There were javelins with barbed tips, spears with iron mouths, darts and long-handled lances, spiked clubs, battle-axes, and massive maces.

The ground gleamed with armour and weapons; vats of oil, treacle, and sand were placed beside jars of serpents and powders of flaming lac. Swords hung beside shields; horns and drums lay stacked beside banners of gold and silk. Around the car-stands were bound sacks of wax and resin, clubs edged with iron, and spiked gauntlets. The engines of war—catapults and heavy frames for hurling stones, fire, or molten pitch—stood waiting like the mouths of dragons.

And the divisions of the Kuru army, wrapped in robes embroidered with gold, their standards tossing like tongues of flame, blazed upon the plain as if a fire of ten thousand brands had been kindled there.

The car-warriors, men of noble birth and practised hands, wore gleaming coats of mail. Each chariot bore four steeds—snow-white, blood-red, or dappled as cloud and foam—adorned with pearls and bells. On every car were stacked a hundred bows and a multitude of arrows tipped with iron. Behind every car stood its own battalion: ten elephants, each guarded by ten horses, and each horse by ten men on foot.

The elephants themselves, adorned with golden chains and jewelled bells, loomed like moving hills. Upon their broad backs stood seven warriors: two with goads of steel, two with bows, two with curved swords, and one bearing a trident or lance. Their tusks were tipped with copper; their eyes shone red like sunset.

The horsemen, countless as wind-swept reeds, were clad in mail and gems, each bearing a spear or sabre, each horse decked in golden trappings. And the footmen, in ranks of hundreds of thousands, bore pikes, shields, swords, and slings, their armour flashing like a restless sea.

Behind these legions stood Duryodhana’s reserves—massed divisions to rally any who faltered. Each Sena contained five hundred cars, as many elephants, thrice that number of horses, and twice that number of footmen. Ten Senas made a Pṛtana, ten Pṛtanas a Vāhinī. Yet in the language of warriors, all such hosts—Sena, Vāhinī, Pṛtana, Camu, Akṣauhiṇī—were spoken of as one.

Thus was the army of the Kurus measured and arrayed—ten Akṣauhiṇīs and one more, while the sons of Pāṇḍu held seven.

Like clouds gathered at the world’s end,

Those hosts spread over the field of Kurukṣetra,

Dark with elephants, bright with banners,

Shining like lightning with their golden arms.

Among the countless Gaṇas—divisions strong and eager for battle—Duryodhana chose his twelve lords, men fierce as gods and steadfast as iron:

Droṇa, preceptor of princes, master of celestial weapons;

Kṛpa, calm and unaging, the sage among warriors;

Śalya, king of Madra, proud and peerless with his spears;

Jayadratha, lord of Sindhu, black-eyed and vengeful;

Sudakṣiṇa, king of the Kāmbhojas, fierce as a storming bull;

Kṛtavarman of the Vṛṣṇis, guardian of Dvārakā’s glory;

Aśvatthāman, son of Droṇa, lion of wrath;

Karna, son of the Sun, radiant and terrible;

Bhūriśravā, the mighty scion of Bāhlika’s line;

Śakuni, the cunning son of Suvala;

Vāhlika, ancient yet unbending in war.

To each of these Duryodhana gave command of one Akṣauhiṇī, and daily he summoned them before his royal tent, honouring them with gifts, worship, and reverent speech. And those captains of hosts, swelling with pride and devotion, bowed to the Kuru king and vowed,

“So long as life abides,

We shall do what pleaseth thee.”

Thus, O descendant of Bharata, the dark prince of Hastināpura arrayed his legions for the world’s most dreadful war— a sea of arms whose waves were men, whose tide was fate itself.

Vaiśampāyana said:

When Duryodhana, his heart kindled with pride and purpose, beheld the hosts arrayed and the hour of battle come near, he approached Devavrata, the grandsire, and with joined hands entreated him to take the helm. “Without a single mind to guide us,” he said, “an army falls as a scattered swarm; jealousies of many leaders ruin the might of men. Remember the tale of old, when the Brahmanas, led by one chosen chief, stood and overcame the Haihaya Kshatriyas—unity of command is victory. Thou, O Devavrata, art our Usana, our iron tower of counsel and strength; be thou at our head, that we may march like the gods guarded by Sakra.” Bhishma, his face like a dawn of sorrow and duty, answered that his love embraced both house and cousins alike; bound by his pledge, he would fight for the throne, yet his heart leaned to the welfare of the Pandavas also. “Know, O king,” he said, “there is no equal on earth to Dhananjaya in skill and celestial arms; so long as I live I can smite ten thousand warriors each day, and if they cannot slay me first I shall grind their hosts to dust. Yet if a man’s blood must be shed by design, let Karna strike first, or else I will go forth and do the slaughter myself; the Suta’s son boasts of prowess—let him show it only when Bhishma falls.” Karna, answering with the slow flame of his loyalty, swore that so long as the son of Ganga lived he would not take the field; only after Bhishma’s doom would he seek Gandiva in combat.

Bhishma was then enthroned as commander; gifts were showered upon him, and at the king’s behest the camp burst into a great cheer. Conchs and drums multiplied their thunder, and the very air grew thick with omen: though no cloud veiled the sky, a red, bloodlike rain came down and made the field mire; whirlwinds rose, the earth trembled, and the roar of elephants and the shriek of jackals filled the ears of men. Incorporeal voices ran like cold fire through the welkin and shooting stars burned across the night—signs that augured grievous slaughter. Thus, sanctified by benediction and arrayed in all his terrible beauty, Devavrata took the van; Duryodhana, with Karna at his side, paced the plain and caused the Kaurava camp to be measured and pitched upon a level, fertile spot rich with grass and fuel, so that the host might shine like Hastināpura itself.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

"He took the helm where thunder crowns the waves,

And banners broke like foam on fate's hard shore;

The sky poured blood though no dark cloud it gave,

And ghosts cried warnings never heard before.

So marched the king, his brazen glories bright,

With Devavrata at the spearpoint of his pride;

Yet in the old man's hour there burned a light—

A double love that for both houses sighed."

The heart of the plain became a city of arms: engines and ladders, beeches steeped in pitch, jars of venom and lac, spinning machines to hurl hot treacle, planks, and poisoned darts—tools for ruin laid like a grim harvest. Chariots ringed with steel and tiger-hide rolled in thousands, each with its hundred bows and four matched steeds; elephants rose like jeweled hills with seven warriors upon their backs; ranks of horse and foot, bright with mail and gold, stood as a moving mountain. Reserves were marshalled behind reserves in measures of Sena and Pṛtana and Vāhinī, the language of war itself, and every chosen captain—Droṇa, Kr̥pa, Śalya, Jayadratha, Sudakṣiṇa, Kr̥tavarman, Aśvatthāman, Karṇa, Bhūriśrava, Śakuni, and Vāhlika—was set over an Akṣauhiṇī, summoned and worshipped by the king, pledged to fight and to die at his command. In that hour the Kuru host burned with array, and the field of Kurukṣetra waited like an altar where the last great fire of the age would be offered.

"They set their standards where the grasses sleep,

And drum and trumpet tuned the warlike psalm;

A hundred thousand hearts began to keep

The single beat that binds the host to harm.

So stood the rows—a forest of bright spears—

And fate, with patient hand, adjusted every string;

Two houses watched—two rivers lined with tears—

While Bhishma’s shadow held the warrior-king."

Vaiśampāyana spoke:

When the tidings of Bhīṣma’s installation as commander reached the tent of the sons of Pṛthā, Yudhiṣṭhira the Just, calm as the river yet mindful of storms, summoned his brothers and Vāsudeva to council. He bid them gird themselves in mail and make diligent rounds among the troops, for the first encounter that must be met would be with their grandsire. Then, in measured voice, he commanded that seven captains be chosen to lead the seven akṣauhiṇīs of his host.

Krishna, lotus-eyed and grave, approved the counsel of the king. “Speak the names,” he said, “and let the deeds follow the hour.” So were Drupada, Virāta, Dṛṣṭadyumna sprung from the sacrificial flame, Dṛṣṭakētu, the Panchāla prince Śikhaṇḍin, and the ruler of the Magadhas, named as commanders of the divisions; and over them all was set Dṛṣṭadyumna, the fire-born, whose life had been shaped for the undoing of the preceptor. Arjuna, the wielder of Gandiva, took to his car Keśava himself as charioteer, Janārdana chosen to guide the chariot and steady the bow-hand in that terrible hour.

Then, as the men prepared and the camp hummed like a city of bees before the comb is cut, there came a company of mighty Vrishni knights—Halayudha, Akrūra, Gadā, Saṃva, Uddhava, Pradyumna son of Rukmiṇī, Ahuka’s sons, Charudeśna, and others—surrounding them with the leonine strength of their breed. In blue garments like the peak of Kailāsa strode Halayudha himself, tall and stately; his gait played between the lion’s tread and the lordly swing of a king. His eyes, the ends reddened with the wine of old habit and worldly counsel, rested upon Vāsudeva, and at his approach Yudhiṣṭhira, Krishna, Bhīma, and Arjuna rose to greet him.

They received him with rite and reverence: the king touched his hands, the heroes offered him the chair of honour, and Halayudha, saluting Prithā’s son and the elders of Pañcāla, sat among them as among friends. Then, casting his gaze upon Keśava, he spoke in a voice edged with the weariness of one who has seen many rites and many wars. He named the slaughter inevitable—an ordinance of fate that could not be stayed by prayer or counsel. Yet in that inexorable doom he voiced the same hope every kṣatriya hides: that friends and kinsmen may pass through the trial with limbs whole and spirits unbroken.

“The field will drink of blood like thirsty earth,

The hosts shall break and rise and break again;

Fate girds its belt, and none can stay its girth,

Yet may ye come through, hale of limb, not slain.

I bade thee both be treated as I treat my kin;

Duryodhana, too, deserves like succour given—

But for thy sake, O Keśava, I cast my lot with thee;

Where Krishna goes, there I too shall walk to heaven.”

So saying, Halayudha took leave; with gentle resistance Keśava withheld him no farther, and the mighty Halayudha repaired to the sacred banks of the Sarasvatī to cleanse himself and to pray. He would not stand idle and watch the burning of the race; he chose at least this ablution, and the privacy of a river-rite, rather than linger where counsel could not turn the doom.

Thus the camp of the Pandavas received yet one more herald of destiny: a friend, grave and clear-eyed, who saw—better than most—that the wheel had been set in motion. The warriors returned to their arms and to their sleep, and the headlands of the plain lay waiting for the dawn when fate would be answered with steel.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then came into the camp of the sons of Pāṇḍu the mighty Rukmī, son of Bhīṣmaka, ruler of Bhojakaṭa and lord of the southern realms—famed among kings for steadfast truth and unfailing pride. Bhīṣmaka himself, whom men called Hiraṇyaroman, had once been counted a friend of Indra and was foremost among the Bhojas; but Rukmī, his fiery son, had long walked a path apart.

He was the pupil of that lion among the Kimpuruṣas, Droṇa of the Gandhamādana, and from him had mastered the fourfold science of celestial weapons. In token of his mastery he possessed the divine bow Vijaya—a weapon of Indra himself, equal in splendour to Arjuna’s Gāṇḍīva and Krishna’s own Śārṅga, the three celestial bows that shone like thunderbolts in the three worlds. The Gāṇḍīva Agni had once granted to Pārtha when Khāṇḍava burned; Śārṅga, the fearsome bow of Viṣṇu, had come to Keśava after he slew Naraka and freed the daughters of the Earth; and Vijaya, the last of the triad, had been won by Rukmī through his austerities and his guru’s grace.

That prince of the southern lands, proud of his lineage and of his bow, came now into the Pāṇḍava camp with his banner blazing like the midday sun and an akṣauhiṇī of elephants, steeds, and men roaring behind him like the flood-swollen Gaṅgā. Yudhiṣṭhira went forth to greet him, bowing slightly, and offered him the seat of honour. The warriors of the five brothers welcomed him as one kin to Vāsudeva, for his coming seemed a token of fortune.

Then Rukmī, standing amid the princes, turned his gaze upon Arjuna, and with words loud and confident he said:

“O son of Pāṇḍu, if thy heart trembles at the thought of battle,

I am here—Rukmī, master of Vijaya, unconquered in war.

None in the three worlds may stand before my arms;

assign me Bhīṣma, Droṇa, or Karṇa, and I shall strike them down.

Or, if it please thee, let all kings stand aside—

I alone shall win for thee the Earth.”

The company grew silent at his boast; even Vāsudeva’s eyes, serene as still waters, gleamed faintly with restrained laughter. Then Arjuna, son of Kuntī, answered with a smile—gentle but edged with the calm pride of a lion roused:

“How can I, born of the Kuru race and disciple of Droṇa,

ally of Vāsudeva and bearer of the Gāṇḍīva,

confess to fear?

When the Gandharvas came, I stood alone;

when the Devas and Dānavas joined at Khāṇḍava,

no friend fought at my side.

Who aided me against the Nivātakavacas,

or when I faced the gathered Kurus at Virāṭa’s gate?

Having bowed to Rudra, Indra, and Yama,

and wielding my inexhaustible arms,

how shall I say ‘I am afraid’?

Such words are strangers to the sons of Pāṇḍu.

Go, O mighty one, or stay as thou wilt—

but I have no need of aid born of pride.”

Thus rebuffed, Rukmī—his pride unbroken yet unacknowledged—departed from the camp, his troops moving like a tide that turns unseen. Crossing the plain, he came to Duryodhana’s pavilion and offered there the same alliance; but the Kuru prince, swollen with vanity and trusting only in Bhīṣma and Karṇa, rejected him likewise.

So it came to pass, O king, that two warriors withdrew from the coming war—Rāma, son of Rohiṇī, choosing pilgrimage over blood, and Rukmī of Bhojakaṭa, his loyalty neither claimed nor desired. And when these two had departed, the sons of Pāṇḍu gathered once more in counsel.

In that conclave, bright with lamps and bristling with kings from many lands, Yudhiṣṭhira presided in calm majesty—like the moon surrounded by a host of lesser stars, all burning toward a single dawn: the dawn of the great war that now drew near.