Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:
“O Sañjaya, tell —whose warriors first advanced with cheerful hearts, mine or the sons of Pāṇḍu’s? Whose n were confident, and whose were dimd by despair? Who struck the first blow in that battle that chills the heart even in its telling? Among whose ranks did garlands bloom and unguents fill the air with sweetness? Whose troops roared fiercely, and whose spoke with compassion before the slaughter began?”
Sañjaya said:
“O King, at that mont all n seed gods. Both armies were radiant and filled with joy. The garlands and the sandal paste of both sides breathed fragrance alike; even the wind made no distinction between dharma and adharma, carrying sweetness from each to the other.
Then the conches were blown—first one, then many—till their echoes rolled like thunder through the vault of heaven. Drums bood, cymbals clashed, and the neighing of steeds rose like storm-winds over the plain.
The two hosts advanced, vast and glittering, their chariots flashing like waves struck by lightning. The sound of bows twanging, the clatter of wheels, the cry of elephants, and the fierce roars of warriors mingled into one deep, rolling voice that seed the voice of Ti himself.
When they t, O Bharata, the shock of impact was like the joining of two worlds. The elephants trumpeted in fury, the warriors shouted, and the earth quaked under their tread. The joy of the strong, the terror of the weak, the mingled cries of n and beasts made the field of Kurukṣetra resound like the end of an age.”
The conch and drum, the roar and cry,
Shook earth and echoed through the sky;
Joy t dread, and hope t doom—
The world itself beca their tomb.
Thus began, O King, the first breath of battle—the instant when courage and fate clasp hands. In that mont there was no hatred, only the surge of life eting its own reflection. The warriors advanced with hearts unshaken, for none yet knew who would live and who would be legend.
The fragrance that filled the air was the last sweetness before blood, and the roar of warriors was the prelude to silence. For every sound upon that plain—drum, conch, and cry—was but the opening note of the hymn of destiny that the earth herself was compelled to sing.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When the hosts of the Kurus and Pāṇḍavas had taken their stand upon the sacred plain of Kurukṣetra—sanctified by the offerings of ancient kings—King Dhṛtarāṣṭra, blind to both sight and wisdom, addressed Sañjaya in a trembling voice.
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:
“O Sañjaya, assembled together upon the holy field of Kurukṣetra, eager for battle and thirsting for victory, what did my sons and those of Pāṇḍu do?”
Sañjaya said:
When the armies of the sons of Pāṇḍu had been arrayed in their divisions, King Duryodhana, beholding their vast formation, approached Droṇa—his preceptor, aged and wise—and spoke with folded hands but with the pride of a monarch swelling in his breast.
“O revered preceptor, behold this mighty host of the sons of Pāṇḍu, drawn up by thy own disciple, the son of Drupada—Dhṛṣṭadyumna, born of fire for thy destruction!
Here stand many heroes and great bown, equals of Bhīma and Arjuna in valour—Yuyudhāna, Virāṭa, and Drupada the mighty car-warrior; Dhṛṣṭaketu, Chekitāna, and the gallant King of Kāśi; Purujit and Kuntibhoja, and Śaibya, the bull among n; Yudhamanyu, steadfast in battle, and Uttamaujās of fierce strength; the sons of Draupadī, and the heroic son of Subhadrā—all peerless warriors.
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Hear also, O best of Brāhmaṇas, who among us are the foremost of heroes and leaders of this army. They are thyself, and Bhīṣma, and Karṇa, and the ever-victorious Kṛpa; Aśvatthāman, Vikarna, and Bhūriśravā, son of Somadatta; Jayadratha of Sindhu, and many others who, ard with diverse weapons, stand resolved to lay down their lives for my sake.
Yet our army, though vast, seems weak, for it leans upon Bhīṣma alone; but the force of the sons of Pāṇḍu, protected by Bhīma, seems sufficient to tear through the worlds. Therefore, let every one, at the entrance of his division, guard Bhīṣma only!”
At these words, Bhīṣma, the grandsire of the Kurus, eldest of warriors, mighty in years and in arms, raised a roar like a lion upon the mountain peak. His conch, shining white as the moon, he blew with thunderous sound, filling both heaven and earth with joy and dread.
Then suddenly, from both sides, arose the tumult of war—conches and cymbals and drums and horns—till the air itself seed to shake with their united roar.
The Divine Conches
Then, seated upon a great chariot yoked with white steeds, stood Mādhava and Arjuna, their banner marked by the ape of Hanūmat. Together they blew their celestial conches:
Kṛṣṇa blew Pāñcajanya, deep as the ocean’s call;Arjuna, Devadatta, clear as the cry of the sky;Bhīma, of mighty deeds, the great Pauṇḍra, whose roar shook the hearts of foes;Yudhiṣṭhira sounded Anantavijaya;Nakula and Sahadeva, Sughoṣa and Maṇipuṣpaka.
Then the kings and heroes of their host followed: Śikhaṇḍin, Dhṛṣṭadyumna, Virāṭa, Sātyaki, Drupada, the sons of Draupadī, and Abhimanyu, son of Subhadrā—all blew their conches in unison.
The blare resounded through heaven and earth, echoing in the hearts of n and gods. The sound rent the hearts of the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, for it was the herald of righteousness rising to battle against sin.
Arjuna’s Despair
Then, O King, as the arrows were about to fly, Arjuna—the ape-bannered hero—lifted his Gāṇḍīva and spoke to Kṛṣṇa, the Lord of the Senses.
Arjuna said:
“O Infallible One, halt my chariot between the two armies, that I may behold those who stand here eager for battle, those whom I must face in the toil of this war. Let see the warriors gathered here to please the evil-minded son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra.”
Thus addressed, Hṛṣīkeśa, the Master of all, drew up their chariot between the two hosts—before Bhīṣma and Droṇa and all the assembled kings—and said softly:
“Behold, O Pārtha, these Kurus gathered here.”
Then Arjuna looked upon both armies and saw there his own kin—fathers and grandsires, teachers, uncles, brothers, sons, and grandsons, friends and well-wishers—arrayed for death.
Arjuna’s Lant
Beholding them, his heart lted in sorrow; compassion clouded his mind.
“O Kṛṣṇa,” he said, “seeing these my kinsn eager for battle, my limbs fail, my mouth is dry, my body trembles, and my hair stands on end.
Gāṇḍīva slips from my hand, and my skin burns. I am unable to stand; my mind is reeling.
I see ons of evil, O Keśava!
What is victory to us, Govinda? What are kingdoms, what are pleasures? Those for whose sake we desire sovereignty and joy—our teachers, our fathers, our sons—stand here, ready to give up life and wealth.
Even for the lordship of the three worlds, I would not slay them—how much less for this poor earth!
What delight can be ours in slaying the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra?
Sin will overtake us if we kill them, even though they fight with wrongful hearts.
Alas! The ruin of families brings the ruin of virtue. When virtue perishes, evil overwhelms the race.
The won beco corrupt, and from their corruption arises confusion of castes, leading both destroyer and destroyed to hell.
The ancestors fall, deprived of offerings and rites.
Thus, by the sins of those who destroy families, the eternal order is lost.
We have heard, O Janārdana, that n whose family customs perish dwell forever in misery. Alas, we stand on the brink of a great sin—driven by the greed of kingship to slay our own kinsn.
Better were it for to be slain in battle unresisting, weaponless, by the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, than to stain my soul with their blood.”
Having thus spoken in grief, Arjuna, his heart heavy as lead, sank upon the seat of his chariot. Casting aside his bow and arrows, he sat down, his spirit broken by pity and despair.
The hero’s hand forgot its might,
His bow unstrung, his soul lost sight;
For love had triumphed over fa—
Thus ends the first act of the fla.
Thus, O King, begins the divine dialogue of the Bhagavad Gītā—the eting of confusion and wisdom, despair and revelation. Here the son of Dharma is tested not by sword but by conscience, and the Lord Himself descends to unveil the truth of being.
Know this mont, Janajaya, as the threshold where mortal duty ets immortal understanding. For the battle of Kurukṣetra was not only fought with weapons, but within the heart—between grief and knowledge, between self and Self.
So ends the first lesson—the Arjuna Viṣāda Yoga, The Despair of Arjuna, the opening of that eternal scripture which is the song of the soul and the essence of dharma.
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