The news of the Kuru invasion fell upon the capital of Matsya like a thunderbolt from a clear sky. The city, which had just begun to celebrate the victory in the south, was plunged into a new and far more terrible panic. The Trigartas were a regional threat, a familiar foe. But this was the House of Kuru. This was the imperial army of Hastinapura, led by an assembly of living legends: the invincible Bhishma, the master of war Drona, the radiant but deadly Karna, the cunning Ashwatthama, and the hundred Kaurava brothers led by the venomous Duryodhana himself. It was not an army; it was a pantheon of destruction.
And the city was defenseless. The king and his entire army were miles away in the south, exhausted from their recent battle. The capital's garrisons had been shattered. All that remained was a skeleton force of city guards and the king's only son, Prince Uttara.
It was in the royal harem, the antahpura, that the panic was most acute. The women of the court, their husbands and sons away at war, were seized by a hysterical terror. They ran through the corridors, their cries of fear echoing through the palace. In the center of this chaos stood Prince Uttara. He was a young man, barely more than a boy, his chin yet to be graced by a proper beard. He was arrogant, spoiled, and utterly untested in battle, his only victories won in the boastful stories he told to the adoring ladies of the court.
Now, with all eyes upon him, his pride demanded a performance. He strode into the center of the weeping women, puffed out his chest, and drew a small, jewel-encrusted dagger.
"Why do you weep like common women?" he declared, his voice a high, reedy imitation of a commander's roar. "You have me! As long as Prince Uttara lives, no harm shall befall the kingdom of Matsya! If only I had a worthy charioteer, I would ride out this very instant and scatter this Kuru army like a wolf scatters a flock of sheep! I would defeat Bhishma and Drona, capture Duryodhana, and return before my father even knows there was a battle! But alas," he sighed dramatically, "I can find no one skilled enough to handle my celestial horses in such a momentous conflict."
His boast, a desperate attempt to appear heroic, was pure, unadulterated fantasy. He was terrified, but his pride was even greater than his fear.
Standing among the queen's attendants was the Sairandhri, Malini. Draupadi, her heart pounding, saw her chance. This was it. The final, desperate gambit of their thirteen-year ordeal. She approached the princess, Uttara's younger sister, the girl who had been her charge for the past year.
"O Princess," Draupadi said, her voice a low, urgent whisper. "Your brother speaks the truth. He is a mighty hero, but he needs a worthy charioteer. There is such a person in this very palace."
"Who, Malini?" the princess asked, her eyes wide with hope.
"Your dance teacher," Draupadi replied. "Brihannala. I know this for a fact. In Indraprastha, she was once the favored charioteer of the great hero, Arjuna himself. She drove his celestial chariot in many great battles. There is no one in the world who can match her skill with the reins. If your brother takes Brihannala as his charioteer, his victory is assured."
The princess, who adored her dance teacher, did not hesitate. She ran to her brother, her face alight with a solution. "Brother, do not despair!" she cried. "Sairandhri tells me that our own Brihannala is a master charioteer, who once served the great Arjuna! Take her with you! She will guide you to victory!"
Uttara looked from his sister to the tall, graceful figure of the eunuch dance teacher. The idea was absurd. "Brihannala?" he scoffed, his voice filled with derision. "My sister's dance master? You want me, a great prince, to ride into battle with a eunuch holding my reins? The entire Kuru army would die of laughter before I could even loose an arrow! It is an insult to my valor!"
But the princess was insistent, and the other women of the court, desperate for any hope, joined their pleas to hers. Trapped by his own boast and with no other option available, Uttara finally, reluctantly, agreed. "Very well!" he huffed. "But let it be known that I do this only to humor my sister! Go, fetch the eunuch. And prepare my finest armor and my grandest chariot!"
Arjuna, in his guise as Brihannala, was brought before the prince. He bowed with his usual grace. "You summoned me, my lord?"
"Yes, Brihannala," Uttara said, trying to sound commanding. "It seems you are to be my charioteer. A strange choice, but these are strange times. Try to keep the chariot steady, and do not faint at the sight of blood."
Arjuna simply smiled a quiet, enigmatic smile. "As you command, my prince."
The scene that followed was a bizarre comedy played out on the edge of a tragedy. Prince Uttara, in his magnificent, oversized armor, looked less like a warrior and more like a child playing dress-up. When Brihannala was brought a suit of armor, she laughed her soft, tinkling laugh and refused it. "This armor does not fit me, my lord," she said, and proceeded to don it with such awkward, fumbling incompetence that the court ladies giggled, convinced that she had never seen a battlefield in her life. It was a perfect piece of misdirection.
Finally, the great war chariot was brought forth. Prince Uttara, puffed up with a false bravado, ascended and took up his bow. Brihannala, with a grace that seemed at odds with her earlier fumbling, took the reins. With a final, boastful wave to the cheering women of the court, they rode out of the city gates, a foolish boy and a eunuch dance teacher, on their way to face the most powerful army on earth.
The journey to the northern pastures was short. As they crested a hill, the full, terrifying panorama of the Kuru army came into view. It was not an army; it was an ocean of steel. Thousands upon thousands of soldiers, hundreds of war elephants, and a forest of chariots stretched across the plain. At its head were the great commanders, their banners fluttering in the wind: the white standard of Bhishma, the golden palm of Drona, the bull of Karna. The sheer, overwhelming might of the force was a physical presence, a wave of power that seemed to suck the very courage from the air.
Prince Uttara stared, his jaw slack, the color draining from his face. The heroic boasts he had made in the safety of the harem turned to dust in his mouth. This was not a story. This was real. This was death.
"Stop the chariot," he whispered, his voice a trembling squeak.
"But my prince," Brihannala said, her voice calm, "the battle awaits."
"I cannot fight them!" Uttara cried, his bravado completely shattering, replaced by a raw, childish terror. "That is not an army; it is the ocean of time come to swallow the world! They have Bhishma! They have Drona! I cannot do this! Turn back! We must flee!"
"A prince of the Matsya line does not flee," Brihannala said, her voice still calm but with a new, hard edge.
But Uttara was beyond reason. With a scream of pure panic, he threw down his bow, leaped from the chariot, and began to run, his heavy armor clanking, his only thought to escape the terrifying sight before him.
Brihannala sighed. The performance was over. She leaped from the chariot, her long dancer's braid flying behind her. With a speed that was utterly inhuman, she sprinted after the fleeing prince. She caught up to him in a hundred paces, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck as a lioness might grab a straying cub.
"Let me go! Let me go!" Uttara wailed, struggling futilely.
"Be still, you fool!" Brihannala commanded, and her voice had changed. The soft, melodic tenor was gone, replaced by a deep, resonant baritone that radiated an absolute and terrifying authority. It was the voice of Arjuna.
He dragged the whimpering prince back to the chariot. "You will not flee," he said, his voice now calm but unyielding. "You will be my charioteer. I will be the one to fight."
Uttara stared at the dance teacher, his terror momentarily forgotten, replaced by a profound confusion. "You? You will fight? But you are… you are Brihannala!"
Arjuna smiled, a true, brilliant smile that seemed to light up the world. "For one year, I was Brihannala. But that year is now over. My vow is fulfilled. I am Arjuna, son of Pandu. And I have come to reclaim my weapons."
He pointed towards a distant, gnarled tree that stood alone in a desolate cremation ground. "Do you see that Sami tree, Prince of Matsya? Drive the chariot there. Our victory awaits us in its branches."
Still dazed, but now compelled by the sheer force of Arjuna's presence, Uttara climbed back into the chariot and, with trembling hands, took the reins. He drove towards the fearsome-looking tree.
"There is a bundle in the high branches," Arjuna instructed. "It looks like a corpse. Climb the tree and bring it down."
Terrified but obedient, Uttara climbed the ancient tree. He found the gruesome, foul-smelling bundle and, holding his breath, managed to untie it and lower it to the ground.
"Now, unwrap it," Arjuna commanded.
With a sense of dread, Uttara began to peel away the rotting, foul-smelling cloths. But as the outer layers came away, a brilliant, divine light began to emanate from within. The stench of death was replaced by a celestial fragrance. The final cloth fell away, and Uttara gasped, falling back in awe.
Lying on the ground was not a corpse, but an arsenal of the gods. He saw a bow that seemed to be made of starlight—the Gandiva. He saw two quivers that hummed with an inner power. He saw a massive, golden mace, a great spear, and two swords that shone with a light of their own.
"By the gods…" Uttara whispered. "Who are you people?"
Arjuna laid a hand on his shoulder. "I am Arjuna. The cook Ballava is my brother, Bhima. The courtier Kanka is my eldest brother, the Emperor Yudhishthira. And the horse-master and cattle-chief are my brothers, Nakula and Sahadeva. We have been living in your father's court, fulfilling the final year of our vow."
The truth, in all its staggering, world-altering glory, descended upon Prince Uttara. The humble servants of his father's court were the five most famous heroes on earth. The dance teacher he had mocked was the divine archer, the friend of Krishna himself. He fell to his knees, prostrating himself before Arjuna.
"Forgive my ignorance, my arrogance, my cowardice, great prince!" he cried. "I am a fool, a child! I am not worthy to be in your presence, let alone be your charioteer!"
Arjuna lifted him to his feet. "You will be my charioteer today, Uttara," he said, his voice now kind. "And you will witness a battle that will be sung of for a thousand years. Now, help me prepare."
The transformation was miraculous. Arjuna let down his long braid. He stripped off the robes of a dancer. He donned his celestial armor, the Kavacha, which appeared as if from thin air. He strapped the two inexhaustible quivers to his back. And then, he took up the Gandiva. The moment his hand closed around its grip, a great roar of divine sound, the Devadatta conch, seemed to blast across the heavens. He strung the bow, and the resulting twang was a note of cosmic thunder that rolled across the plain, reaching the ears of the Kuru army.
The great commanders—Bhishma, Drona, Karna—heard that sound, and they knew. It was a sound they had not heard in thirteen years, a sound they had prayed they would never hear again. It was the voice of the Gandiva.
Arjuna ascended the chariot, his form now radiant, divine, terrible. The curse of Urvashi had fallen away. The dancer was gone. The god of war had returned.
"Drive, Prince of Matsya!" he commanded, his voice ringing with the power of a king. "Drive me towards my kinsmen. Their lesson is about to begin."
Uttara, his fear now replaced by a profound, trembling awe, took the reins. He turned the celestial horses and drove the lone chariot towards the waiting ocean of the Kuru army. The final day of the thirteenth year had arrived, and with it, the first battle of the great war.