A hush fell upon the sacred court, heavy with a tension that seemed to quiver in the very air. Suneedha, chief of the Chedi armies, trembled with rage; his teeth gnashed, and his sword flashed as he made a savage sign, urging the vassal lords of Śiśupāla to one side. With the slightest nod from his master, the field was set for violence—even here, where a divine sacrifice was being performed. All pointed to a premeditated design: the king of Chedi had not come to honour the Rajasuya, but to profane it, imagining that he might, by cunning and sudden assault, humble the house of Indraprastha. He paid tribute only to mask his malice; his allegiance was but a snare to sow discord among kings and to tarnish the glory of the Pāṇḍavas. His enmity with Kṛṣṇa, carefully chosen, served as the path of his dark intent. Misguided counsel, like a secret poison, urged him on—hoping that monarchs, subdued in pride, might revolt against Yudhiṣṭhira and rally to his banner. He struck in the hour of consecration, when heaven itself smiled on the sacrifice, as if the sacred moment could be perverted to his own ambition.
The watchers felt the gathering storm. The Yādavas—Vrishni, Kukura, Andhaka—closed rank, their horses surging like the ocean’s tide, their swords gleaming like the whirl of crocodiles, their war-elephants massed like whales in a darkening sea. The air whirled with their anger like a tempest, and a wave of fear swept the assembly of kings and sages. Yudhiṣṭhira, troubled by the foolish arrogance of a petty lord flaunting empty pride, turned to Bhīma: “The court is stirred like the ocean in a storm. Let no harm fall upon the sacrifice or the gathered kings; keep the peace, yet be watchful.” Then the grandsire Bhīṣma, calm and unshaken, spoke: “The slayer of demons, the unconquerable Mahāviṣṇu incarnate, Śrī Kṛṣṇa Himself, is the guardian of this yajña. Who dares disturb it? One glance of His wrath would drive all foes to Yama’s gate. The lion is not troubled by the barking of a hundred curs, nor does the tusker fear the claw of a cat. Śrī Kṛṣṇa’s valour is known to all—who here doubts it?” His words struck awe into many hearts; yet in one, already blackened by jealousy and swollen with pride, they bred only deeper malice.
Śiśupāla, blinded by vanity and burning with envy—the trident of death in the soul, as the ancients name it—broke into scornful laughter and raised his voice so that all might hear. “This senile Bhīṣma,” he cried, “would crown the cowherd Kṛṣṇa as supreme lord! Virtue is known only to himself and these Pāṇḍavas, it seems. He who deserves no reverence dares to lecture kings and insult the royal blood gathered here. Yudhiṣṭhira, under the spell of this old man’s tongue, has shamed himself by honouring an impostor. You threaten the assembled monarchs as though they lacked courage of their own!”
His mockery grew ever more vile. “You praise this so-called hero for deeds fit only for a village conjurer. He slew a hapless woman—Putanā! He kicked a feeble cart and boasted of victory! He broke dry trees and calls it heroism! He boasts of killing an ancient bull, of lifting a little mound on his palm as though it were the mighty Govardhana! These are the wonders for which your tongues wag in praise? Your tongues should be split into a thousand shreds for such lies. Tell me—by what right is this magician deemed worthy of honour, above the high-born Kṣatriyas assembled here? Those who kill women, cows, and priests—who betray trust and defile the table of hospitality—such men, say the elders, bear the gravest sins. And this cowherd has done all these. Yet you, Bhīṣma, who once dragged the maiden Ambā from her chosen love to Hastināpura, you who left her to sorrow when your brother Vichitravīrya spurned her—you dare to speak of dharma! Childless and haunted by that sin, how are you fit to guide kings?”
His eyes glittered with cruel delight as he spun his final parable. “Once there was an aged swan who preached wisdom by the ocean’s shore. The birds, trusting its counsel, built its nest, guarded its eggs, and fed it. But when solitude fell, the swan devoured the eggs. One bird exposed the crime, and the flock slew the false teacher without mercy. So too will your treachery be revealed, O Bhīṣma! You mislead the Kauravas and praise a coward. Did not Jarāsandha, son of Bṛhadratha, drive this Kṛṣṇa from battle again and again? Many times he fled for his life. And that so-called slayer of evil—was he not himself slain by trickery, when Arjuna and Bhīma, disguised as Brāhmins, slew the noble Jarāsandha? These are the cunning feats you hail as heroism! Have you not heard the sages declare: to vaunt oneself and belittle others is unworthy of the wise?”
Such foul and reckless words stirred Bhīma like the roar of Yama himself. His teeth ground, his mighty hands clenched, his steps shook the earth like a moving mountain. But Bhīṣma restrained him, and in a voice of iron told the tale of Śiśupāla’s birth. “Know, O son of Vāyu,” said the grandsire, “that this wretch was born of Satwathi and Damaghoṣa in the line of Chedi. At his birth he bore four arms and a third eye, and his cry was the bray of an ass. His parents trembled until a celestial voice declared: ‘This child shall die only in the hands of him into whose arms he first transforms into a normal babe.’ Hoping to know his destined slayer, they placed him in the arms of all their kin. When the noble Balarāma and Kṛṣṇa came to visit their maternal aunt Satwathi, she, rejoicing in their presence, placed the strange child first in Balarāma’s arms and then in Kṛṣṇa’s. At once the monstrous form softened into that of a beautiful infant, and all marvelled. Yet the mother, though glad, trembled at the prophecy. She begged Kṛṣṇa: ‘If my son offend you, forgive a hundred of his transgressions for the sake of his mother.’ And the Lord of the Universe granted her prayer: ‘Until he has uttered a hundred insults, he shall be spared.’ It is for this boon that he lives to spew such blasphemy. Were it otherwise, not even the flood of my arrows could forestall his doom.”
The court sat in astonishment, the air thick with the weight of what must follow. For all Śiśupāla’s venom—his craft to provoke the Kauravas, his slander of Kṛṣṇa’s marvels as mere tricks, his attempt to sow division among the sons of Pāṇḍu—his end was already sealed. Like a spark cast upon dry reeds, his own fury would kindle the blaze that would consume him. In seeking to humble the Lion of the Yadus, Śiśupāla had summoned his own day of doom.
