Dharmaja, though eager to hear the tale of Krishna’s combat with the mighty Salva, was more anxious to know of the deeper nature of war—its impact upon the order of the world, the betrayal of justice by cunning craft. Perceiving this inner intent, Śrī Krishna began to narrate the story of his ten-month struggle.
“O Dharmaja, when your Rājasūya sacrifice was concluded, you honoured me with the highest seat of distinction, disputed fiercely by Śiśupāla. But that arrogant king was severed by my Sudarśana, and his fall inflamed the wrath of his brother Śālva, who vowed eternal enmity. By the boon of Māyā, he obtained a city of sorcery, Soubhāka, able to fly at will, and with that phantom fortress, he came against Dvārakā. His voice thundered in the sky—‘Where is Krishna, the slayer of my brother, the false pride of kings?’—while his vast army encircled the city in suffocating siege.
The elephants of his host laid waste to the groves, creepers, and gardens outside our gates. Yet Dvārakā stood impregnable, fortified with high walls, towers at the four quarters, deep canals, strong ramparts, and stores of food, water, and sacrificial provisions sufficient for ages. Watchtowers, valves, and bastions guarded every path; the soldiers, well-paid and content, were vigilant unto death. The Yādava forces of horse, chariot, elephant, and foot were sufficient to cover half the earth. Countless weapons, charioteers, mahouts, and riders stood in disciplined array at eightfold strategic stations, a formation impenetrable to ordinary warcraft.
Śālva, failing to pierce these defenses, camped outside with his multitudes, raising tumult day and night. The Yādava princes, youthful and valiant—Pradyumna, Cārudeṣṇa, and Samba—sprang forth to battle. Samba, swift as a lion in fury, fought Śālva’s general Kṣemavṛddhi, showering him with arrows until the chariot of the foe was driven afar. But soon came Vegavān, whose shafts pressed Samba sore, so that Cārudeṣṇa leapt forth, and with his mace shattered Vegavān’s skull; the warrior fell like a crag from a broken mountain. Then Viciṇṭya challenged Cārudeṣṇa, but the Yādava loosed the Agneyāstra, and fire consumed the chest of the foe, who fell lifeless. A wail arose from Śālva’s army, and at length their king himself descended into the fray, cloaking the field in a storm of arrows.
Then Pradyumna, son of Krishna, came forth in a chariot drawn by white steeds, his arms glittering with bow, sword, and shield. The battle between him and Śālva shook the hearts of men and celestials alike. At first, Pradyumna smote the limbs of his enemy, but Śālva rallied and poured such a volley that Pradyumna swooned, borne away by his charioteer. Revived, the prince rebuked him bitterly—‘Never has a Yādava fled the field; better to fall before the foe than live in disgrace. Turn back at once!’ The charioteer, wise in dharma, replied, ‘It is the duty of the driver to guard his lord. We are equal partners in life and death.’ Yet he obeyed, and wheeled the car again toward Śālva, circling him counter-sunwise, a sign of insult. Śālva, enraged, hurled dark sorcery. He cast the Brahmāstra, striking down Pradyumna, who prepared to counter with celestial might. But Nārada and the gods themselves appeared, declaring, ‘This foe is destined to perish by Krishna alone.’ Thus Pradyumna desisted, and Śālva withdrew into his flying city.
When, after your Rājasūya, I returned to Dvārakā, I found its gardens ravaged, its gates marred, the Brahmanas’ chants silenced, women without adornment, and ritual fires extinguished—all from fear of Śālva’s menace. My spirit sank, yet I vowed not to rest until that tyrant was destroyed. Entrusting the city to Balarāma, I mounted my car yoked with Saibya and Sugrīva, divine steeds, and with the blessings of seers and the blast of my conch Panchajanya, I set forth. The earth trembled with the roar of drums, trumpets, and war-bugles as my fourfold army advanced across mountains, rivers, and forests.
In Mṛtika land, I discovered Śālva had fled beneath the ocean with his city of sorcery. I pursued, and a fierce battle raged amid the waves. His demonic legions swarmed like mountains afloat, roaring with the tumult of beasts and storms, while my Saranga bow loosed endless shafts that strewed them in the sea. Śālva conjured monstrous illusions—blazing suns, freezing moons, day turned into night and night into day—but I broke his sorcery with the Agneyāstra.
Then came a cruel deception: a messenger declared that Vasudeva, my father, was seized by Śālva and tortured. For a moment, my bow fell from my hand, and grief shook me; but the vision proved false, a phantom wrought by Māyā. Enraged, I shattered the spell and rained arrows upon the foe. Śālva hurled maces, axes, pestles, and tridents, but all I destroyed. At last, at my charioteer’s stern counsel, I invoked the Sudarśana. The fiery disc blazed forth like lightning and struck the Soubhāka city; it fell to earth in flames. Śālva himself was cloven in twain and perished.
Thus ended that most arduous battle, wherein were gathered every art of war—physical might, archery’s science, divine weapons, demonic illusion, and celestial decree. It was a confluence of men, gods, and demons, all converging on a single truth: that the forces of darkness must yield before dharma. Such, O Dharmaja, is the spirit of Krishna.”
