The wickedness of Duryodhana did not yield even an inch, though the future was laid bare before him with careful reasoning. It was foretold that if war arose between the Pandavas and the Kauravas, it would not be a contest of equals, but a clash between divine power encircling the Pandavas and mere mortal strength driven by ego, pride, and vain expectation. The inevitable fruit of such a war would be the ruin of life, wealth, and land for the Kauravas. Yet the logic spoken by Dhritarashtra failed of its purpose and could not restrain him.
Brooding upon these words, Duryodhana questioned the very meaning of divinity. He argued that divinity implied freedom from likes and dislikes, from love and hate. If the gods were to support Arjuna out of attachment, they would violate the principle of non-duality and cease to be divine. Conversely, if they were truly impartial, they could not side against the decree of the Creator, nor could they, by partial aid, withstand his mortal strength and preserve Arjuna. Therefore, he concluded, the king need not fear.
In this reasoning, he subtly referred to the demonic boons he had obtained after his defeat at the hands of the Gandharvas during the cattle expedition. He declared that he possessed the power to arrest forest fires, stone showers, violent winds, and storms; to summon and dismiss fierce beasts at will; and to paralyze horses and elephants driven against him by unseen forces. He claimed mastery in rewarding friends and destroying enemies, asserted that he was not bereft of sacred utterances, and boasted of having perfected many supernatural powers through the worship of Agni and other gods. He further argued that if the Pandavas had endured thirteen years without hardship, it was only because they lacked powers equal to his own.
With unshaken confidence, he proclaimed that demonic forces would devour the mortal strength of the Pandavas, while the gods, bound by impartiality, would not intervene. He insisted that his words were not born of pride but of truth, for self-praise, he said, was unmanly. He declared that the Pandavas, along with Drupada, Virata, Krishna, and the allied kingdoms of the Kekayas, Pandyas, and Magadhas, would perish in his terrible battle, vanishing like rivulets into the ocean of his power. He asserted that none could match his brilliance, courage, chivalry, intelligence, and strategic wisdom, claiming that whatever Bhishma, Drona, Kripa, and Ashvatthama knew of weapons and their lore, he too had mastered.
As all stood astonished at his warlike speech, even in the presence of Sanjaya, Karna intervened. He dismissed Dhritarashtra’s concerns and declared that although it was said he would forget the mantras of weapons due to his guru’s curse, this was only outwardly true. Through prayer, he claimed, he had pleased his teacher and recovered his knowledge along with the deepest secrets of warfare. He proclaimed himself rich in the wealth of arms and incantations, asserting that even the gods would find it difficult to approach him. As long as he stood, Arjuna, he said, could not gain even an inch of land. He vowed to fight with dazzling courage, crushing the Pandava forces until warriors bled like streams and the battlefield became a sea of blood.
Yet the truth of Karna’s learning had once been revealed by fate itself. Having studied under false identity, he endured in silence the piercing of an insect while his sleeping guru rested his head upon Karna’s thigh. When blood flowed, the guru perceived that such endurance did not belong to a Brahmin. Upon learning Karna’s true identity, he pronounced a curse: that the knowledge gained through deceit would fail him at the moment of greatest need, especially the use of the supreme weapon. Though later appeased, the curse could not be withdrawn, for it stood bound by universal law.
Then Bhishma addressed Karna, declaring that he spoke wildly, as though impelled by Yama himself. He urged him to recognize his limits, which others clearly saw. Bhishma pointed out the inconsistency in his speech: though warriors would indeed fall one by one and the Kauravas would ultimately perish, Karna imagined otherwise. He further revealed that the mighty weapon granted by the lord of the gods, which Karna believed would slay Arjuna, would be rendered futile by Krishna. For although Karna had obtained it in exchange for his natural armour and earrings, he would be compelled to use it against Ghatotkacha, unaware of the divine protection surrounding Arjuna. That weapon, Bhishma explained, could be used only once before returning to its source.
Bhishma continued, saying that even the serpent weapon intended for Arjuna would be neutralized by Krishna. Turning to Dhritarashtra, the spoke of the deeper law of life: harmony among kin brings happiness, prosperity, and peace, while its neglect leads only to destruction—like smoke without fire. He advised the king not to wage war within himself, but to foster unity through shared living, conversation, and mutual respect, which cultivate humility and yield good both in this world and beyond.
To illustrate his teaching, Bhishma narrated an allegory. Once, upon a mountain, he had seen a honeycomb hanging from a branch over a steep slope. Those who understood its unity admired it, but foolish hunters, believing its honey would grant eternal youth, attacked it. Enraged, the bees swarmed upon them, stinging them until they fell into the ravines and perished. From this, he concluded that unity is the protection of the weak. Likewise, the king’s sons, devoid of humility yet craving dominion and blind to death, could neither defeat Arjuna nor preserve their honour or lives. It was unwise, he warned, to test strength at the cost of countless lives and immeasurable wealth. Peace, not war, should be chosen, bringing Yudhishthira under rightful accord.
Bahlika then warned Duryodhana that he was treading a blind path while a clear and safe one lay open before him. Dhritarashtra, filled with anxiety, pleaded that Bahlika spoke out of affection and Bhishma out of unwavering goodwill, and that both deserved respects. He implored Duryodhana to abandon war and grant the Pandavas their rightful share.
Yet all such counsel—born of wisdom, compassion, and foresight—was rendered futile by the cruel resolve of a single man. Thus, the fate of kingdoms, the lives of countless warriors, and the fortunes of innumerable families were bound to the stubborn will of Duryodhana, whose name would come to stand as a shadow upon sound judgment, while destiny moved silently toward its terrible and inevitable hour.
