The battle of the fourth day began not with the clash of champions, but with a roar of pure, unadulterated fury that seemed to emanate from the very soul of Bhima. He did not wait for the formations to fully engage. He charged ahead of his own lines, his mace held high, his eyes locked on the section of the Mandala Vyuha where the banners of Duryodhana's brothers fluttered. This was not a strategic assault; it was a personal vendetta, a promise made in the face of Draupadi's humiliation that was now due for collection in blood.
He crashed into the Kaurava ranks like a natural disaster. His mace rose and fell with a terrifying, rhythmic brutality. Chariots were reduced to kindling, horses were pulped, and soldiers were swatted aside like insects. The Kaurava warriors who tried to stop him were met with a force that was beyond human. He was the son of the Wind God, and today, he was a cyclone of vengeance. Duryodhana, seeing Bhima's targeted rampage, screamed at his brothers to stand together and stop him. "He is one man! You are a hundred! Slay him! Do not let him advance another step!"
Eight of his brothers—Senapati, Jarasandha (not the Magadhan king), Sushena, Jalagandha, Ugrarava, Bhimaratha, Bhima, and Virabahu—brave but foolish, surged forward in their chariots, surrounding Bhima and showering him with arrows. For a normal warrior, it would have been certain death. For Bhima, it was an invitation. He laughed, a terrible, joyless sound, and went to work. He shattered Senapati's bow with a single blow of his mace and then brought it down on the prince's head, crushing it instantly. He leaped onto Sushena's chariot, dragged him out, and broke his back over his knee. He smashed the chariot of Jarasandha, and as the prince tried to flee, Bhima's mace caught him in the back, ending his life. One by one, with a brutal efficiency that horrified both armies, he hunted down and killed all eight of his cousins who had dared to face him.
Duryodhana watched from his chariot, his face a mask of disbelief and horror. He saw his own brothers, the princes of the realm, being slaughtered like animals. A wave of nausea and a grief so profound it almost buckled his knees washed over him. These were the boys he had grown up with, played with, conspired with. And now, their blood was staining the sacred soil of Kurukshetra, their lives extinguished by the vengeful fury of the cousin they had wronged. He screamed in a rage born of grief and terror, ordering more of his forces to converge on Bhima.
Meanwhile, as Bhima's carnage drew a significant portion of the Kaurava army towards him, Arjuna and Abhimanyu slammed into the other side of the Mandala. As predicted, they were met by Drona and Ashwatthama, and a spectacular battle of archery ensued. The sky was filled with a dizzying array of celestial weapons, as the two greatest teachers of the age clashed with their most brilliant pupils. This high-profile duel served its purpose perfectly, pinning down the most powerful Kaurava commanders and preventing them from going to the aid of the beleaguered princes.
The battle also raged on other fronts. The ancient king of Pragjyotisha, Bhagadatta, mounted on his colossal war elephant, Supratika, became a major problem for the Pandavas. The elephant was a living mountain, a fortress of flesh and ivory. It trampled soldiers, smashed chariots, and seemed impervious to arrows. Bhagadatta, his wrinkled eyelids tied back with a silken cloth so he could see, rained down javelins and arrows from his high perch, creating a circle of death around him. Bhima, his mace dripping with the blood of his cousins, saw the devastation being caused by the great elephant and charged towards it. The man-beast and the mountain-beast met in a primal confrontation. Bhima rained blows upon the elephant's head and legs, but the creature was incredibly resilient. Supratika, enraged, wrapped its trunk around Bhima, intending to crush him. For a terrifying moment, the mighty Pandava was helpless. Just then, Bhima's own son, the Rakshasa warrior Ghatotkacha, seeing his father's plight, used his powers of illusion. He created multiple, terrifying images of himself, roaring and attacking the elephant from all sides. Confused and frightened by the magical assault, Supratika released Bhima, who scrambled to safety. The duel between man and beast ended in a stalemate, but not before Bhagadatta and his elephant had inflicted terrible losses on the Pandava army.
As the sun began its descent, casting long, bloody shadows across the field, the conches sounded the retreat. The fourth day was over. It was another clear victory for the Pandavas, but it was a victory that tasted of ash. They had breached the Kaurava formation and inflicted immense casualties, but the cost had been the first great act of fratricide.
In the Kaurava camp, the scene was one of utter devastation. There was no anger, no plotting, only a profound, soul-crushing grief. Duryodhana, the arrogant king, was reduced to a weeping, broken man. He stumbled through the camp, past the pyres being prepared for his eight slain brothers, their names a terrible litany of his failure. He fell to his knees before the royal tent, sobbing uncontrollably. The reality of the war, which had been a grand political game to him, had now become a deeply personal tragedy. He had led his own blood to the slaughter. When Sanjaya relayed the news to the blind king Dhritarashtra in Hastinapura, the old man collapsed, his cries of anguish echoing through the palace. Gandhari, hearing that eight of her sons were dead, let out a single, piercing scream of such pain that it was said the very stones of the palace wept with her. The Kaurava dream of victory was beginning to die, drowned in the blood of their own children.
The mood in the Pandava camp was equally somber, though for different reasons. They had won the day, but the victory felt hollow, tainted by the sin of killing their own kin. Yudhishthira, the king of Dharma, was inconsolable. He sat in his tent, his head in his hands, refusing to speak to anyone. The weight of the deaths, deaths he had sanctioned, was a burden too heavy for his righteous soul to bear.
He finally sought out Bhima, who was cleaning his blood-stained mace, his face hard and devoid of any emotion. "Brother," Yudhishthira whispered, his voice trembling. "What have you done? They were our cousins. Our blood. How could you slaughter them with such… relish? Is this the Dharma we are fighting for? To become butchers of our own family? My heart is breaking. This victory feels like a greater defeat than any we have ever suffered."
Bhima looked up, his eyes blazing with the memory of a decade of injustice. "Do you call that relish, brother?" he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "That was not joy. That was justice. Have you forgotten the assembly hall? Have you forgotten the feel of Draupadi's tears on your hands? Have you forgotten the sound of this one's laughter as he slapped his thigh and invited her to sit on his lap?" He pointed his mace in the direction of the Kaurava camp. "I have not forgotten. I remember every insult, every sneer, every moment of our humiliation. I vowed to break his thighs, and I vowed to kill every one of those wretched sons of Dhritarashtra who dared to lay a hand on our wife. Today, I began to fulfill that vow. This is my Dharma—the Dharma of a warrior avenging an unforgivable sin. If that is too bloody for your delicate conscience, then you should have remained in the forest!"
The two brothers stood glaring at each other, their two opposing concepts of Dharma an unbridgeable chasm between them. The conflict that defined the war was now playing out in the heart of the Pandava camp itself. Krishna entered the tent, his presence immediately calming the turbulent atmosphere.
"Both of you speak your own truth," he said, his voice calm and steady. "Yudhishthira, your compassion is your strength, but this is a war to excise a cancer from the heart of the world. The surgery is bloody and painful, but it is necessary for the patient to survive. Bhima, your rage is righteous, but do not let it consume you. Let it be a tool, not your master. You have done what was necessary today. You have broken their spirit and shown them the terrible price of Adharma. Grieve for your cousins, for they were your blood. But do not repent for your actions, for they were just."
His words brought a fragile peace. The fourth day was over. The Pandavas had proven their martial superiority, but in doing so, they had taken the first irrevocable step into the hell of a fratricidal war. The lines of kinship had been washed away in blood, and both sides now knew that there was no turning back. There would be no reconciliation, no peace, only a fight to the bitter, bloody end.