The tenth day's battle began with a terrifying, inhuman roar from Bhishma that was not a cry of rage, but of release. He was a man unbound, his heart finally freed from the agonizing conflict of love and duty. He was now pure warrior, pure destruction, an avatar of the war god himself. He plunged into the Pandava ranks, and what followed was not a battle, but a force of nature in action. His archery was a blur, a golden storm that seemed to have no source and no end. He moved with a speed that defied his age, his white chariot a ghostly specter that appeared everywhere at once, leaving a trail of death and devastation in its wake.
He cut down Pandava soldiers not by the hundreds, but by the thousands. He shattered the bows of a dozen champions, killed the charioteers of a hundred more, and his arrows, each bearing the name of a fallen warrior, created a river of blood that flowed across the field. The Pandava champions, seeing their army being annihilated, surged forward to stop him. The mighty Satyaki, his heart burning with the grief for his sons, charged the grandsire, only to have his bow shattered and his chariot disabled, forcing a humiliating retreat. The five sons of Draupadi attacked him in unison, and he drove them all back, their armor pierced, their bodies bleeding. Dhrishtadyumna, the Pandava commander, tried to check his advance and was so thoroughly overwhelmed that he had to be rescued by Bhima. The grandsire was simply unstoppable. He was a blazing fire, and the Pandava army was dry tinder.
Meanwhile, the central Pandava phalanx, the spear of destiny, was fighting its own desperate battle. Arjuna and Shikhandi, shielded by Abhimanyu and their other protectors, fought their way through the deep layers of the Kaurava formation. They were met at every step by Bhishma's elite bodyguards, led by the furious Dushasana. Abhimanyu fought with a brilliance that was almost divine, his skill a perfect mirror of his father's. He held back Dushasana and his forces, creating the space for Arjuna and Shikhandi to advance.
Finally, through a path cleared by the blood of their own soldiers, they reached him. Shikhandi, his face a mask of grim determination, charged directly at Bhishma's chariot, his bowstring humming. Bhishma looked up and saw him. He saw not the prince of Panchala, but the face of Amba, the woman he had wronged a lifetime ago, her eyes burning with a vengeful fire. A serene, almost weary smile touched the grandsire's lips. As he had vowed, he lowered his great bow. He would not fight. He would not even defend himself. He simply stood, ready to accept his destiny.
Shikhandi, seeing his enemy defenseless, let out a cry of triumph and loosed his arrows. They struck Bhishma in the chest, but to the old warrior, they felt like flowers, a painless tribute from a ghost of his past. He ignored them. His eyes sought out the chariot behind Shikhandi's. He saw Arjuna, his most beloved grandchild, his face streaked with tears, the mighty Gandiva bow trembling in his hands.
"Strike, Arjuna!" Bhishma's voice boomed across the sudden lull in the battle. "Strike, my child! These arrows of Shikhandi are but pinpricks. It is your arrows I await. It is your shafts that will grant me release. Do not hesitate! Fulfill your dharma! Fulfill my wish!"
Arjuna, his vision blurred by tears, looked at Krishna, his heart breaking. Krishna nodded, his expression firm. "Do it, Partha. This is not a sin. This is a sacrament. Release him."
With a great, shuddering sob that was a prayer, a lament, and a farewell, Arjuna raised the Gandiva. He closed his eyes, and the arrows began to fly. They were not arrows of anger, but of love and sorrow. They flew true, each one finding its mark, piercing the grandsire's ancient body. He did not cry out. He did not flinch. He simply stood, accepting each arrow as a final, loving embrace from his grandson. Hundreds of arrows struck him, until there was no space on his body left untouched. And then, slowly, majestically, like a great mountain giving way, he fell from his chariot.
But he did not touch the ground. His body was held aloft by the shafts that had pierced him, creating a sacred, terrible couch—the Shara-shayya, the bed of arrows. The battle came to a dead stop. The sun seemed to halt in its journey across the sky. The wind died. A profound, awed silence fell over the two armies as every warrior, Pandava and Kaurava alike, lowered their weapons and stared in stunned, silent reverence at the fallen patriarch.
The tenth day of the war ended not with the blowing of conches, but with the collective, silent grief of two armies. The enmity that had fueled a decade of slaughter was momentarily forgotten as the great warriors from both sides—Duryodhana and Yudhishthira, Drona and Bhima, Karna and the Pandava princes—laid down their weapons and walked across the field, gathering like sorrowful children around the fallen form of their grandsire.
Bhishma lay upon his bed of arrows, his face serene, his eyes clear. He was still alive, his life force held within his body by the power of his boon of Ichcha Mrityu—the ability to choose the moment of his own death. He looked upon the faces of his grandsons, Kaurava and Pandava, and a sad smile touched his lips. "My head hangs low," he whispered, his voice weak but clear. "Bring me a pillow worthy of a warrior."
Duryodhana, his eyes red with weeping, immediately ordered servants to bring the softest, most luxurious silken pillows. But Bhishma refused them. "These are not for a warrior's deathbed," he said. He then turned his gaze to Arjuna. "My child, you understand a warrior's needs. Give me a pillow that is fitting."
Arjuna, his heart aching, understood. He stepped forward, strung his Gandiva, and with tears streaming down his face, he fired three perfectly aimed arrows into the ground just beneath the grandsire's head, creating a firm, sharp cradle to support it. Bhishma smiled. "You have given me a fitting pillow, my son. Now, I am thirsty."
Again, Duryodhana and the others rushed to bring golden goblets filled with cool, fragrant water. Again, Bhishma refused them. "I can no longer partake of the mortal world's pleasures," he said, his eyes once more finding Arjuna. "Quench my thirst, child, in a manner befitting this bed."
Arjuna, his hands now steady, walked a full circle around the fallen patriarch in a gesture of reverence. He then nocked a special arrow, the Parjanyastra, to his bow. He aimed not at a man, but at the earth itself. The arrow struck the ground, and from the dry, blood-soaked soil, a pure, clear spring of water gushed forth, arching directly into the grandsire's waiting mouth. It was the water of his mother, the goddess Ganga, come to give her son his final drink.
Having quenched his thirst, Bhishma addressed the assembled kings. "I will not abandon this body yet," he declared. "The sun is now in its southern course, the Dakshinayana, an inauspicious time to die. I will wait here, upon this bed, until the sun turns north again, to the auspicious time of Uttarayana. Until then, let this war continue. But let there be a truce around me. Let this spot be a sanctuary."
He then turned to Duryodhana, his voice filled with a final, pleading wisdom. "My son, look at what your ambition has wrought. Look at this field of death. Look at the sorrow on the faces of your cousins. Let this end with me. Make peace with the Pandavas. Give them their kingdom. Let this be my final request."
But Duryodhana, though grieving, was unmoved. He turned away in silence. The tenth day was over. The Kaurava army was shattered, their invincible commander fallen, their hope extinguished. The Pandava army stood victorious, but there was no joy in their camp, only the heavy, soul-crushing weight of what they had done. The great pillar of the Kuru dynasty now lay upon a bed of arrows, a silent, living monument to the war's terrible cost, waiting for the sun to change its course so that he could finally die.