I, Panchajanya — The First Cry of Victory

I am Panchajanya.
Before I ever sound across Kurukshetra, I lie forgotten in the ocean’s dark belly, waiting for a destiny I cannot yet name.

The Boy Who Walks Like Destiny

Krishna is still young when he comes to seek me — a boy at the end of his gurukula.

His guru Sandipani asks only one dakshina:
“Bring back my son, lost at Prabhasa.”

Even then, I sense it: where Krishna walks, lost things return, and victory begins long before battle.

The trail leads him down into the ocean. The waters tremble.

The Demon and the Shell

Panchajana, the sea-demon who holds me, rises in fury.

Some say his body is shaped like a conch. Some say he dwells inside one. Either way, I am bound to him as light is bound to darkness.

Krishna defeats him with the ease of one who does not struggle — only fulfils.

He opens the shell, searching for the guru’s son. The boy is not there.

But Krishna lifts me instead.

In his young hands, I feel something stir — the beginning of a purpose I do not yet understand.

He takes me along as he continues to Yamaloka — where the boy is restored. From that moment, I understand one thing: where Krishna is present, completion follows.

Kurukshetra: Where My Voice Finds Its Purpose

Years pass. The boy becomes the charioteer of Arjuna.

Krishna lifts me again — not as a weapon, but as a declaration.

My first cry over Kurukshetra moves across the morning field. My sound is not loud; it is certain.
I remind the righteous that they are already on the winning side.
I remind the wicked that the measure of their days has begun.
I do not start battles. I mark their direction.

Bhishma raises his bow in acknowledgment. Drona’s heart tightens with foreknowledge. Duryodhana feels a tremor he cannot name. Arjuna feels anchored.

Across the war, Krishna lifts me only at turning points — when the mind of the army needs steadiness.

When Bhishma Falls

On the tenth day, when Bhishma finally lays down his weapons, the field is shaken. The Kaurava ranks reel. Confusion spreads.

At that moment, Krishna lifts me again.

My sound steadies the Pandava army and reminds them that the day must continue with order, not emotion.

To those who hear me, the message is simple:
The war moves forward. Do not lose direction.

After Abhimanyu

When Abhimanyu falls, Arjuna’s grief is sharp, and the army is shaken. The next morning, Arjuna must re-enter the field with purpose, not despair.

Krishna lifts me again. My sound is not one of triumph. It is one of steadiness.

It reaches Arjuna first — not as encouragement, but as a reminder of responsibility. It reaches the Kaurava side as well. Soldiers whisper that whenever Krishna sounds the conch, the day tends to turn.

Jayadratha’s Fall

When Jayadratha falls and the vow on Arjuna’s life is lifted, twilight settles over the field.

Krishna raises me. My sound moves across the armies, marking the end of a day shaped by a single oath.

For the Pandavas, it is relief. For the Kauravas, it is pressure they cannot dismiss.

The Weight of Memory

When Karna faces Arjuna on the seventeenth day, the silence before combat is heavy.

Though Krishna does not lift me then, Karna recalls the first morning when my sound rolled across the field and the certainty it carried.

That memory is enough to create pressure — an advantage of the mind. Not because I am blown, but because once heard, I am not forgotten.

Conclusion

I am Panchajanya — found in a search for a lost boy, carried by one who completes every task he begins, and sounded only at moments where the direction of the war must not waver.

I do not appear at every turning point. I appear at the ones where clarity is needed.
Even when I am silent, the memory of my voice shapes the battlefield.