Bhima ranged through the battle, his body smeared with fat and blood, drenched with marrow and fat, like Antaka with his staff in hand. Vrikodara, holding his mace stained with the blood of elephants, was terrible and dreadful, like Pinakin bearing the Pinaka. Crushed by the enraged Bhimasena, the remaining elephants suddenly fled, trampling your army. The great bowmen on their chariots, led by Saubhadra, protected that hero as he fought, as the immortals guard the Wielder of the Thunderbolt. Bhimasena, bearing his blood-stained mace and drenched with elephants' blood, appeared terrible, like Kritanta. O Bharata, we saw him wielding his mace in every direction, moving as if in a dance, like dancing Shankara. O great king, we saw his terrible, slaughtering mace, heavy as the rod of Yama, roaring like the thunderbolt of Indra, mixed with hair and marrow, smeared with blood, like the Pinaka of enraged Rudra as he strikes down beasts. As a herdsman drives a herd of animals with his staff, so Bhima scattered the elephant-force with his mace. Struck by the mace and by arrows from every side, your elephants fled, trampling their own ranks. Having scattered the elephants as a great wind scatters clouds, Bhima stood amid the tumult, like the Trident-Bearer in a cremation ground.