Blind as you are, unfit for a warrior’s life,
perhaps the glamour of war excited you,
that glorious ideal. However it was,
you were too fond of Duryodhana
and loved to please him. You yearned for the kingdom
to belong to the Kauravas alone,
and you were blind to dharma. But now regret
is useless. Rather, seek for understanding.”
Vidura, too, exhorted Dhritarashtra
to put aside self-pity. “We all die.
Death seizes us, heroes and cowards both.
A man may fight, and live; or stay at home
and die anyway. Time cannot be cheated.
You should not mourn your sons who fell in battle.
They all died facing forward. Heaven receives them
even without rituals; they are fortunate.
Remember, once they did not exist for you;
now, again, they inhabit a different world.
Like clouds, your lives overlapped, then parted.
They did not belong to you, nor you to them.
There is nothing to lament. Listen:
“In our rebirths—hundreds of children,
mothers, fathers, brothers.
Which are ours? To whom do we belong?
The foolish allow grief and fear
to torture them dozens of times a day.
The wise do not.
A person in the grip of greed or pride
is happy to tell others how to live,
but does not want to learn himself.
Time treats everyone alike:
the lowest outcast, the greatest king.
No one can negotiate with time.
Nothing, and no one, lasts;
our lives are inscribed on a flowing stream.
The wise do not grieve over this.
Heartache does not leave
the man who dwells on it; it settles in
and makes itself at home.
Knowledge is for this:
to fight disease with medicine
and misery with wisdom.
We cannot escape the fruits of our deeds;
like burrs that we have brushed past thoughtlessly
they cling to us everywhere we go.”
Dhritarashtra sighed. “These words of yours
are no doubt full of wisdom. But please tell me,
how do the wise avoid being made unhappy
by what they cannot have, and by affliction?”
“By meditating on impermanence,”
said Vidura, “until awareness of it
is experienced with every breath,
not just with the head. Our bodies are houses
that fall apart in time, but the soul inside
is ageless and beautiful and, in time,
is born again. We act, we speak, we think,
we make our own misery and happiness
and come to heaven or hell as we deserve.”
Then Vidura told the blind king this story:
“
ABRAHMIN CAUGHT in an endless cycle of rebirth finds himself in a thick forest, full of terrifying animals and other creatures. He is lost, and runs here and there, searching for a way out, or at least some place of safety from the dangers that surround him at every turn. In the heart of the wood is a hidden well, overgrown with vines, and the brahmin falls head-first into it, and hangs there, upside down, struggling, unable to get free. A fierce elephant waits at the top of the well shaft, to attack him in case he does happen to escape. Black and white rats gnaw busily at the roots of the vines.
“A bees’ nest on an overhanging branch is letting fall a continuous stream of honey. Surrounded by dangers of every kind, he nevertheless avidly sucks at the honey—he can’t get enough of it. In this way, pleasure distracts him, even though the rats will eventually gnaw through the roots of the vine, and he will fall to his death.”
“Ah! the poor man!” exclaimed Dhritarashtra,
“I’d like to rescue him.”
“It’s just a story,”
explained Vidura, “an allegory.
We get caught up in pleasures and desires,
and we ignore the rats of time, working
for our destruction. The wise, who understand
the wheel of death and rebirth, cut the ties
that bind them to the wheel.
“Think of it this way:
The body of a person is a chariot,
the mind the charioteer, and the senses
are the horses. The unskillful mind
lets the horses career round in circles,
plunging after this or that attraction
in the cycle of rebirth. When the senses
are schooled in renunciation of desire,
the person is undistracted, free from fear
of death. That way salvation lies.”
Alas,
such lessons are not easy to absorb.
Dhritarashtra was seized anew with pangs
of longing for his sons, and fell, fainting.
When he revived, he became agitated;
on suicide. Vyasa came to him—
that seer with access to the world of gods
as well as that of men—and pacified him.
“Listen to me. Once when I visited
the realm of Indra, I found the gods and seers,
headed by Narada, talking together.
Earth had come to them with a request
to rid her of her burden—too many people
had swelled her population, bad kshatriyas
had overrun the world, and she was suffering.
Vishnu, greatest of beings, smiled and told her
Duryodhana would resolve her problem.
Because of him, a great war would take place
at Kurukshetra, and kshatriyas by the million
would be killed. This I heard with my own ears.
“Dhritarashtra, try to accept this:
your son was an embodiment of Kali,
discord incarnate, born to bring destruction.
He was willful, angry, unforgiving.
His brothers copied him. His friends and allies
played their part in the celestial plan.
You should not weep for them; they were at fault.
They died because of their own wickedness.
These events were ordained by the gods
and could not have been otherwise. Knowing this,
might you come to find your life worth living?
And might you find it possible to feel
some love for the Pandavas? My son,
try to move beyond this searing pain:
quash your sorrow each time it arises.”
“I have been struggling in a net of anguish,”
said Dhritarashtra. “My mind was not my own.
But, having heard your story, I will live,
I will try not to drown in misery.”
After this, Vyasa disappeared.
Later, Dhritarashtra stirred himself.
He ordered chariots, and asked Vidura
to assemble all the women of the court,
Gandhari and Kunti first among them.
They would travel to the battlefield.
Sunk in despair, but glad to be occupied,
Gandhari and all the royal women
joined the king and, hollow-eyed and drawn,
rode out of the city. They were watched
by all Hastinapura, all bereaved.
It seemed that every house contained a widow,
a sister or a weeping mother; women
whose normal lives were lived in strict seclusion
ran into the streets with hair unbound,
dressed in simple shifts, screaming, wailing,
as if all sense of modesty was lost.
Artisans, merchants and laborers
streame
d from the city behind the royal party.
Yudhishthira, too, went to Kurukshetra,
taking Draupadi and the other women.
Each woman on that field, of either side,
was engulfed in the most vivid grief,
screaming, sobbing, almost mad with horror
at witnessing the hideous devastation.
Nothing their anxiety had imagined—
not descriptions, not their restless dreams—
had prepared them for this.
Yudhishthira
looked for his aunt and uncle in the crowds
of women rooting among mangled bodies
and body parts for someone they recognized:
their man, among these thousands of mere things,
beloved flesh among the mounds of corpses.
Craving a face, an amulet, a ring,
anything familiar, they searched, keening
like ospreys calling for their mates at dusk.
Hundreds of women mobbed him, crying out,
“How can a king claiming to know dharma
kill his kin so cruelly? Can you stay sane
after killing your teacher? Your grandfather?
How will you rule without your kin around you?
Shame! Oh, shame on you, Yudhishthira!”
In dread, Yudhishthira and his brothers
announced themselves to their aunt and uncle
and paid them homage. Dhritarashtra managed
to embrace Yudhishthira, but when it came
to Bhima, lawless killer of his dear son,
rage welled up in him like molten lava.
Summoning all his power, he made to crush
his nephew, but Krishna, knowing the king’s mind,
pushed Bhima to one side and quickly shoved
an iron effigy into the old man’s arms.
Dhritarashtra pulverized it, injuring
his own chest in the process. He fell, bleeding,
crying, “Oh! Bhima!” And all-knowing Krishna,
seeing that the king’s anger had subsided,
told him he had only crushed a statue
and counseled him:
“Try to call to mind
the times when you betrayed the Pandavas
although they were blameless. You know the Vedas,
you know how a righteous king should act,
yet you followed your own stubborn path,
were deaf as well as blind. Because your son,
among his many wrongs, insulted Draupadi,
Bhima vowed to kill him. It was deserved.
Try to understand your own part in this.”
“It is as you say,” said Dhritarashtra.
“Love for my son undermined my judgment.
With all my sons dead, only the Pandavas
will give us consolation. Who else is there?
Who else will protect us in our old age?”
Weeping, and with trembling arms, he embraced
Bhima and his brothers, blessing them.
Then the Pandavas approached Gandhari,
standing tall and silent. In her agony
over her lost sons, she was at first
inclined to curse Yudhishthira. But Vyasa,
reading her thoughts from far off, instantly
appeared. “Excellent woman, this is no time
for curses—rather, this is the time for peace.
Eighteen days ago, when Duryodhana
asked for your blessing on his enterprise,
you said, ‘Whoever is in the right will win.’
And so they did—you always speak the truth.
Restrain your anger now.”
“Blessed one,
I have no animus toward the Pandavas.
I have no quarrel with what was done in war—
I know how war is, I know kshatriya dharma.
But when, afterward, Bhima killed my son
by striking him below the waist—it’s that
I find inexcusable. And when, earlier,
he gulped the blood of my Duhshasana—
that was how a barbarian would act!
How could Bhima, who knows dharma, do it?”
Bhima said, “I did not drink his blood—
it did not pass my lips. I smeared my face
and bathed my hands in it—so all would think
I had fulfilled that solemn vow I made
when your son dragged Draupadi by the hair
to the gaming hall. As for Duryodhana,
you know that I had vowed to punish him
for exposing his thigh to Draupadi.
I realized, as we fought, I could not win
by fair means—he was too skilled for me.
Rather than lose everything we’d fought for
I did what I did. Please forgive me for it.”
Gandhari understood. “But oh, Bhima,
could you not have spared us just one son,
one who had offended only slightly,
one who would live to comfort our old age?
Even in the bedlam of battle,
could you not have thought of us, and left
just one of them? Where is Yudhishthira?”
Grim-faced, Yudhishthira approached his aunt.
“I am the killer of your sons, great lady,
I have caused devastation on this earth;
I am not fit for wealth, not fit to govern.
Curse me, for I deserve to be cursed.”
And, though he was afraid of his aunt’s wrath,
Yudhishthira prostrated himself before her.
Gasping with rage, Gandhari looked down
and glimpsed the tips of Yudhishthira’s fingers
below her blindfold. Instantly, his nails
shriveled and turned black. Nervous, Arjuna
moved away, but Gandhari’s anger
had spent itself. She blessed the Pandavas.
Having observed the proper etiquette,
the Pandavas could now go to their mother,
Kunti—the mother none of them had seen
since they left Hastinapura to begin
their long exile. Imagine with what joy
they held each other now; what scalding tears
streamed from their eyes. But Kunti did not forget
Draupadi, whose sons would never again
embrace their mother, and who now was crouching
on the unyielding earth. “Oh, Kunti,” she cried,
“where are your grandsons, all my lovely boys
and Abhimanyu? What use is the kingdom
now that my courageous sons are dead?
For years, in the affliction of our exile,
the thought of them was a bright talisman
I kept safe in my heart. Now they are gone.
What was it all for?”
Kunti raised her up
and comforted her. Then they went to join
Gandhari. Together they stood, trying
to console each other. “We must accept it,”
said Gandhari. “We have to think this carnage
was the will of the gods. It had to happen.”
47.
GANDHARI’S LAMENT
Acknowledging her spiritual strength,
Vyasa gave a gift to Gandhari:
standing where she was, blindfolded still,
she could now see the entire battlefield,
distant and close, by means of divine vision.
Her inner eye was opened. She exclaimed
to Krishna at everything she saw and heard.
“Ah! I can see this sweeping, blood-drenched plain
of Kurukshetra, in all its dreadful detail.
Everywhere is chaos, mangled flesh,
the aftermath of massacre. Everywhere
I look, in all directions, countless bodies
lying in abandon, heads and limbs
at sickening angles, mouths gaping as if
; their final cry should still be reaching us.
Eyes that shone with every heartfelt passion
now are empty pits, cleaned out by crows.
Gashes and holes in the silk of skin
show where a cunning spear has found its way
between the panels of bright, well-wrought mail.
Some wear their armor still, and seem unscathed
as if lapped in the luxury of sleep,
while others are half-naked, stripped of all
that marked them out from the mire they’re made of.
“Krishna, who am I now? I am Gandhari,
childless mother of a hundred sons.
But is there no word for women such as I,
a word like ‘widow,’ another word for ‘empty’?
“Look at these fine young men, embracing Earth
as if discovered in the act of union
with a beloved bride—arms spread, their faces
oblivious to everything but this.
Oh, Earth has stolen them! Earth has triumphed
over all of us, defeated women.
“What priceless wealth is scattered all around—
crowns, jeweled bracelets, ropes of gold
twisted round the muscled upper arms
of so many heroes; anklets, torques,
all the regalia of rank. How useless
is that wealth—why, it could not protect them
from the smallest dart; and it cannot keep
monsters and other scavengers from feasting
on their fat and flesh. Look at those kanka birds,
tall as men, looking so disdainful,
picking their way among the piled-up corpses,
yet ripping flesh from bone with cruel beaks
as ruthlessly as any rakshasa.
“A month ago, who could have imagined
that men who loved the music of the bards
would now hear only the despairing cries
of their beloved wives. They who slept soft
now lie uncushioned on the filthy ground.
Men who plunged deep in the sumptuous flesh
of women now lie, torn, gnawed by jackals,
their rigid arms locked hard around a mace.
“Oh, these poor women! Some are mute with shock;
most are wailing, shivering in their pain.
They call like cranes for mates that will never come.
Some try to find the body that belongs
with the head they love, then they realize
it is not his. Some fail to recognize
the face of their own brother.
“And, Krishna—
there is Duryodhana! Oh! my tragic son,
caked in blood, your strong legs smashed, distorted,
your breastplate still in place. I remember
how you looked when you asked for my blessing,