novelraw Arc 5- Jalapradānika Parva - Chapter 3 - The Three Offenders Meet the King and Widows
Arc 5- Jalapradānika Parva - Chapter 3 - The Three Offenders Meet the King and Widows
Vaiśampāyana said:
Even after hearing the words of Vidura, O King, the aged monarch Dhṛtarāṣṭra—burning with the fire of grief for his sons—fell senseless upon the ground. His body trembled, his breath grew faint, and darkness covered his eyes.
Beholding him fallen, his friends and attendants hastened to his side. The island-born Vyāsa, the wise Vidura, the faithful Sañjaya, and all the gatekeepers and well-wishers who stood near, sprinkled cool water upon his face, fanned him with tender leaves, and gently rubbed his body with their hands. Long they comforted him, until at last life returned to his frame.
When he awoke, he wept bitterly, the sound of his lament rising like the cry of a wounded creature.
“Fie upon this human life,” he said, “and fie upon this frail body that bears such endless woe! The lot of man is pain, O sages—grief that burns like poison, that sears like fire. The loss of sons, of wealth, of friends and kin—these are the torments of existence.
This sorrow consumes the limbs, destroys the mind’s light, and makes death itself appear a blessing. I see no end to this anguish save with my final breath. Therefore, O revered ones, this very day I shall cast away this life, which has become a burden of pain.”
So spoke Dhṛtarāṣṭra, his voice broken with tears. His mind, overwhelmed, grew silent again, and he sank motionless upon the earth.
Then the mighty sage Vyāsa, born of the great island and possessed of immeasurable power, spoke gently to his stricken father:
Vyāsa said:
“O Dhṛtarāṣṭra, thou art wise and learned in all the laws of men. Thou knowest that all things doomed to die are unstable and fleeting. Why then dost thou grieve for what is ordained?
Before thine eyes, Time—ancient and inexorable—has woven this web of destruction, making thy son its instrument. What has happened could not be otherwise, for destiny has fulfilled its vow.
The sons of the Kuru race have met their end as heroes, and the Pandavas are blameless. O mighty-armed one, this ruin was decreed long ago by the gods themselves. Listen, and I shall tell thee what I once heard in heaven.”
The sage’s eyes turned inward as he recalled the vision divine:
“Once I went, O King, to the court of Indra. There were gathered the celestials and the rishis, with Nārada among them, radiant and serene. There too stood the Earth herself, embodied as a goddess, her brow furrowed with care.
She bowed to the gods and said, ‘O lords of creation, ye had promised me in Brahmā’s hall that my burden should be lightened. Let that promise now be fulfilled.’
Then Viṣṇu, smiling among the gods, spoke to her:
‘Thy deliverance is near, O Earth. The eldest son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra shall accomplish it. Through Duryodhana shall thy burden be lifted. For his sake many kings shall gather upon the field of Kuru, and in their battle they shall destroy one another. The weight of the world shall thus be eased. Return, O goddess, and bear thy load a while longer.’
Thus spoke the Lord, O King. Know then that thy son Duryodhana was born as a portion of Kali—the dark spirit of strife—sent to bring about the great destruction. Through him and his kindred was the will of heaven fulfilled.”
“Vindictive was he, restless and proud,
Quick to anger, slow to peace;
Through him the field was sown with death,
That Earth her heavy load might cease.
As the king is, so his realm becomes,
And servants bear their master’s stains;
Thus, blinded by their leader’s sin,
Thy sons were bound in ruin’s chains.”
Vyāsa continued:
“O monarch, Nārada, knower of all things, had long foreseen this fate. He warned Yudhiṣṭhira, on the day of his Rājasūya sacrifice, that the sons of Pāṇḍu and the sons of Kuru, meeting in arms, would perish together.
Yudhiṣṭhira, hearing this, strove for peace, yet what is decreed by the gods cannot be undone by effort. The destiny fixed by the Ordainer stands firm; no mortal strength can turn it aside.
Therefore, O King, grieve not for thy sons, who have gone to their appointed end. The Pāṇḍavas bear no blame, for the destruction was born of Duryodhana’s own deeds.
If thou yield now to despair, thy grief will slay not only thy spirit but the hearts of others. Yudhiṣṭhira, learning of thy anguish, will cast away his very life, for he is tender-hearted and compassionate to all beings.
Live, therefore, O Bharata, for the sake of thy kin. Bear thy sorrow with the strength of wisdom. Fame and virtue shall yet be thine, and many years shall remain to thee for the gaining of merit. Let this grief, which burns like fire, be quenched by the cool waters of understanding.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Hearing these words of Vyāsa, full of power and calmness, Dhṛtarāṣṭra remained silent for a long while. Then, lifting his tear-stained face, he said softly:
“O best of the regenerate, my heart is crushed beneath this load of sorrow. My senses fail me again and again. Yet having heard from thy lips that this was ordained by the gods, I shall no longer think of ending my life. I will live as thou commandest—without indulgence in grief, and mindful of duty.”
When the king had spoken thus, Vyāsa, son of Satyavatī and father of wisdom, blessed him with a serene gaze—and vanished from sight, like a flame withdrawn into its own light.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When the holy Vyāsa, son of Satyavatī, had departed from the presence of the sorrow-stricken king, Janamejaya again spoke to the sage and said:
“O Brāhmaṇa of mighty penance, tell me—after Vyāsa’s departure, what did Dhṛtarāṣṭra, that aged monarch, do? And what did Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Dharma, then accomplish? What became of the three—Kṛpa, Kṛtavarmā, and the son of Droṇa? I have heard of Aśvatthāmā’s dreadful deeds and the mutual curses exchanged among the warriors. Tell me, O sage, what happened next—what did Sañjaya say to the blind old king after returning from the field of death?”
Vaiśampāyana said:
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After the slaughter of Duryodhana and the destruction of all the Kaurava hosts, Sañjaya—bereft of his divine sight, his heart heavy with despair—came once more into the presence of Dhṛtarāṣṭra.
Bowing low, he spoke in a voice trembling with sorrow:
“O King, the rulers of many realms, who came from distant lands to fight beneath thy son’s banner, have all gone now to the region of the dead—thy sons among them.
Thy son, O monarch, who ever turned away from counsel, who thirsted for the destruction of the sons of Pāṇḍu, has by his obstinacy brought ruin upon the earth. The world is emptied of kings. Do thou now perform the sacred rites for thy sons, thy grandsires, and thy kin, according to the ancient law.”
Hearing Sañjaya’s words, sharp as the arrow of fate, the blind monarch fell again upon the ground, motionless, like one dead. His body lay cold and still, his spirit overwhelmed by grief.
Then Vidura, the wise, approached him gently and said:
“Rise, O King! Why liest thou so, stricken to the earth?
Cast away grief, O lord of men—such is the end of birth.
All that begins must one day cease,
All that lives must find release.
At first, beings are unmanifest;
Then for a while they come to light;
At last they fade to dark again—
Why mourn the law of endless night?
The dead return not by our tears;
The living die not through our fears.
Why then lament?—for all who roam
Shall find at last the selfsame home.”
Vidura continued:
“O bull of the Bharata race, by grieving thou gainest not what is lost. None by sorrow recalls the departed; none by mourning escapes his own appointed hour.
Some die in battle, others in peace, but none may flee the grasp of Time. The wind spares not one blade of grass, yet bears each away in its turn.
All creatures journey together toward one common goal. What matter if Time meets one before another? Those heroes for whom thou weepest, O King, have reached heaven, radiant as fire.
No sacrifice, no penance, no wealth can raise a man to heaven more swiftly than courage and death in righteous war. They have fallen facing their foes, their vows unbroken, their names unsullied.
They poured their arrows upon the brave as libations upon the sacred flame; and in turn, they received those fiery offerings upon their own breasts. Such valor is the path to immortality.
Grieve not, therefore, for those high-souled Kṣatriyas. They were heroes and ornaments among men. They have attained a blessed state.
Do thou comfort thy heart, O King of kings. Rise and act once more. It is not meet that sorrow should master thee, or that thou shouldst abandon thy duties. Let thy mind be calmed; for even in this sea of loss, the shore of wisdom is near.”
Thus did the wise Vidura console Dhṛtarāṣṭra once more, his words falling like cool rain upon the ashes of despair.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Hearing the words of Vidura, the aged monarch Dhṛtarāṣṭra, that bull among the Kurus, heavy with sorrow and lost in thought, spoke faintly:
“Let my chariot be yoked. Bring here Gāndhārī without delay, and with her all the women of our race—Kuntī, and the widowed queens, and the daughters of kings who dwell in our halls. They too must go with me to behold the field that has devoured our sons.”
So saying, the blind old king, his mind distraught, ascended his car, leaning upon Vidura’s arm.
At the summons of her lord, Gāndhārī came forth, her face veiled, her steps unsteady with grief. Kuntī followed her, and with them came the other noble ladies of the Kuru household—once radiant as goddesses, now shorn of all their splendour. They came together to the king, and when they beheld him, they raised a cry so piercing that it seemed to shake the very walls of Hastināpura.
Their voices mingled—
a storm of lamentation filled the air.
The widowed queens clung to one another,
their ornaments fallen,
their hair loose upon their shoulders.
Those who once adorned the palaces of kings
now stood desolate beneath the sun,
like sacred altars abandoned after sacrifice.
Vidura, whose heart was heavy with compassion, sought to console them. He placed the fainting women upon the waiting chariots, and with slow procession they departed from the city.
Then from every Kuru house there rose a long and dreadful wail. The whole city was plunged into mourning; even children sobbed in the streets. The proud daughters of monarchs—whose beauty had been hidden even from the eyes of the gods—were now seen by the common throng, stripped of splendour and crushed beneath grief.
Their silken veils were torn, their jewels cast aside. Clad only in single, soiled garments, they came forth from their marble chambers, like snowy peaks torn by thunder or a herd of deer fleeing the forest after their leader’s fall.
They streamed out in bevies, O King—
women of royal birth, wailing aloud,
their bracelets broken, their faces pale,
running hither and thither in anguish.
Seizing each other by the hand,
they called the names of their lost—
sons, brothers, husbands, fathers—
their voices blending into one vast dirge,
like the cry that rises at the world’s end
when Time devours creation.
Bewildered by sorrow, they no longer knew where they walked. Those who once blushed to meet even the eyes of their companions now came forth unmindful of modesty, driven only by the flame of grief.
Once, in happier days, a single word of woe would make them cling together in comfort; now, stunned by ruin, they could not even lift their gaze to one another.
Amid this sea of wailing women, the old king moved on—pale, silent, his sightless eyes turned toward the field where the Kuru race had fallen.
Behind him followed the citizens of Hastināpura—artisans, merchants, and men of every calling—abandoning their shops and homes to join the mourning procession.
Their cries mingled with those of the royal women, until the air itself trembled with sorrow. It seemed, O King, as if the worlds were breaking apart, and the final conflagration of the Yuga had come.
From palace to street, from street to field,
the cry of the Kurus rolled like thunder:
a sound so vast, so filled with anguish,
that gods and mortals alike were struck with fear.
And thus the city of Hastināpura—
once bright with the light of the Kuru kings—
followed its fallen monarch toward the field of death,
clothed not in splendour, but in sorrow’s shadow.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Dhṛtarāṣṭra had not yet gone two miles from the city when he beheld, upon the road, three familiar figures approaching—mighty men, wounded and worn, yet unbroken in spirit. They were Kṛpa, the son of Śaradvat; Aśvatthāmā, the son of Droṇa; and Kṛtavarmā of the Vṛṣṇi race.
As soon as those warriors saw the blind monarch, they halted their chariots and descended to the ground. Their hearts sank within them, and their eyes filled with tears. Bowing low, they addressed him in voices choked with grief:
“O King,” said they, “thy royal son, having performed deeds of the utmost courage, has now ascended to the regions of Indra, together with his followers and friends. We alone—Kṛpa, Aśvatthāmā, and Kṛtavarmā—have escaped with life. All the rest of the great army have fallen, O lord of men, slain upon the field.”
When they had spoken thus, Kṛpa, ever compassionate and wise, turned toward Gāndhārī, who stood beside her lord like a tree struck by lightning, her veil drenched in tears. He said:
“O queen, thy sons have fallen in glory. Fearless in battle, striking down their foes by thousands, they met their end like true Kṣatriyas—standing firm, unbent, facing death with arms in hand.
Know that they now dwell in those radiant worlds attained only by the valorous—where heroes slain in battle shine like the gods. None turned back, none sought mercy. Each fell with weapon drawn, and thus reached the highest reward decreed for warriors.
Grieve not, O mother of heroes. The Pāṇḍavas themselves have not been spared sorrow. Hear now what we, driven by wrath, did unto them.”
“Thy son, O Queen,” he continued, “was slain unrighteously by Bhīma while the laws of battle were forgotten. Maddened by grief and vengeance, we entered their camp by night, when all slept, and struck them down.
The sons of Drupada, the sons of Draupadī—all perished beneath our blades. Every warrior of the Pāñcālas met his doom. Thus have we avenged the fall of thy sons. But now, pursued by fate, we dare not remain.
The Pāṇḍavas, lions among men, will learn of our deed. Inflamed with fury, they will come swiftly upon our track. Forgive us, O queen—grant us thy leave to depart before their vengeance falls. And thou, O King, endure this trial with the fortitude of thy race. Bear thy sorrow as a Kṣatriya should, with heart unshaken and soul uplifted.”
Having spoken thus, the three heroes—Kṛpa, Kṛtavarmā, and the son of Droṇa—circumambulated the grieving monarch, bowing to him in reverence. Yet they could not turn their eyes away from Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s face, drawn with anguish yet majestic still.
Then, with heavy hearts, they mounted their chariots once more. They took their leave of one another in silence, knowing that destiny had severed the bond of comradeship forged in battle.
Kṛpa, the preceptor’s son, turned his steeds toward Hastināpura. Kṛtavarmā returned to his own realm among the Sātvatas. And Aśvatthāmā, burdened with guilt and wrath, sought refuge in the forest hermitage of Vyāsa.
Thus did those three warriors—offenders against the high-souled sons of Pāṇḍu—depart upon their separate ways, haunted by fear and shadowed by remorse.
Before the sun had risen above the mourning earth, they were gone, O King—each to his fate.
Afterward, the sons of Pāṇḍu, learning of Aśvatthāmā’s deed, pursued and encountered him; and in that final meeting, as already told, they overcame him by the power of their might and righteousness.