novelraw Arc 5- Jalapradānika Parva - Chapter 4 - Dhṛtarāṣṭra Tries to Kill Bhima
Arc 5- Jalapradānika Parva - Chapter 4 - Dhṛtarāṣṭra Tries to Kill Bhima
Vaiśampāyana said:
After all the warriors had fallen and the field lay silent beneath the sky, King Yudhiṣṭhira the just heard that his aged uncle Dhṛtarāṣṭra had set out from Hastināpura—the city named after the elephant—to behold the place of his sons’ destruction.
Grieved beyond measure for the loss of his hundred brothers, Yudhiṣṭhira, that foremost of righteous men, set forth to meet him, accompanied by his brothers—the sons of Pāṇḍu—and by Keśava, the mighty Kṛṣṇa of the Vṛṣṇi race, who ever stood beside them as friend and protector.
Sātyaki and Yuyutsu followed also; and behind them came Draupadī, her heart scorched with sorrow, surrounded by the weeping women of the Pāñcāla race.
When they reached the sacred banks of Gaṅgā, they beheld a sea of lamenting women—
the ladies of the Kuru house,
crying aloud like a flock of she-ospreys bereft of their young.
Their arms were raised to the heavens, their voices mingled in a storm of anguish, uttering words both gentle and bitter:
“Where is righteousness now, O King?
Where is truth, and where compassion,
since thou hast slain thy sires and brothers,
thy teachers, sons, and friends?
How rests thy heart in peace,
after felling Droṇa and Bhīṣma,
Jayadratha and countless kin?
What need hast thou of kingship,
having seen thine own blood spilled upon the dust—
sons of Draupadī, Abhimanyu the lion-born,
and all the noble scions of the Bharata line?”
Through that wailing crowd Yudhiṣṭhira passed with lowered head. The mighty-armed king, whose heart was heavy as the earth herself, approached his blind uncle and bowed low at his feet. The Pāṇḍavas, following their brother, saluted the aged monarch one by one, each announcing his name with reverence.
Dhṛtarāṣṭra, whose heart was torn with sorrow, touched Yudhiṣṭhira’s head with trembling hands and embraced him with reluctant affection, for before him stood the cause of his sons’ destruction.
Then, after a few words of comfort, the old king sought Bhīma—his heart inflamed by wrath, his breath rising like a storm. His fury, kindled by grief, blazed within him like fire fanned by the wind.
Kṛṣṇa, perceiving his purpose, knew at once the danger. The wise son of Vasudeva drew Bhīma aside and, by his divine foresight, placed in his stead a statue of iron—an image of Bhīmasena that had once been made by Duryodhana himself for training in the art of mace-fighting.
When the blind king’s arms closed around that iron form, he clasped it with all his might. With the strength of ten thousand elephants he crushed it to fragments, believing it to be Bhīma himself. The image shivered beneath his grasp; iron bent and splintered, and Dhṛtarāṣṭra, his own chest bruised by the effort, fell to the ground vomiting blood.
He lay there, covered in the dust of the road, like a great tree uprooted in storm—its flowers fallen, its glory gone.
Sañjaya, his faithful charioteer, quickly raised him up, bathing his face and crying, “Restrain thyself, O King! Do not act so!”
The fire of wrath left Dhṛtarāṣṭra, and grief took its place. In a voice broken by tears he wailed:
“Alas, O Bhīma! Alas, O Bhīma!”
Then Kṛṣṇa, compassionate and wise, said softly to the aged monarch:
“Be calm, O Dhṛtarāṣṭra, and grieve not—for Bhīmasena lives. The one thou hast crushed was but an image of iron, wrought long ago by thy son. Seeing thy anger rise like a tempest, I foresaw this and drew the son of Kuntī away from thy path.
Thou art mighty indeed, O King. Who among men could endure the grasp of thine arms? Even Death himself spares none that he seizes—such is thy strength.
But this act, O son of Vicitravīrya, born of rage and sorrow, would have brought thee no peace. The death of Bhīma would not restore thy sons to life. Therefore, we devised this means, that thy fury might spend itself harmlessly, and the bond of our race be spared further ruin.
Restrain thy heart, O monarch, and let peace return to thy soul. For grief serves no end, and wrath burns only its own bearer. Accept what has been ordained and turn thy mind again to virtue.”
Thus spoke the high-souled Kṛṣṇa, his words like cool rain falling upon a burning field. And Dhṛtarāṣṭra, understanding at last, bowed his head and wept—not in anger now, but in the weary sorrow of one who knows that destiny has claimed all.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then certain maidservants, trembling yet attentive, came near the aged monarch and began to wash and cleanse him of the blood and dust that had gathered upon his limbs. When the king had been duly bathed and refreshed, Vāsudeva, the slayer of Madhu, turned to him once more and spoke with gentle firmness:
“O King,” said Kṛṣṇa, “thou hast studied the Vedas and the sacred law, heard the histories of old, and learned the duties of kings from the lips of sages. Thou art wise, discerning of time and place, and steadfast in thought.
Why then dost thou still cherish this wrath, when all that has befallen thee has sprung from thine own deeds?
Before the battle, I warned thee. So too did Bhīṣma, Drona, Vidura, and even Sañjaya—each out of love for thee. Yet, though well advised, thou wouldst not listen. Knowing the Pāṇḍavas to be thy superiors in strength and virtue, thou didst still follow the counsel of thy misguided son.
He who heeds the words of his well-wishers—distinguishing right from wrong, and knowing when to act and when to refrain—wins peace and prosperity. But he who, blinded by affection or pride, rejects such counsel, brings ruin upon himself and is left to lament his folly.
Rule thyself now, O Bhārata, with a heart firm in restraint. For it was not the fault of others but thine own indulgence that brought this storm upon thy house.
Thou didst allow thy heart to be governed by Duryodhana’s will. The harvest of his pride and thy blindness thou now reapest. Why then seekest thou vengeance upon Bhīma?
Recall the past, O King—the outrage wrought upon the princess of Pāñcāla in the midst of the royal court. That foul deed, born of arrogance and sin, has now found its just requital at Bhīma’s hand.
Behold thine own transgressions, and those of thy son—cruel, faithless, and proud. The sons of Pāṇḍu are innocent. Yet they suffered long, driven from home and kingdom, wronged by thee and thine. Let this truth, O monarch, be the salve for thy burning heart.”
When Kṛṣṇa had thus spoken, his voice calm as truth itself, Dhṛtarāṣṭra, the son of Vicitravīrya, bowed his head and said in a low, trembling voice:
“It is even as thou hast said, O Mādhava. Every word of thine is truth. It was parental love—blinding, unrestrained—that led me astray from righteousness.
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By good fortune, that mighty Bhīma, tiger among men, whom my wrath sought to destroy, escaped my fatal embrace through thy wisdom.
Now the fire within me is quenched. My anger and fever have departed. I long only to clasp that hero, the son of Vāyu, whose strength is as the storm’s, and to hold the sons of Pāṇḍu—my only hope and refuge left upon this earth.
All my sons are gone, and the lords of men are slain. Upon the children of Kuntī rests my future peace.”
Then, weeping, the old king rose and embraced his nephews—first the mighty Bhīmasena and the great archer Dhanañjaya, then the two sons of Mādrī, Sahadeva and Nakula.
The four brothers bowed low before him, their eyes moist, their hearts softened by his words. The aged monarch blessed them with trembling hands, and tears of both sorrow and affection flowed down his cheeks.
Thus, amid the ashes of war and the silence of mourning, the enmity of generations was laid to rest by wisdom and the grace of forgiveness.
Vaiśampāyana said:
At the command of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, the sons of Pāṇḍu—those bulls among men—accompanied by Keśava, the slayer of Madhu, proceeded to meet the queen Gāndhārī.
That noble lady, faultless in her austerity yet seared by grief, sat veiled beside the river, her heart blazing like fire hidden beneath ashes. The memory of her hundred sons—heroes all, now dust upon the field—rose before her mind like smoke from a funeral pyre.
When she heard that Yudhiṣṭhira the just was approaching, whose hand had slain her sons in battle, wrath stirred within her breast like a storm gathering over still waters. Her lips quivered with the urge to utter a curse—words that could have burned the earth itself.
But even before the curse could take form, the son of Satyavatī—divine Vyāsa, master of truth and seer of all worlds—appeared there, radiant like flame in still air.
Having purified himself in the waters of Gaṅgā, the great ṛṣi came with mind serene and sight that pierced the hearts of men. By his ascetic power, he knew the rising tempest in Gāndhārī’s mind and spoke to her in calm, resounding tones that stilled the air.
“O daughter-in-law,” said Vyāsa, “do not yield to wrath.
Let forgiveness, not fury, be thy offering at this hour.
This is not the time for a curse,
but for mercy born of wisdom.
Remember thy own words—
each day, for eighteen days, thy son implored thee,
‘Bless me, O mother, that victory may be mine.’
And each time thou didst reply:
‘Where righteousness is, there victory must dwell.’
Never once did thy words prove false.
Would they be false now, when destiny itself has fulfilled them?
Those sons of Pāṇḍu fought upon the side of dharma.
By righteousness they conquered,
and by righteousness their fame shall endure.
Forgive, then, O Gāndhārī,
for thou hast ever been the very image of virtue.
Restrain thy words as the wise restrain their breath,
and remember—the victory of the righteous is the victory of the world.”
Hearing the sage’s counsel, Gāndhārī bowed her veiled head and answered in a trembling voice:
“O holy one, my heart bears no hatred for the sons of Pāṇḍu.
I wish them no harm; I know their cause was just.
Yet grief, like a serpent, coils within me—
its venom born of the death of my sons.
I know that I should guard the sons of Kuntī as my own,
even as Kuntī guards them with a mother’s heart,
and that my lord Dhṛtarāṣṭra too should cherish them
as he once cherished his children.
But alas, through the blindness of Duryodhana,
through the deceit of Śakuni,
through the pride of Karṇa and the cruelty of Duḥśāsana,
the great house of the Kurus has been laid in ruins.
For this, no blame rests upon Yudhiṣṭhira the just,
nor upon Vṛkodara, nor Arjuna,
nor upon the twin sons of Mādrī.
In battle, my sons, swollen with arrogance,
fell before destiny’s sword.
Yet one act—one cruel blow—burns still within me.
Bhīma, mighty in wrath, struck Duryodhana beneath the navel
after challenging him in fair combat of maces.
He knew my son excelled him in skill,
and so smote him where the law forbade.
That wound—
that breach of the warrior’s dharma—
lies like fire in my heart.
Why should heroes, to save their lives,
cast away the sacred rule of honour
established by the high-souled and the wise?”
Thus spoke Gāndhārī, her voice torn between righteousness and grief, her heart trembling between the calm of virtue and the storm of a mother’s loss.
The wind that passed over the river seemed to sigh with her sorrow,
and even the wise Vyāsa stood silent for a moment,
beholding the sorrow of one whose motherhood had been scorched by fate.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When Gāndhārī had spoken thus, her words tremulous with restrained fury, Bhīmasena—whose heart was strong in battle but shaken now by the grief of a mother—bowed before her and said humbly:
“O revered queen, whether my act was righteous or not, I did it through fear and for the protection of my life. Forgive me, therefore, O mother. Thy son was unmatched in strength and skill—none among men could have slain him fairly. It was for that reason alone that I struck him so.
Duryodhana had long since abandoned the path of truth. He conquered Yudhiṣṭhira at dice unrighteously; he scorned us in peace and pursued us in exile. For every deceit he dealt, he met his recompense.
Thy son was the last of his host still standing. If I had spared him, he would have slain me and taken from us our kingdom once more. Thou knowest, O queen, how he once mocked the daughter of Pāñcāla—how, in the midst of the royal hall, he showed his left thigh to Draupadī when she stood in but a single cloth. For that outrage alone, he deserved death.
Yet we bore it, restrained by the word of our elder brother Yudhiṣṭhira and the vow of peace. Many were our sufferings in the forest because of him. Remembering all this, I acted as I did. Now the enmity is over; Duryodhana lies slain, and the sons of Pāṇḍu have at last found peace. Our wrath is spent; our purpose fulfilled.”
Then Gāndhārī, her voice quivering with anguish, said:
“Since thou praisest my son for his prowess, O Bhīma, he deserved not such a death. Yet all that thou sayest of him is true. He sinned, and by his sins he perished.
But thou—when Vrishasena struck down Nakula’s steeds—didst drink, in the sight of all, the blood of Duḥśāsana! Such an act is cruel, unfit for a noble warrior, censured by the good. It is conduct suited to the low and faithless. O Vṛkodara, that deed of thine was unworthy of thee!”
Bhīma bowed again and answered softly:
“O mother, it is indeed unholy to taste the blood of even a stranger—how much more the blood of one’s kin! But I swear before thee, the blood of Duḥśāsana never passed my lips. It was my hand alone that was smeared with it. Karṇa knew this truth.
When Nakula was struck down by Vrishasena, I rushed like a lion to avenge him, and to strike fear into the hearts of those that rejoiced.
But remember, O queen, the vow I had taken in that accursed assembly—when thy sons laid hands upon Draupadī and dragged her by the hair. I swore before all that I would drink the blood of Duḥśāsana, and break Duryodhana’s thigh. Had I failed in that oath, I would have fallen from my warrior’s dharma forever.
It was for that vow, and for justice to the wronged queen of the Pāṇḍavas, that I did this act. Blame me not, O mother, for fulfilling the duty of vengeance when forgiveness had been denied us so long.
Thy sons sinned first, and thou didst not restrain them. Is it right, O noble one, to censure us now, who suffered and endured so much at their hands?”
Then Gāndhārī, her heart breaking anew, cried aloud:
“O child, thou hast slain a hundred sons of this old man! Couldst thou not have spared even one—one son, one staff for our blindness, one comfort for our age?
Hadst thou slain them in righteousness, I could have borne it; but knowing that my sons were cut down by guile and wrath, how shall I not grieve?
O Bhīma, even though thou livest unharmed, my heart is empty. For what is life to a mother when her children are gone?”
So saying, her voice faltered, and she turned her veiled face aside, asking in a low tone, “Where is the king?”
Then Yudhiṣṭhira, trembling and humble, advanced with folded hands and said:
“Here stands Yudhiṣṭhira, O blessed lady—he who, by fate and folly, has slain thy sons. I am the cause of this ruin. Therefore, curse me! I have no more use for life or kingdom or wealth. Having destroyed so many, I have made myself hateful to all that I love.”
At these words, Gāndhārī, overcome by sorrow, sighed deeply but spoke not. The noble queen, learned in dharma, restrained her voice and her anger. Yet within her veil, her sightless eyes turned upon Yudhiṣṭhira’s feet as he bent low before her.
By the power of her ascetic grief, the fire of her gaze scorched the nail of his toe, and a sore appeared upon it instantly—small, but burning as guilt itself.
Seeing this, Arjuna stepped behind Kṛṣṇa, and the other Pāṇḍavas drew back in awe. Then, the queen’s fury passed like a storm that spends itself. Her heart softened; she raised her hands and blessed them as a mother blesses sons returned from peril.
Obtaining her leave, those princes of great fame went to their own mother. Kuntī, long burdened with anxiety, beheld her sons once more and covered her face with her veil, weeping aloud. She saw upon their limbs the marks of many wounds, the scars of arrows and spears, and kissed each one in turn.
Beside her lay Draupadī, childless and broken, stretched upon the earth. Seeing her, Kuntī’s heart overflowed.
And Draupadī, her voice trembling, said:
“O venerable lady, where are all thy grandsons—Abhimanyu and the sons I bore? Why do they not come to greet thee? Bereft of my children, what use have I now for kingdom or life?”
Then Kuntī raised her daughter-in-law and held her close, whispering words of comfort. Together they went to Gāndhārī, their steps unsteady, their eyes dimmed with tears.
When Gāndhārī saw them thus, she said with compassion:
“O daughter, grieve not. Behold, I too am desolate. This ruin has come by the hand of Time, not through human will.
What was foretold by wise Vidura, when Kṛṣṇa’s plea for peace was spurned, has now come to pass. The tide of destiny is irresistible.
Weep not for those who fell in battle, for they have gained the warrior’s heaven. If thou grievest, who then shall console the rest of us?
This ancient race of Bharata has perished through my fault and through the folly of my sons. Let us, then, endure what must be borne, and seek peace in the knowledge that all this is but the play of Time.”
Thus spoke Gāndhārī, her heart purified by sorrow, her anger stilled, her words heavy with truth. And those two noble mothers—Kuntī and Gāndhārī—embraced amidst the smoke of grief, as the women of the Kuru house wept around them like the moaning of the sea after storm.