Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 6 - Strī-vilāpa Parva - Chapter 1 - Gandhārī’s Lament to Kṛṣṇa I

Vaiśampāyana said:

Having uttered these words, Gandhārī, though far from the field of Kurukṣetra, beheld with the sight of her inner vision the slaughter of her race. Her austerities had been long and her heart unshaken. Through the boon of the sage Vyāsa, she possessed the power to see beyond the limits of mortal eyes. That blessed queen—faithful to her lord, steadfast in truth, and purified by penance—beheld the ruin of her house as if it were before her very face.

The earth of Kurukṣetra was no longer a place of men but a charnel field of kings. Bones lay scattered like bleached conch shells upon the shore of death; severed arms, still clasping swords, jutted from the mud like the roots of trees torn up by storms. The rivers of blood ran mingled with the fragments of chariots and the ornaments of princes. The air resounded with the cries of jackals, vultures, and the wailing of widowed queens.

Then, at the command of the great Vyāsa, Dhṛtarāṣṭra, guided by Kṛṣṇa, went forth with all the Pāṇḍavas and the women of both lines to that dreadful field. There they saw the unthinkable—sires, sons, brothers, and husbands torn and devoured by beasts of prey. The cries of the women rose like waves breaking upon the rocks of grief.

The daughter of Subala, beholding that scene, turned to Kṛṣṇa, the lotus-eyed, and said with a trembling voice:

“Behold, O Mādhava, these daughters-in-law of mine,

With loosened hair and sorrow’s cry they shine.

Like she-birds calling to the sky,

They seek the dead who cannot reply.

Where kings once stood, the fires now sleep,

The earth drinks blood her sons did weep.

The Pandus and Kurus—one vast pyre—

Burnt in fate’s consuming fire.

See there, O Janārdana, Bhīṣma lies,

As if still guarding heaven with eyes.

Karna’s gold-clad arms still gleam,

Though life has faded like a dream.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

Thus did Gandhārī, burning with grief, speak unto the Slayer of Madhu. Her vision roamed across the plain—seeing the mangled bodies of her sons and the princes of both races. The queen who once walked among splendour now stood amid death’s dominion.

She pointed to the heaps of warriors—Bhīṣma, Drona, Karṇa, Abhimanyu, Drupada, Śalya—all lying like fallen fires, their jewels strewn upon the field like stars cast down from heaven.

“Where once conchs sounded and banners soared,

Now vultures feast where kings were lord.

No minstrels praise them at dawn’s first light,

Only jackals sing in the night.

Their beds were once of silken thread,

Now dust receives each noble head.

Perfume and sandal once crowned their breath,

Now blood and mire are the robes of death.”

And Gandhārī said again to Kṛṣṇa, grief-stricken:

“See, O Keśava, the wolves drag the golden chains from the necks of slain heroes; the ornaments that once adorned their triumphs now glitter in the jaws of beasts. Women who once rejoiced in festival now wander amid corpses. They mistake one head for another, one arm for a husband’s, one face for a son’s, and fall senseless upon the ground when the truth dawns.

Those fair faces, pale as moonlight, still glimmer in beauty, though the breath of life has fled. Behold, these princesses—unaccustomed to suffering—now lie in the blood of their kin, clutching at lifeless forms.

Truly, O Janārdana, I must have committed great sin in former lives, for I see before me this ruin of my house. My sons, my grandsons, my brothers—all lie slain. And yet I live.”

Then Gandhārī’s eyes, red with tears and blazing with anguish, fell upon her son Duryodhana.

“Alas! My child—proud as the sun,

Whose wrath no foe had ever shunned—

Now lies upon the trampled ground,

His crown, his pride, no longer found.

He who ruled the world with hand of might,

Lies vanquished now, bereft of light.

The storm that swept through kings and men,

Is silent dust—forever then.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

Thus lamented Gandhārī, the daughter of Subala, gazing upon her fallen son. The cry of the Kuru women rose once more, mingling with the wind. The field of Kurukṣetra became an ocean of tears and ashes. The earth, bathed in blood, seemed to groan beneath the weight of human sorrow.

Beholding her son Duryodhana, the queen Gandhārī, overwhelmed by the storm of grief, fell to the ground like a plantain tree struck down by the wind. The wail of her sorrow rose high over the plain of death. When consciousness returned, she beheld her son—his mighty frame drenched in blood, his ornaments dulled with dust—and she wept aloud, her heart breaking in waves of lamentation.

She flung herself upon his lifeless body, pressing her face upon his chest broad as the doorway of a palace, her tears mingling with the crimson earth. Her lips uttered again and again the cry, “Alas, O son! Alas, O son!” while her soul was consumed in agony.

Turning her tear-filled eyes toward Kṛṣṇa, who stood near, she spoke through sobs and remembrance.

“On the eve of battle, O Mādhava,

My son approached and spake—

‘Wish me victory, O Mother mine,

When dawn this field shall wake.’

Then said I, knowing doom was near,

‘Where stands dharma, there victory lies.’

O Keśava, my counsel true he heard—

Yet still he went to die.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

Thus lamented Gandhārī, her memory returning to that fatal moment when destiny sealed the fate of her race. She gazed upon Duryodhana—once the scourge of armies, now stretched upon the ground like an uprooted lord of the forest.

“Behold, O Kṛṣṇa,” said she, “this prince who ruled the earth without rival. The hand that held sceptre and sword now lies open and still. Once he was encircled by kings and courtiers eager for his pleasure; now, alas, vultures circle him with outstretched wings!

He who lay upon beds strewn with silk and sandalwood sleeps now upon the bare dust, his pillow a pool of blood. The fans that cooled his brow were once borne by fair maidens—today, carrion birds fan him with their wings. The mighty-armed one, whom Bhīma slew in battle, lies like an elephant felled by a lion. Surely, O Janārdana, he has attained the hero’s heaven, where the brave who fall by weapons dwell in eternal light.”

“He gathered eleven hosts of might,

Yet fell by fate’s unfailing hand;

His policy was fire and pride—

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Now ashes mark his shattered land.

The sceptre’s lord, whose glance could slay,

Lies cold where no banners wave;

The sun of Kuru’s race has set,

His throne exchanged for a warrior’s grave.”

Gandhārī then said:

“Alas! He spurned the counsel of Vidura, he disobeyed his aged sire; blinded by vanity, my reckless child has perished through his own folly. Once, I saw the earth under his sway—rich in steeds, elephants, and wealth; today, she is widowed and desolate, her womb emptied by the fury of war.

What need have I, O Mādhava, of life? For even as I behold my son, my heart burns within me like a torch. Look again, O Kṛṣṇa, upon this sight—his queen, the mother of Lakṣmaṇa, stands beside him, her hair dishevelled, her beauty clouded by grief.

She who once reclined in her husband’s embrace, adorned with golden ornaments and perfumed oils, now kneels in the dust beside his corpse. Her face, radiant like a sacrificial altar of gold, is pale and streaked with tears. Her hands strike her breast; her voice rises in anguish as she calls both husband and son by name.

At one moment she bends over the face of her child, at another over that of her lord. Between the two bodies her heart wanders—like a swan bewildered amid twin lotuses—unable to choose which grief to embrace.

Behold her, O Keśava—she falls again upon her husband’s chest, her limbs trembling. Though her radiance fades, she still shines like a lotus sinking beneath the water yet touched by sunlight. The princess rubs their faces, her tears washing the dust away, as though to restore them to life.

If the sacred law be true, if the śruti be not vain, then this king—slain upon the field of righteousness—has surely attained the celestial realms reserved for heroes who die by the weapon’s edge.”

“O Time, devourer of every race,

Thou makest kings and dreams erase.

The mighty fall, the frail remain,

The hearts of mothers bear the pain.

O fate, thou sculptor cold and blind,

Why strike the just, why spare the kind?

My son, my joy, my soul’s own breath—

Lies still beneath thy dust of death.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

Thus wailed the daughter of Subala, her voice echoing across the crimson plain. All around her, the women of the Kurus beat their breasts and wept, and the sound rose like a tide around the lifeless princes. The wind itself seemed to sigh; the sun dimmed behind the smoke of burning pyres.

In that hour of grief, Gandhārī’s sorrow was as vast as the earth itself, and even Kṛṣṇa, whose wisdom pierces all illusion, stood silent before the might of a mother’s woe.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then the aged and noble queen, the mother of a hundred princes, stood amidst the field of ruin and spoke to Kṛṣṇa, her voice trembling like a reed in the wind. Her veil hung torn; her eyes were red with weeping; yet her words bore the gravity of fate itself.

Gandhārī said:

“Behold, O Mādhava, my century of sons—mighty in arms, tireless in battle, the pride of the Kurus—all lie slain by Bhīmasena’s mace! Each one, who once filled the earth with the sound of his bowstring, now fills it with silence.

Yet what pierces my heart more than their fall, O Kṛṣṇa, is the sight of their widowed brides. These tender women, unaccustomed to the roughness of the earth, now wander barefoot through the mire of blood and ashes. Once they trod the jewelled terraces of Hastināpura; today they stumble among corpses, their ornaments shattered, their hair dishevelled.

They drive away vultures with frail arms, staggering as though intoxicated by grief. See that slender princess of spotless limbs—the mother of Lakṣmaṇa—who falls upon the dust, her cries rending the air like arrows of pain. Alas, my heart, though broken, still endures this sight!”

“Once queens of halls with sandal-air,

They walk through death with loosened hair.

Feet once gem-bound, soft and fair,

Now bleed on earth with sorrow bare.

The stars of court are dimmed in woe,

Their anklets mute, their faces low;

Through vultured sky their wailings go—

A river of grief, an endless flow.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

The daughter of Subala, faint with anguish, looked around upon the desolation. Broken chariots and slain elephants were the only pillars that upheld the widows’ trembling forms. Some leaned upon dead steeds; some sat beside their lords’ bodies, brushing away the dust with gentle hands as if by tenderness they could awaken them.

One woman, finding the severed head of her husband, lifted it to her breast. The pearls upon his ears still gleamed, and she gazed upon that face with eyes unseeing. Gandhārī, beholding it, uttered again:

Gandhārī said:

“O Janārdana, what sin have these women and I committed in other births that we are condemned to witness this ruin? Behold them, O Keśava—young, modest, fair as the daughters of the gods—fallen senseless in grief, uttering cries like flocks of cranes.

Their faces, once radiant as lotuses, are now scorched by the sun of sorrow. Their veils are torn; their ornaments scattered; and the world beholds them, once proud princesses, exposed to the gaze of common men.

See, O Govinda, the shields and standards of my sons, blazing still upon the earth—their moon-studded emblems, their golden mail and crowns—all gleaming like sacrificial fires quenched in blood.

There lies Duḥśāsana—slain by Bhīma, his limbs crimsoned, his blood drunk in wrath by that furious lion among men. There lies another son, struck down by Bhīma’s mace at the bidding of Draupadī, in memory of her insult at the dice-hall. The fate I foresaw has come to pass.”

“Once in pride they mocked the meek,

Now silence answers all they speak.

Once their laughter filled the hall,

Now vultures chant their funeral call.

The words they cast as burning brands

Have turned to fire in their own hands.

The dice they threw for power and fame

Have cast their house in death and shame.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

Gandhārī, remembering that fateful day, turned again to Kṛṣṇa, her voice trembling between fury and despair.

“On that dark day of dice, O Mādhava,” said she, “my Duḥśāsana, to please his brother and Karṇa, spoke vilely to Draupadī: ‘Enter our house, O slave’s wife!’ I warned Duryodhana then—‘Cast off Śakuni, for his heart is evil and he thirsts for quarrel. Make peace with the sons of Pāṇḍu before wrath consumes you. Think of Bhīmasena—burning, patient, and terrible when roused!’

But he heeded me not. Like a serpent provoked, he hurled his venomous words at those already wounded by insult. And now—behold!—he and his brothers lie stretched upon the field, their glory devoured by fate.”

“The wheel of Time has crushed their pride,

The house they built is crucified.

The mother weeps, the widows roam,

The throne of Kuru finds no home.

O righteous Lord whose will is flame,

The doer reaps, the deed the same;

And all that once was strong and high

Is dust beneath the changeless sky.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

Thus bewailed the noble Gandhārī, her tears flowing like sacred rivers over the slain. The cries of the Kuru women mingled with hers, echoing over Kurukṣetra like the lament of Earth herself for her fallen sons.

Even the wind seemed burdened with mourning; and the great-hearted Kṛṣṇa stood silent, bearing within his infinite compassion the grief of a world undone.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then Gandhārī, the venerable mother of the Kurus, turned her tear-drenched face once more to Kṛṣṇa, her voice trembling like a broken string. Her words came as sobs between the names of her slain children—each name a wound reopened.

Gandhārī said:

“Behold, O Mādhava, my son Vikarna, the wise and noble one—praised by all for his righteousness—lies there upon the ground, slain by Bhīmasena, his limbs torn and mangled. O Destroyer of Madhu, Vikarna, that moon among men, rests now amidst fallen elephants, even as the autumn moon lies shrouded by dark clouds in the sky.

His strong palm, hardened by the bowstring and cased in leather, is now torn by the beaks of vultures that strive to pierce it for food. His young wife, helpless and distraught, waves her hands in vain to drive them away.

Alas, O Keśava, the youthful, handsome Vikarna—nurtured in royal luxury, gentle in word, brave in deed—now sleeps upon the dust. Though pierced in all his vital parts by cloth-yard shafts and barbed arrows, the beauty of his form remains; the light of his face, O Govinda, still endures.”

“He spake for truth when none would hear,

Though wronged, he dared to draw too near.

Faithful amid the sinful throng,

His fall makes righteousness seem wrong.

O moon of Kuru’s night of pride,

Thy light is veiled though undenied.

Still bright thou art though life hath fled—

The living grieve, the pure are dead.”

Gandhārī said:

“There, O Kṛṣṇa, lies my son Durmukha, the slayer of many foes, who never turned his face from battle. Slain by the hand of Bhīmasena, he sleeps upon the field with his face still turned toward the enemy, as if awaiting the trumpet’s call. Behold, though beasts of prey have half-devoured his visage, that face still shines like the crescent moon upon the seventh day of light!

How, O Mādhava, could that lion of battle be slain? How could such a warrior, before whom no foe could stand, be brought to this dust?”

“He met the storm with fearless brow,

The storm is gone—he sleepeth now.

The fangs of beasts his beauty mar,

Yet still he gleams—a fallen star.

He lived in valour, died in fame,

Time cannot dim his warrior’s name.

But I, his mother, stand bereft—

Of hundred sons, not one is left.”

Gandhārī said:

“Behold, O Slayer of Madhu, my son Citrasena, that model among bowmen, now lifeless upon the earth. Around his body sit the widowed maidens, wailing beside the beasts of prey that circle near. The air trembles with two kinds of cries—the lament of women and the howls of wolves—and the mingled sound, O Keśava, seems strange and terrible to me.

There lies my son Vivimśati, youthful, beautiful, and strong, once surrounded by maidens as radiant as apsaras. His armour, pierced by arrows, is now but rags of splendour, his smile frozen upon his lips. Surrounded no longer by courtiers, he is attended now by vultures and kankas that guard him like grim sentinels.

Behold, his fair face, O Kṛṣṇa, adorned with brows like drawn bows and a nose as faultless as the point of a spear—it still resembles the full moon veiled in mist. Alas, the warrior who pierced the Pandava ranks lies upon the earth, the glory of his youth untarnished in death.”

“Soft were the hands that crowned his head,

Now dust and blood their garlands spread.

The smile that warmed the palace hall,

Still lingers though the shadows fall.

Where music played and maidens sung,

The vultures’ wings are o’er him flung.

The moon of youth is set too soon,

Yet shines upon this field of ruin.”

Gandhārī said:

“And there, O Govinda, lies my son Duḥsaha, fierce in might and fair of form. His body is covered with arrows, his garland of gold still bright. He was a hero who feared no foe, a jewel among princes, whose laughter filled the royal halls like music.

Behold him now, O Kṛṣṇa—his form glows like a mountain covered with blossoms of karnikāra, his armour gleaming even in death. His pride, his beauty, his prowess—they are not dimmed, though his life is gone. Like a snow-clad peak touched by fire, my son Duḥsaha shines upon the earth, glorious yet lifeless.”

“The garlands burn with golden hue,

Though life is fled, the light is true.

His mountain heart, his stormy hand,

Are silent dust, but proud they stand.

O sons of mine, O moons of night,

Your fall has veiled my house in blight.

The throne is gone, the crown undone,

My womb bears ashes—every son.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

Thus lamented the noble Gandhārī, her words falling like funeral chants upon the crimson field. The names of her sons rose and vanished like waves upon the sea of grief. Around her, the widows of the Kurus lay fainting among the corpses; and even the wind, carrying the scent of burnt flesh and flowers, seemed to wail in sorrow.

The sun grew dim behind the smoke of pyres; the sky hung low and heavy. And Kṛṣṇa, the Compassionate, stood silent—his heart vast as time, bearing within it the grief of the mother and the fall of the race.