novelraw Arc 6 - Strī-vilāpa Parva - Chapter 2 - Gandhārī’s Lament to Kṛṣṇa II
Arc 6 - Strī-vilāpa Parva - Chapter 2 - Gandhārī’s Lament to Kṛṣṇa II
Vaiśampāyana said:
Still gazing upon the ocean of slaughter, the saintly queen Gandhārī turned once more to Kṛṣṇa, her heart heavy as the earth herself. Her tears had no end; they fell like streams upon the dead, washing their dust-stained ornaments.
Gandhārī said:
“O Mādhava, behold that youth—
the son of Arjuna and of Subhadrā,
whose might and courage, men said,
exceeded by half the power of his sire and even thine.
He was a lion among warriors—
alone he pierced the circle of my sons,
alone he became death to many.
Alas, he too lies low, slain by the gathering of foes!”
Vaiśampāyana said:
She pointed to where Abhimanyu, the radiant child of Arjuna, lay upon the blood-stained ground. Though pierced by countless shafts, his splendour was undiminished; death had not quenched the light born of his lineage. His face was still the full moon’s disc, serene even in ruin.
“See there, O Kṛṣṇa,” said Gandhārī, “the daughter of Virāṭa, that bride of flawless beauty, the wife of the wielder of the Gāṇḍīva’s son. She kneels beside her lord, gently rubbing his blood-drenched body with her hand.
Once she embraced him bashfully after the cups of honeyed wine, pressing her lips upon that face bright as a lotus, adorned with the three lines of a conch upon the neck. Now she gazes, weeping, upon that same face—cold and crimsoned in dust. She removes his shattered mail of gold and holds his locks in her trembling hands.”
“She cries to thee, O Lotus-eyed One,
‘This hero whose glance was thine, is gone.
Equal in beauty, strength, and grace,
He sleeps upon the earth’s embrace.
O sinless One, behold him now,
The moon of Kurus, pale of brow.
Thy equal once in might and flame—
Why lies he still, bereft of name?’”
Vaiśampāyana said:
That gentle girl, maddened by sorrow, spoke again to her lifeless lord:
“Thou wert nurtured in every delight,
and slept upon the skins of the ranku deer.
Now the bare ground is thy bed—
does it not pain thy limbs, beloved?
Thy mighty arms, adorned with golden bracelets
and hardened by the bowstring,
lie stretched in peace as though weary of play.
Why dost thou not speak to me, who weeps beside thee?
Never did I offend thee, even in jest—
yet thou answerest me not.
Once thy voice would greet me from afar;
now silence is thy only word.”
Then, lifting his head, she placed it upon her lap and continued:
“O lord, whither goest thou, leaving thy mother Subhadrā,
thy grandsires, and me—the wretched, desolate one?
O lion among men, how could they slay thee—
nephew to Vāsudeva, son to the wielder of the Gāṇḍīva?
Fie upon the cruel ones—Kṛpa, Karṇa, Drona, Jayadratha,
and the son of Drona—
who joined together to slay thee, a youth unwed to death!
How could so many strike one so young?”
Vaiśampāyana said:
And Gandhārī, repeating her words, said to Kṛṣṇa:
“Behold, O Keśava, that tender bride questioning fate itself. She asks why her lord, surrounded by heroes, found none to save him. She wonders how his sire, Arjuna, can bear the weight of life when this child lies fallen.
She says, ‘Neither kingdom nor victory can gladden the sons of Pāṇḍu now, deprived of thee, O lotus-eyed hero. I shall soon follow thee, practising virtue and restraint, until I reach the worlds thou hast won by thy valour. When my hour comes, protect me then, O husband of short-lived joy!’
Alas, O Mādhava, she calls to him still, but he answers not. Her voice rises like that of a swan lost in the reeds, crying to one who cannot hear.”
“Six moons of joy the gods allowed,
Then rent apart the nuptial shroud.
The seventh saw fate’s relentless hand,
And youth was dust upon the land.
O bride of tears, thy vow is done,
The field of life no more is won.
His smile abides in realms above—
Remembered in thy mortal love.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then Gandhārī pointed further, her eyes roaming over the desolation:
“Behold, O Kṛṣṇa, the women of Matsya dragging away Uttarā, who faints and struggles, bereft of hope. They, though stricken themselves, strive to lead her from her husband’s corpse. Her wails pierce the heavens.
See also her grandsire, the king Virāṭa, lying mangled by the shafts of Droṇa. Around his body scream the vultures and jackals, and the queens of Matsya strive to turn him, but their strength fails; they fall beside him, pale and sun-scorched.
And look, O Mādhava, upon the other royal youths—Uttara, Sudakṣiṇa of the Kāmbojas, and Lakṣmaṇa, my own grandson—all lying still upon the field. The earth drinks their blood; their splendour glows like sunset upon her breast.”
“The mothers moan, the brides are dumb,
The drums of war forever numb.
The wind repeats their names in vain—
Only the jackal answers again.
O Time, thou dancer on the pyre,
Thy feet are blood, thy breath is fire.
The race of Bharata sleeps and lies,
While Heaven weeps through mortal eyes.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus ended the lament of Gandhārī, the mother of the Kurus, whose sorrow embraced friend and foe alike. Her voice was the echo of destiny, her tears the final consecration of Kurukṣetra. The cries of the women, the moans of beasts, and the sighing of the wind mingled into one vast requiem for a world undone.
And Kṛṣṇa, silent as eternity, stood amidst the ruin—his eyes full of compassion, bearing in his heart the grief of gods and men alike.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then Gandhārī, her eyes hollowed by ceaseless weeping, looked once more upon the desolate plain. Her gaze fell upon a form bright even in death — the mighty Karṇa, son of Vikartana, the unswerving archer, the terror of armies.
Gandhārī said:
“Behold, O Mādhava, there lieth Karna, that great bowman, that fire among warriors! Once blazing with wrath and splendour on the field, that fire is now extinguished by the might of Pārtha. See how the son of Vikartana, who struck down many a lord of chariots, lies prostrate upon the blood-soaked earth, his glory mingled with the dust.
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Fierce of energy, firm of hand, the hero who shook the world lies still—slain by the wielder of the Gāṇḍīva. My sons, trembling before their foes, had gathered behind him in battle, even as a herd of elephants follows its tusker chief.
But now, O Keśava, that tusker lies low—
the tiger slain by the lion,
the elephant struck by the elephant’s fury.
Karna, protector of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s sons,
lies stretched like a great tree uprooted by the storm.”
“He burned like fire at yuga’s end,
None could his blazing wrath defend.
Unmoved as Himavat he stood,
Till fate consumed his hero’s blood.
Now still he lies, the storm is past,
His bow unstrung, his breath the last.
The wind alone repeats his name—
The world forgets its lord of flame.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then Gandhārī, beholding the wives of Karṇa—noble women once bedecked in gold and fragrance—now seated in dust around the fallen hero, spoke again to Kṛṣṇa.
“Behold, O Lord of the Yādavas, the women of Karṇa—dishevelled, wailing, and maddened with grief. Their cries rise like the cries of cranes in storm. They cling to his blood-stained limbs; they beat their breasts and faint upon his body.
Once the source of terror to kings, he lies silent amid carrion birds. The queen of that mighty warrior, the mother of Vṛṣasena, writhes upon the earth, crying aloud, ‘Alas! Surely thy preceptor’s curse hath pursued thee, O my lord! When the wheel of thy car was swallowed by the earth, the cruel Dhanañjaya smote off thy head with his arrow! Fie upon the justice of war and the glory of heroes!’
Behold, O Mādhava, the mother of Suṣeṇa, stricken by double sorrow—husband and son alike consumed by battle’s flame. Her voice is broken; her form trembles; she falls and rises again, senseless in anguish. She clasps his golden girdle about his lifeless waist, and presses her lips upon his dust-stained face.”
“The moon is dimmed on the dark night’s crest,
The sun of courage sinks to rest.
The helm, the mail, the golden zone—
Still shine, though soul and heart are gone.
His queens, like vines in tempest tossed,
Embrace the trunk their world hath lost.
Their cries are waves that lash the shore—
Of Time’s vast sea forevermore.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus spoke Gandhārī, her lament now a hymn to the ruin of heroes. Her heart that had borne the weight of a hundred sons now broke under the sorrow of all who fell. Around her lay the ashes of the world’s pride—the sons of kings, the guardians of dharma, the scions of fate.
The field of Kurukṣetra had become a single altar of sacrifice, where every vow, every curse, and every destiny had been fulfilled. And as the last cry of mourning faded into the wind, Kṛṣṇa, silent and infinite, gazed upon the slain with eyes of compassion deeper than time.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then the noble queen Gandhārī, still surrounded by the widowed women of the Kuru house, looked again upon the crimson plain where the mighty had fallen. Turning to Kṛṣṇa, she spoke with a trembling voice, her words slow as the tolling of a bell.
Gandhārī said:
“Behold, O Mādhava, there lies the lord of Avanti,
struck down by Bhīmasena’s mace!
The vultures and jackals feed upon that hero,
once dreaded by countless foes.
Surrounded by many friends in life,
he lies now utterly friendless.
See, O Slayer of Madhu, how Time overturns all— the victor becomes the feast of carrion birds. That warrior who spread terror among hosts now sleeps the hero’s sleep, his couch the blood-soaked ground, his canopy the shadow of circling kites.”
“O sons of men, behold your fate—
The conqueror’s pride, the monarch’s state!
The hand that ruled, the arm that slew,
Lies still beneath the vultures’ view.
Time’s wheel returns, the strong are weak,
The bright is pale, the proud is meek;
And in the dust where kings have trod,
The beasts now feast—the gift of God.”
Gandhārī said:
“See there, O Keśava—Pratīpa’s son Bāhlīka,
the aged bowman of spotless fame,
lies stretched upon the field, his broad chest pierced by a single shaft.
Though life has left him, his face shines still—
radiant as the full moon on the fifteenth night.
Alas! Arjuna, son of Indra, inflamed with grief for his own kin, has slain that venerable one, the son of Vṛddhakṣatra, to fulfil his vow.
Behold also Jayadratha, lord of the Sindhus, his pride laid low by the arrow of Pārtha, after the vow of vengeance had carried him through eleven akṣauhiṇīs of war. Vultures now feed upon his form, while his Yavana and Kāmboja queens, their hair undone, strive in vain to drive the beasts away.”
“The Sindhu’s lord lies cold and bare,
The wind still stirs his perfumed hair;
The wives who sang his praise of old
Now guard his dust from jackals bold.
The vows of kings are vows of fire—
They burn their house, they burn their sire.
The net of fate no hand may stay,
The hunter Time must have his prey.”
Gandhārī said:
“Once, O Janārdana, when this Jayadratha,
aided by the Kekayas, sought to ravish Draupadī,
the sons of Pāṇḍu had spared him—
for love of my daughter Duḥśalā, his queen.
Why, O Kṛṣṇa, was that same compassion not shown again?
My daughter of tender years, now widowed, wanders the field in frenzy,
beating her breast and cursing fate.
Behold her, O Acyuta! She has cast off fear and shame, and runs among the corpses searching for her husband’s head. Once he checked the might of the Pāṇḍavas, guarding the gateway of the array, but at last the storm of Arjuna’s vow consumed him.
Now his wives—Kamboja and Sindhu maidens, faces fair as the moon—sit weeping round their lord, crying aloud in accents wild, as elephants cry beside the fallen chief of their herd.”
“The daughter weeps, the mothers moan,
The queens are widowed, left alone;
The Sindhu’s tide is red with tears,
The world is drowned in widow’s fears.
O Lord of Time, thy mercy spare—
The heart of woman thou dost tear!
No gift, no vow, no battle’s gain,
Can heal a mother’s endless pain.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus lamented Gandhārī, beholding the fall of Avanti’s lord, of Bāhlīka, of Jayadratha, and the countless kings of Bhārata. The field of Kurukṣetra lay silent save for the sob of widows and the cry of circling birds.
And Kṛṣṇa, the Eternal Witness, stood listening—
his heart vast as the sky,
bearing within it the grief of all creation.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then Gandhārī, whose eyes were swollen with tears, gazed again upon the crimson plain. Around her lay the ashes of the Kuru race; before her, the bodies of kings and heroes who had once sustained the earth. Turning to Kṛṣṇa, her voice trembling between wrath and sorrow, she spoke once more, each name she uttered a flame of grief.
Gandhārī said:
“Behold, O Mādhava, there lies Śalya, the ruler of Madra—maternal uncle to Nakula—slain in battle by the righteous Yudhiṣṭhira. In life he boasted equality with thee, O Keśava, in strength and wisdom. Now he lies silent upon the earth, his chariot shattered, his bow unstrung. When he took the reins of Karṇa’s car, his heart leaned to the sons of Pāṇḍu; thus destiny found its path. Look, O Kṛṣṇa, upon his face, once fair as the moon, now eaten by crows. His golden tongue, rolling from his mouth, is torn by the birds of prey. Around him sit the women of Madra, weeping and wailing, circling their fallen lord like elephants mourning their chief.”
The moon is pale, its light undone,
The voice of Madra’s king is gone.
The lips that counselled, wise and sweet,
Now lie beneath the vultures’ feet.
O Time, thou dancer fierce and blind,
Thou leav’st no crown, no creed behind.
The strong, the pure, alike are thine—
Their dust is incense on thy shrine.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Still pointing with her trembling hand, Gandhārī looked farther upon the slain. Her voice fell lower, as if speaking to the wind that passed over Kurukṣetra.
Gandhārī said:
“Behold also Bhagadatta, lord of mountains and elephants, lying there slain. Even now the garland of gold upon his head gleams amid the feeding of beasts. His locks, once fragrant with sandal, are torn by the beaks of vultures. Fierce was the battle between him and Pārtha—terrible as that between Indra and Vṛtra. Though he shook the son of Pṛthā to his very heart, he fell at last before that unfailing bow.”
The king of peaks, the lord of might,
Is fallen low from mountain height.
His garland burns with golden gleam,
While vultures haunt his final dream.
He fought as gods in battle vie,
Till Partha’s hand had dimmed his sky.
And now the hills and forests mourn,
For Bhagadatta is forlorn.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then her gaze, filled with reverence and sorrow, turned to the grandsire of her race, Bhīṣma, who lay upon his bed of arrows.
Gandhārī said:
“Behold, O Kṛṣṇa, the son of Śāntanu, the Sun among men, lying stretched upon the field like the day-star fallen from heaven. Having scorched his foes with the fire of his weapons, that valiant warrior hath now set like the real Sun at dusk. His body shines with unearthly light, his brow calm as the evening sky. He who was equal to the gods in wisdom lies upon his bed of barbed and unbarbed arrows, his head resting on three shafts given by Arjuna—the perfect pillow for a perfect vow.”
The Sun has set before its time,
The river weeps, the conchs resound.
The grandsire sleeps on thorns of steel,
The world forgets its sacred ground.
He blazed in truth, in dharma’s flame,
Till righteousness consumed his name.
The vow he kept, the world he led—
Now heaven holds his arrow-bed.
Vaiśampāyana said:
She wept long, her tears mingling with the dust that clung to the arrows. Then her eyes turned toward the still form of the preceptor—Droṇa, the Brahmana of mighty arms.
Gandhārī said:
“Behold, O Janārdana, that foremost of teachers, the preceptor of princes, lying still upon the earth. Equal to Indra in battle and to Śukra in knowledge, he once guided both the Kauravas and the Pāṇḍavas. The handle of his bow is still in his grasp; the leather guards remain upon his fingers. The Vedas and the weapons have not left him, even as they do not forsake Prajāpati himself.
Alas, his sacred feet—once adorned with sandal paste and adored by kings—are now dragged by jackals. See there his wife, the noble Kṛpī, fallen upon the ground, her hair dishevelled, her face pressed into the dust. She clings to her husband’s body, striving to perform the last rites though fainting with grief. Around her stand his disciples, Brahmachārins with matted locks, piling the funeral pyre with bows, arrows, and broken car-boxes.
They sing the three holy Sāmas as they light the pyre, their voices mingling with tears. Fire consumes fire; the teacher returns to flame. When the last hymn is sung, they walk toward the banks of the Gaṅgā, placing Kṛpī at their head, her cry echoing across the silent field.”
The bow is bound within his hand,
The teacher sleeps—no more command.
The Veda’s chant, the warrior’s flame,
Unite to praise his deathless name.
The students sing, the river sighs,
The smoke ascends through weeping skies.
The world grows dim, the ages fade—
Its lamp of wisdom lowly laid.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus ended the lament of Gandhārī, daughter of Subala, mother of a hundred sons. Her voice, broken by grief, became the dirge of an age; her tears fell like offerings upon the ashes of the world. Around her, the widows of kings wept; above her, the wind carried the cry of earth herself.
And Kṛṣṇa, silent and infinite, stood amidst the ruin—his eyes filled with compassion for the sorrow that no god could measure.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then Gandhārī, the daughter of Subala, still gazing upon that ocean of slaughter, turned her tear-dimmed eyes toward the fallen lord of the Bāhlikas. Her voice was faint and slow, yet filled with the power of a mother’s boundless grief.
Gandhārī said:
“Behold, O Mādhava, the son of Somadatta—Bhūriśravā—slain by Yuyudhāna, lying upon the earth, torn and pecked by cruel birds! His father Somadatta, who in life rejoiced in his son’s prowess, now lies silent, seeming even in death to reproach the great archer who smote his child.
There sits his mother, that faultless queen, overcome with woe, speaking to her lord Somadatta:
‘By good fortune, O king, thou dost not see this carnage of the Bharatas, this ruin of the Kurus, this scene of doom like the world’s end! By good fortune thou dost not behold thy son—the tiger among men, whose banner bore the sacrificial stake—slain upon this dreadful field.
Thou hearest not, O king, the cries of thy daughters-in-law, their wails rising like flocks of cranes upon a stormy sea! Bereft of husbands and sons, they wander here, each with a single garment, their hair unbound, their hearts broken. By good fortune, thou seest not thy son, deprived of one arm, overthrown by Arjuna, now devoured by beasts of prey.
Behold, thy golden umbrella torn upon the terrace of his car; thy son Bhūriśravā lies low, his limbs scattered, while his widowed brides surround him, lamenting in grief.’”
“The king sleeps still, the son is gone,
The house of Bāhlika undone.
The wives cry out, the vultures call,
The sun burns dim on Kuru’s wall.
One arm remains—ah, cruel fate!
Still fair, still strong, yet desolate.
The hand that loosed the maiden’s zone,
Now cold and severed lies alone.”