novelraw Arc 6 - Strī-vilāpa Parva - Chapter 3 - Gandhārī’s Accusation and Curse
Arc 6 - Strī-vilāpa Parva - Chapter 3 - Gandhārī’s Accusation and Curse
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then Gandhārī described to Kṛṣṇa the bitter cries of Bhūriśravā’s wives, who, weeping as one, gathered around their fallen lord.
Gandhārī said:
“They lift the severed arm of their husband upon their laps, and wail to it as though it yet could hear:
‘Here is the arm that clasped our waists, that guarded us in love and war. Here is the hand that loosed our girdles, that bestowed wealth and protection upon all, that slew the foe and succoured the friend!
Before the eyes of Vāsudeva himself, Arjuna smote thee, heedless, and cut off this arm while thou wert engaged with another in battle!
What, O Janārdana, shall men say of this? What shall Arjuna declare of himself in the assemblies of kings?’
Thus do they cry, reproaching both destiny and men, and falling to the ground, they faint again in sorrow.”
“The arm that gave, the arm that slew,
Now cold and torn by carrion crew.
The bracelets gleam, the gold is red,
The hand of love, the hand of dread.
O justice, blind! O fate, unkind!
Thy laws no mortal heart can find.
The strong are fallen, the meek are slain,
And virtue’s cry is lost in pain.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
And when her eyes had wept for Bhūriśravā, Gandhārī turned them once more to the shattered body of her own brother—the cunning prince of Gandhāra.
Gandhārī said:
“Behold, O Kṛṣṇa, there lies Śakuni, the master of deception, slain by Sahadeva, his sister’s son. In life he was fanned with golden fans; now his motionless form is stirred by the wings of birds.
Once he could assume a hundred forms; yet all his illusions were burnt away by the fire of the son of Pāṇḍu. That cunning one, who vanquished Yudhiṣṭhira in the game of dice and won a kingdom by deceit, has at last been vanquished by truth itself.
Look, O Mādhava—birds sit upon his corpse; his dice are scattered like pearls upon the mud. He had learned the art of falsehood for the ruin of my sons, and the fire he lit for others has consumed his own kin.
Yet even he, wicked-souled as he was, having died by the weapon, hath won the warrior’s realm of heaven. My only fear, O Slayer of Madhu, is that in those very regions of the dead, he may still sow discord among my children—simple, trusting, and noble as they are!”
“The gambler sleeps, his game is done,
His dice are bones, his prize is none.
The hand that tricked the virtuous king,
Now still beneath the vulture’s wing.
He sowed the storm, he reaps the pain,
The house he burned is his domain.
Yet still I fear his whispered art
May stir the dead, may break my heart.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus ended Gandhārī’s lament — her final dirge for the fallen of both lines. Her voice grew faint; her tears dried into silence. The wind upon Kurukṣetra carried the smoke of funeral pyres mingled with the scent of sandalwood and ash.
The field of righteousness had become a field of ruin. Kings, teachers, sons, and fathers — all were gone. And Kṛṣṇa, gazing upon that sea of sorrow, remained silent, for even the Eternal could not comfort a mother who had seen the end of her world.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then the noble Gandhārī, her eyes still clouded with tears, turned once more toward the slain kings of the earth. The field of Kurukṣetra had become an ocean of sorrow — the river of blood flowing through its heart bore the bodies of heroes like ships broken in storm. Her gaze fell upon the mighty rulers of distant lands, and again her grief poured forth like a flood.
Gandhārī said:
“Behold, O Mādhava, that irresistible ruler of the Kāmbojas, bull-necked and broad-chested, lying in the dust, though he was worthy to rest upon silken blankets from his own land. His wife weeps bitterly at the sight of his blood-stained arms that once were anointed with sandal paste.
Even now those arms, adorned with graceful fingers and lovely palms, resemble two spiked maces — the embrace of which once banished all my sorrow. Alas, what shall become of her, the Kāmboja queen, when she is deprived of her lord?”
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Her voice is sweet, yet choked with woe,
Her tears like rivers overflow.
The arms she clasps, once strong, divine,
Are cold as death, yet still her shrine.
O fate, thou cruel, cruel guest,
That rends the fairest from the best;
What joy can bloom, what night can cease,
When love lies slain, when hope finds peace?
Gandhārī said:
“Behold, O slayer of Madhu, the ruler of the Kaliṅgas, fallen on the ground, his mighty arms yet adorned with golden angadas. Behold those women of Magadha, wailing beside Jayatsena their lord, their long eyes bathed in tears. Their voices, soft as the song of swans, cry out so piteously that my heart is pierced anew.
Alas, these noble ladies, who once reclined upon jewelled couches, now lie upon the blood-soaked earth, their ornaments torn, their hair unbound. And there—see, O Janārdana—the wives of prince Bṛhadbala of Kosala pluck the arrows from his wounded chest, fainting again and again in grief. Their faces, once bright as lotuses, are now pale and withered beneath the burning sun.”
The queens of Magadha cry and fall,
Their jewels lost, their hearts in thrall.
The wives of Kosala faint and moan,
They cling to limbs no longer known.
The lotuses fade in the sun’s fierce glare,
Their fragrance lost to the burning air.
The world’s delight, the pride of men,
Has turned to dust — to dust again.
Gandhārī said:
“Behold, O Kṛṣṇa, the young sons of Dhṛṣṭadyumna, all adorned with golden garlands, lying slain by Droṇa. Like insects drawn to flame they rushed upon him whose chariot was fire, whose bow was its blaze, and whose arrows were the tongues of flame.
See too the five Kekaya brothers, valiant and fair, their armour shining like molten gold, lying with their faces turned toward that mighty preceptor. Their standards, cars, and garlands blaze upon the earth like sacrificial fires.
Behold Drupada, the king of the Pāñcālas, slain by Droṇa, fallen like an elephant beneath the lion’s paw. His white umbrella gleams still, O lotus-eyed one, like the autumn moon above his bier. His wives and daughters-in-law, bereft of sense, circle the pyre, keeping it to their right, and wail as the flames consume their lord.”
The sons of fire to fire have gone,
Their glory burned, their battle done.
The Kekayas lie in golden flame,
Their splendour lost, yet none their fame.
The moon-white shade of Drupada’s grace,
Still gleams above that lonely place.
The queens of Pāñcāla circle round,
Their tears the last libation found.
Gandhārī said:
“There, O Hrīṣīkeśa, lies Dhṛṣṭaketu of the Cedis, felled by Droṇa’s shafts — a mighty archer, his body torn but his fame untouched. His queens sit beside him, still beautiful though their tears fall upon the dust. His son, hacked by Droṇa in battle, lies beside his sire, his hand yet clutching his bow.
Even in death, he follows his father, as Lakṣmaṇa followed my son Duryodhana to the grave. Behold also, O Keśava, the brothers of Avanti—Vinda and Anuvinda—lying side by side upon the field, their golden armour gleaming like two fallen stars. Still armed, still crowned, they seem asleep though slain.”
Two blossoms fair on spring’s own tree,
Are torn and fallen ruthlessly.
The sons of Avanti lie as one,
Their shining day forever done.
The Cedi lord, the Cedi son,
Their bows are snapped, their race is run.
Yet love abides though life depart,
For death can never cleave the heart.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus, overwhelmed by grief, Gandhārī’s voice faltered. She turned to Kṛṣṇa, her sorrow now mingled with fury, and her words, once prayers, became flame.
Gandhārī said:
“O Kṛṣṇa, behold the power of Time! All these kings, these lions among men, capable of slaying even the gods, are now slain themselves! Nothing, O Mādhava, is impossible for destiny. My sons were doomed from the hour thou returnedst from Upaplavya, thy mission unfulfilled.
Śāntanu’s son and wise Vidura had warned me then—‘Withdraw thy heart from thy children, for they are bound for ruin.’ I heeded them not. Alas, their words have come to pass! All my sons are ashes upon the earth.”
The wheel of Time rolls dark and vast,
It spares no house, it breaks at last.
The kings are dust, their glories fade,
The mothers weep, the vows are paid.
O Kṛṣṇa, thou of lotus gaze,
Why didst thou watch in silent days?
When dharma fell, thy word was still,
And slaughter stalked from hill to hill.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Having uttered these words, Gandhārī, her strength exhausted, fell senseless upon the ground. When she rose again, her sorrow turned to wrath; her voice, now trembling with power, became a curse that shook even the hearts of gods.
Gandhārī said:
“O Kṛṣṇa, thou couldst have prevented this slaughter! Thou hast armies and eloquence, power and will — yet thou wast silent when both Kurus and Pāṇḍavas perished. Therefore, O Govinda, by the little merit I have earned through devotion to my lord, I curse thee!
Because thou wert indifferent while the Kurus destroyed each other, so too shalt thou, O Slayer of Madhu, witness the destruction of thine own kin. In the thirty-sixth year from this day, after causing the death of thy sons and kinsmen, thou shalt perish miserably in the wilderness. The women of thy race, bereft of sons and brothers, shall wail as these women wail today!”
O wielder of the disc divine,
The doom thou gav’st is now thine.
The tears of Kuru mothers flow,
And Yādava hearts shall taste that woe.
When thirty-six bright years are fled,
Thy kin shall fall, thy joy be dead.
And thou, O lord of men, shall die,
Unmourned beneath an empty sky.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Hearing the curse, Kṛṣṇa of Daśārha’s race smiled faintly and replied to the sorrowing queen with calm compassion.
Kṛṣṇa said:
“O Gandhārī of great vows, thou hast spoken truth. None save I can end the race of the Vṛṣṇis. By thy words thou hast aided the fulfilment of my own design. The Yādavas cannot be slain by men, gods, or demons. Therefore, as thou hast spoken, they shall fall by one another’s hand.”
Having said this, the eternal Kṛṣṇa stood silent. The Pāṇḍavas, hearing his words, were struck with fear and grief, for they understood that the wheel of destiny, once set in motion, spares neither the just nor the mighty.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When Gandhārī had uttered her dreadful curse, silence fell over the field of Kurukṣetra. The mothers and widows wept no longer with voice but with breath itself, like the sea mourning in quiet tides. Then the Holy One, the Lord of all, Vāsudeva Kṛṣṇa, beholding her overwhelmed by grief and anger, spoke gently yet firmly, like thunder softened by rain.
The Holy One said:
Arise, arise, O Gandhārī,
and turn thy heart from grief!
The earth is weary of thy tears,
for sorrow cannot bring relief.
It is by thy blindness, not by mine,
that this great ruin came;
Thy son was wicked, proud, and blind—
thou fed his heart with flame.
Envy burned within his breast,
disobedience was his breath;
Applauding all his sinful deeds,
thou hast shared his child’s dark death.
The dead or lost—why mourn anew?
Grief only doubles grief.
The wise withdraw, the steadfast know—
that tears give no relief.
Each creature bears for destined ends—
the cow for toil, the mare for speed,
The Śūdra wife for servitude,
the Brāhmaṇa’s for holy deed.
But thou, a queen of royal birth,
hast borne thy sons for strife;
For kings are born, O sorrowing dame,
to perish by the knife!