While Kuntī and I waited for the thirteen years to end, my sons plotted to find the Pāṇḍavas during their concealment in Virāṭa’s kingdom — so that exile might begin anew.)
Meanwhile, whispers reached Hastinapura — Keechaka, the mighty general of Virāṭa, had been slain. I needed no further sign. Only Bhīma’s hand could have struck so. My heart trembled — if they were discovered before their time, the wheel of sin would turn once more, and no redemption would follow.
Restlessness seized Duryodhana. Convinced that the sons of Pāṇḍu were hiding in Virāṭa’s court, he led a raid upon its cattle, eager to draw them out. Soon I learnt that Prince Uttara had gone to face our armies, taking with him his charioteer — a dancer from the women’s quarters. That charioteer turned the tide, scattering seasoned generals and humbling our might. I needed no confirmation — only Arjuna could have stood thus. The Paṇḍavas’ disguise had served its purpose; what was meant to be hidden had revealed itself at the appointed hour — by a margin so fine it seemed fate itself had kept the count. My sons cried that the exile was broken, yet the elders and Krishna declared it complete. Once again, the law had favoured the sons of Pāṇḍu.
For a brief moment, I hoped wisdom might return — that my sons would invite their cousins back and restore what was promised. But counsel in our house no longer heeded reason.
Krishna came to Hastinapura Assembly — unarmed, radiant, bearing words of reconciliation. “Give them at least five villages,” he said. “Let this land not bleed again.”
His patience met with mockery, and I felt the air itself shudder. When Duryodhana tried to capture him, the divine cosmic form — vast and formless — unfolded, to behold which even my blind husband was granted sight. Yet nothing moved Duryodhana. He saw no divinity, only defiance, and he stood his ground: “Not even a needlepoint of land shall I yield,” he laughed.
And with that laugh, I heard the doors of fate close.
When the war began, the earth itself seemed to grieve. The omens that had once whispered now cried aloud — wolves in the streets, blood-red sunsets, the wind carrying the scent of iron. I heard the drums of Kurukṣetra as if they were beating inside my own heart.
One by one, the pillars of our strength fell by his design: Bhishma struck down by his own vow, Droṇa undone by a half-truth, Karṇa felled when his chariot sank. To shield the Pāṇḍavas, he offered up even Abhimanyu — sacrifice answering sacrifice, until dharma itself was paid for in blood. He moved the pieces with divine precision, yet each victory for Yudhiṣṭhira was bought with a mother’s loss.
When the war’s dust thinned, Duryodhana still stood — proud, unyielding, his body honed for the final duel with Bhīma. That night, I had summoned him, asking that he come before me unclad. My penance of years, my austerities, had gathered as fire within me; one look would have made him invincible. But on his way, Krishna met him. With gentle deceit, he warned my son that decency demanded he cover himself. Duryodhana obeyed — wrapping his loins with banana leaves — and so left that one place unguarded by my gaze.
The next day, when he and Bhīma fought by the lake, the ground itself seemed to tremble. Duryodhana fought like a man possessed, his mace flashing like lightning. But at Kṛiṣhṇa’s sign, Bhīma struck below the belt — a blow forbidden in war. I heard the sound of that strike in my heart before the messengers brought word. My son had fallen — not defeated by strength, but by destiny.
They brought the victors to me first. Krishna stood beside them, calm as ever, while I burned within — not with rage alone, but with the ache of a mother who had borne a hundred deaths. When Yudhiṣṭhira came forward to bow, Krishna stopped Bhīma with a raised hand. “Let Yudhiṣṭhira go first,” he said softly. I laid my hand upon Yudhiṣṭhira’s head, but my grief seared through my touch. His toe blackened where my sorrow — the mark of a mother’s fire — touched his flesh through a gap in my blindfold.
When Bhīma stepped near, my anger had ebbed into exhaustion. I could no longer burn. I embraced him — the slayer of my sons — and felt only the hollow weight of fate fulfilled.
Then I turned to Krishna. “You, of all, could have prevented this,” I said. “Could you not spare even one son for me?” My voice trembled between reproach and prayer. He did not defend himself. He simply said, “Even I am bound by the law I uphold.”
So I spoke the only truth left to me — a mother’s grief turned to prophecy. “As my sons have perished, so shall yours. The Yādavas, too, shall fall by their own hands.” Krishna bowed his head. “So be it,” he said. “Your words shall ripen in time.”
Years passed. When I heard that the ocean had swallowed Dvarakā and that Krishna himself had walked into the forest, meeting death as calmly as he had met my curse, I knew the circle had closed. Even He, who steered the world through dharma, could not escape the wheel of karma. Such is the justice of the law — equal to god and man.
In time, I too turned from the palace to the forest, walking beside Dhritarashtra and Kuntī. The fire that once blinded me now burned clear. I had wrapped my eyes to share my husband’s darkness; in the end, I removed the cloth to meet the light as it was — merciless, just, and whole.
In the stillness of the forest, I often thought of the road from Gandhāra — each step taken in duty, leading both to ruin and understanding. The war was lost long before the first arrow flew, in hearts that would not yield. Desire misled my sons, and I, in my blindness, mistook renunciation for wisdom. Only time and suffering showed the path of balance. By the river’s edge, I hear its endless hymn — neither mourning nor rejoicing, only remembering — and in its flow, I see at last: dharma is balance, the calm after the storm
No comments:
Post a Comment