47.
Acknowledging her spiritual strength,
Vyasa gave a gift to Gandhari:
standing where she was, blindfolded still,
she could now see the entire battlefield,
distant and close, by means of divine vision.
Her inner eye was opened. She exclaimed
to Krishna at everything she saw and heard.
“Ah! I can see this sweeping, blood-drenched plain
of Kurukshetra, in all its dreadful detail.
Everywhere is chaos, mangled flesh,
the aftermath of massacre. Everywhere
I look, in all directions, countless bodies
lying in abandon, heads and limbs
at sickening angles, mouths gaping as if
their final cry should still be reaching us.
Eyes that shone with every heartfelt passion
now are empty pits, cleaned out by crows.
Gashes and holes in the silk of skin
show where a cunning spear has found its way
between the panels of bright, well-wrought mail.
Some wear their armor still, and seem unscathed
as if lapped in the luxury of sleep,
while others are half-naked, stripped of all
that marked them out from the mire they’re made of.
“Krishna, who am I now? I am Gandhari,
childless mother of a hundred sons.
But is there no word for women such as I,
a word like ‘widow,’ another word for ‘empty’?
“Look at these fine young men, embracing Earth
as if discovered in the act of union
with a beloved bride—arms spread, their faces
oblivious to everything but this.
Oh, Earth has stolen them! Earth has triumphed
over all of us, defeated women.
“What priceless wealth is scattered all around—
crowns, jeweled bracelets, ropes of gold
twisted round the muscled upper arms
of so many heroes; anklets, torques,
all the regalia of rank. How useless
is that wealth—why, it could not protect them
from the smallest dart; and it cannot keep
monsters and other scavengers from feasting
on their fat and flesh. Look at those kanka birds,
tall as men, looking so disdainful,
picking their way among the piled-up corpses,
yet ripping flesh from bone with cruel beaks
as ruthlessly as any rakshasa.
“A month ago, who could have imagined
that men who loved the music of the bards
would now hear only the despairing cries
of their beloved wives. They who slept soft
now lie uncushioned on the filthy ground.
Men who plunged deep in the sumptuous flesh
of women now lie, torn, gnawed by jackals,
their rigid arms locked hard around a mace.
“Oh, these poor women! Some are mute with shock;
most are wailing, shivering in their pain.
They call like cranes for mates that will never come.
Some try to find the body that belongs
with the head they love, then they realize
it is not his. Some fail to recognize
the face of their own brother.
“And, Krishna—
there is Duryodhana! Oh! my tragic son,
caked in blood, your strong legs smashed, distorted,
your breastplate still in place. I remember
how you looked when you asked for my blessing,
full of pride and foolish hope. I knew then
it must end in defeat. All I could manage
were lukewarm words—not what you most wanted,
not the heartfelt prayer for victory
men need from women when they go to war.
“Time turns. You died a hero, Duryodhana.
Devoted women once fanned you to sleep;
now only the urgent wings of hungry birds
make a breeze around you. Here’s your poor wife,
Lakshmana’s mother, weeping for her son,
and for you. That broad-hipped, lovely girl
is huddling in the crook of your strong arm.
No more good times for her; disregarded,
she’ll spend her life alone.
“So many women,
trying to wash blood off their men’s dead faces;
others whirling, screeching like lunatics
at vultures circling on creaking wings.
What must we have done in a past life?
What sin could have deserved this utter horror?
“And look at my other fine sons! There they lie;
distinct in life, with differing looks and gifts,
each with his individual voice, his laugh,
now meat for undiscriminating crows.
“There is Abhimanyu, still beautiful,
that brilliant warrior who outshone even
his father. And there is Uttaraa, his wife,
crouched beside him, kissing his cold face.
Now she has undone his gilded armor,
stares intently at his wounds, and cries,
‘Oh, Abhimanyu, my beloved husband,
my world, soul of my soul, how your injuries
gape for all to see. My heart, too, is pierced
by death’s pitiless darts, but invisibly.
You were like Krishna in your strength and courage,
so alive. Yet now you sleep too soundly.
Your skin is soft, delicate as a girl’s;
isn’t the rough ground grazing you? Your arms
flung wide, you sprawl as though you are exhausted
by grinding labor. Rest, my love.’
“She cradles
his head in her lap and strokes his tangled hair.
“‘Where were their hearts, those Kauravas who trapped you,
a solitary boy? Where were your uncles,
your natural protectors? How can a kingdom,
however rich, however well deserved,
be worth your life, my prince, my precious one?
I wish I too could die. I long to join you!
But no one dies before the gods decide.
You are no more; I have my wretched life.
In that world you’ve gone to, will there be
a woman to caress and laugh with you
as if she were me? Oh, my Abhimanyu,
be happy in your heaven, but remember
what I was to you, how we loved together!’
“Her father’s wives are pulling her away
from Abhimanyu’s corpse. Now they themselves
collapse. They have seen Virata’s body—
and that of Uttara, the bragging boy
whom Arjuna transformed into a man.
“There is Karna. His wives are sitting round,
their hair in disarray, crying miserably
for him, and for their courageous sons.
So many heroes looked upon his face
as the last they saw on earth, until Arjuna
cut him down. He was the most loyal friend
to Duryodhana, most brave, most steadfast.
Firm as the Himalaya, brilliant as fire,
unforgiving, stern, that great warrior
lies like a tree felled by a tornado,
ruined, defaced, unrecognizable.
“Look at Jayadratha. Puffed with pride,
full of uncalled-for animosity
toward the Pandavas, now he is laid low,
dragged into a ditch by growling beasts,
though his weeping wives tried to guard his body.
The Pandavas might have killed him when he tried
to abduct Draupadi, but they refrained
out of consideration for my daughter.
If only they could have thought of her grief now.
She runs this way and that, quite distracted,
searching, searching for Jayadratha’s head.
“And there lies Shalya, complicated man.
We never knew whose side he really took;
perhaps, in the end, he didn’t know himself.
Now it is all the same—and, look, two crows
are pecking at his lolling, facile tongue.
“Bhishma, on his tormenting bed of arrows,
is still alive. He looks like the sun itself,
fallen to earth. That man is a hero
like no other. Skilled in warfare, steeped
in wisdom and dharma—what other warrior
would have told Yudhishthira how to kill him!
Who will there be as a bright lodestar
for the Bharatas, once Bhishma is no more?
“And Drona, the great teacher—all those weapons
acquired from the gods were useless in the end.
Kripi, his loving wife, sits, eyes downcast
beside his body. His bow still in his hand,
gauntlet and greaves in place, it almost seems
that he could rise and resume the fight. But look,
his feet, honored by so many pupils,
are gone, already gnawed by scavengers.
“There is Somadatta’s sorrowing widow,
lamenting for their son, Bhurishravas:
‘Oh, husband, fortunate that you cannot see
our son—his arm, his lovely arm, hacked off.
His wife is bathing it with her hot tears,
mourning the hand that lately would have loosened
her clothing, stroked her breasts, caressed her face.
Lucky that you cannot see his parasol
broken, splintered, lying across his chariot.’
“Her bereaved daughters-in-law are shrieking
and crying, a pitiful thing to witness.
Arjuna acted wickedly. Still more
horrible was Satyaki’s sinful act—
killing him as he sat in meditation.
The world will censure you for allowing it,
Krishna. I’d like to think you are ashamed.
“So many shields strewn on the bloody field
like fallen moons; and scattered spears and bows
shining like shafts of sunlight in the gloom.
Look at Shakuni, fallen where he belongs,
that mischief-maker. This war was his doing.
I warned my son—told him that his uncle
walked with death. He it was who stirred up
the quarrel, as he loved to do. He hated
the Pandavas. What a barbed tongue he had.
But he died in battle; the heroes’ heaven
awaits him, as it does all my brave sons.
He cared for no one, not even himself.
“There are the womenfolk of old Drupada
killed by Drona, his lifelong enemy,
as an elephant is savaged by a lion.
He was a heroic warrior. See, Krishna,
his beautiful white parasol is gleaming
in the light. His body is already burned.
His grieving wives and daughters-in-law circle
the pyre clockwise, heads covered, sobbing softly.
“Oh, so much sorrow! It is women’s fate
to love and lose, love and lose again.
What joy it is to give birth to healthy sons,
to play with them, sing to them, to see them
grow in strength, acquire a warrior’s skills
ready to take on a world of enemies.
What’s wrong with us? Why do we not start weeping
as soon as we see our newborn is a boy?
But no, we glow with pride—as if this creature,
these perfect arms and legs, this lusty voice,
this future food for crows, were an achievement.
Broodmares for corpses—that’s what women are
if they are born unlucky kshatriyas!”
Gandhari sank down, broken, desolate.
“Krishna, when your peace mission failed, and you
returned to the Pandavas, then my poor sons
were as good as dead. You could have done more
to save them, but this was what you wanted,
this war, and all my precious sons are lost.
I curse you, Krishna! For presiding over
this tragic conflict, kinsman against kinsman,
a time will come when you will pay in kind.
In thirty-six years’ time, having killed
your sons, brothers, cousins, you will meet
an ignominious end. And then your own
womenfolk will weep and tear their hair,
as inconsolable as these women now.”
Krishna smiled. “Excellent Gandhari,
you give words to what I already know.
I, and I alone, shall destroy the Vrishnis,
and your curse will help me carry out that task.
When the time is right, they will kill each other;
I shall decide.
“But don’t give way to anguish.
Grief breeds grief; you are wise enough to know that.
You yourself are by no means blameless.
You thought too well of Duryodhana
and tolerated his pernicious acts.
Now you see the tragic consequence.”
Dhritarashtra asked Yudhishthira
for the facts—how big were the armies
and how many were killed? Yudhishthira
gave numbers more vast than the mind could hold.
“And what has become of them, Yudhishthira—
you who know everything?”
“The afterlife
is proportioned to the way a man has lived
and how he died—how courageously.
The highest realms welcome those who fight
like true kshatriyas, who stubbornly
battle on even when they are wounded,
when they have lost their chariot, when lesser men
have fled the field. They go to the seat of Indra.
Lower realms receive cautious warriors,
those who fight with qualified commitment.
Those who desert meet suffering after death.”
“How do you know all this?” asked Dhritarashtra.
“I sat at the feet of many holy men
when we were in exile in the forest.
There I practiced the yoga of knowledge,
and I made extended pilgrimages
to sacred sites and holy bathing places.”
Dhritarashtra urged Yudhishthira
to arrange that rituals for the dead
be performed, especially for those who lay
neglected on the field, with no relations
to mourn their passing—those whose loving kin
perhaps had heard no news, and were still praying
for their menfolk’s safe return.
Yudhishthira
ordered retainers and priests to see to it.
They summoned sandalwood and precious aloe,
sesame oil, ghee and fragrant herbs.
Warriors’ bodies were heaped up by the thousands.
High piles were made of the smashed chariots
and other wood, corpses wrapped in cloth
and burned with all appropriate ritual,
the fires fed with ghee and perfumed oil.
Then all went in procession to the river.
The Bharatas gathered at the water’s edge,
the serene Ganga, fringed with lovely trees.
The mourning women shed their ornaments
and, entering the water, poured libations.
Suddenly, Kunti, weeping, speaking quietly,
said to her sons, “You should take special care
that you perform the proper rites for Karna.”
Yudhishthira was surprised. “That hero Karna,”
said Kunti, “whom you thought the son of Radha,
whom you despised as a driver’s son—that man
who was unrivaled in integrity—
pour libations for him. He was your brother.”
Yudhishthira stared at her, uncomprehending.
“I bore him by the sun god, Surya,
secretly, when I was very young,
too young to understand what was happening.
I was beside myself with fear and shame.
Secretly, I stowed him in a casket,
carried him to the river—and gave him up,
watched my son float away.”
Yudhishthira’s
heart pounded; he shook, his face turned dark.
“Mother! How can this be? All these years!
How—oh, how can you have hidden from us
that Karna was our brother? That towering hero,
so brave, so skillful it took Arjuna—
and then only with Krishna’s help—to kill him!
If Karna had been our acknowledged brother,
surely the war never would have happened.
This news is like a death to me, far worse,
even, than the loss of all our sons!”
Yudhishthira then sent for Karna’s wives
and joined them in performing funeral rites
with Vedic hymns and solemn incantations,
relinquishing to sacred mother Ganga
the hero he had never known as brother.
As the tranquil water flowed around him,
Yudhishthira stood silent and alone.
Then, his mind boiling in confusion,
he stepped out of the river onto the bank.