TWO
Crying aloud to see her sons, crying for joy she can hardly express, Kunti runs to them with her arms flung wide. One by one, she clasps them to her, stroking their faces, kissing them, touching their battle-scars with her fingers, while she weeps and laughs at once. Then she turns to Draupadi, who stands limply, shattered by the death of her own sons.
Kunti takes her in her arms and Panchali breaks down. She wails, “Mother, all your grandsons are dead! Abhimanyu was killed and my boys as well. It is some time since you saw them, now you will never see them again. What use is victory or a kingdom when I have lost my children?”
She sobs in Kunti’s arms. Then, the blind king’s train sets out again for Kurukshetra and the Pandavas and the women, all wearing just single cloths, follow it. Seeing Kunti helpless to comfort her, Gandhari takes Draupadi in her arms and says, “Look at me, my child and be consoled that you are not alone in your anguish. We have both lost all our sons; our pain is the same one. At least you are younger and stronger, so you can bear the grief. Don’t cry, my daughter, this is fate. It is the end of the world as we knew it and a new yuga has risen over the earth. Vidura foretold this years ago and Krishna warned us of it. Don’t cry for your sons, Draupadi, they have gone where they are happier than we are.”
Then, her own sorrow overwhelms her again and she sobs, “Oh, which of us will comfort the other? We are both heartbroken!”
As they near Kurukshetra, subtle vision fills the pure Gandhari. Clearly, through her bound eyes, she sees the apocalyptic field. She sees corpses sprouted on the earth like blades of grass; she sees severed limbs, severed heads and blood congealed everywhere. She sees the vultures and jackals that feast on the moldering flesh of the dead. She sees her sons lying on that field, some whole, some rotted past recognition and others with their faces eaten away by scavengers. Gandhari sees thousands of wives and mothers, all crying, many screaming: the women of an entire generation, some from far-off lands, others from Hastinapura. They throw themselves across the corpses of their sons, brothers, husbands, fathers and a sea-storm of lamentation rises into the yielding sky, it seeps into the earth. The wild creatures of the world hear that wailing and think the pralaya is upon them.
Gandhari takes Krishna by the hand, she says, “Do you see them, Krishna, the millions that died? Do you hear my daughters-in-law sobbing for my hundred sons?”
Krishna does not reply. He leads her to a corpse, which has just been carried to Kurukshetra from Samantapanchaka. Gandhari bends to touch the magnificent body, broken at the waist, with her fingers, which are her eyes. She feels the proud face, uncowed by an agonizing death and she flings herself down across Duryodhana’s chest and her shrill, ululating cries echo above every other sound on Kurukshetra. Then, she faints.
When she recovers, she still sobs and calls her son’s name. She runs her fingers through his tangled hair, trying to break the clotted blood from it. She runs her fingers over his face; she kisses his eyes, his cheeks and his lips.
Trembling, Gandhari turns to Krishna. “Krishna, do you see the sea of grief around you? Look at Duryodhana’s wife, she runs like a mad woman between her husband’s corpse and her son’s, trying to chase the jackals and vultures away from both. Look at Uttaraa; can you hear her sobbing as she lies across what remains of Abhimanyu? They were married hardly a month.1”
That is far from all: a million widows, a million bereaved mothers mourn on the field of death2. Karna’s quiet wife sobs softly over her husband’s headless body. Shalya’s wives fling themselves over him, shrieking. If anything can be worse than the war on Kurukshetra, it is the spectacle of the women mourning their dead.
Now, Gandhari turns on Krishna, “You are to blame! If you had really wanted to, you could have prevented this war; but you were indifferent. You could have cooled the enmity between my sons and their cousins. Instead, you sided with the Pandavas and fanned the flames. You have ruined the Kurus, Krishna. I, Gandhari, curse you that thirty-six years from today your clan will also perish. The Yadavas will fight among themselves and kill one another, every man of you. And your women will weep then, even as we do today!
As for you, you will wander the earth, friendless and alone and you will die a common death, without glory. I curse you, Krishna, I curse you for the deaths of my sons!”
A hush falls around them. Gandhari is a queen of tapasya and her curse cannot fail. Krishna smiles. Imperturbable, he says, “Mother, your curse is merely the course of fate. For only the Yadavas can kill the Yadavas; and if they are not killed, they will overrun the earth. They are my own people and not men or the Devas can harm them. I thank you for your curse: it is a blessing for the world! And now your anger has been exorcised, you will not curse Yudhishtira and his brothers. Gandhari, I will do anything for the Pandavas. If the Yadavas have to die so the sons of Pandu can live, I am only happy. I say to you again, Yudhishtira and his brothers are my very life to me.”
The Pandavas hear this with tears in their eyes. What love can be greater than Krishna’s? But now, the Dark One’s eyes glitter and in a harder voice he says to Gandhari, “You have cursed me and I gladly take your curse upon myself. Yet, O queen, this is not dharma. You are griefstricken and do not see right from wrong, or the truth from a lie. Not I, but you are to blame for this war! You loved Duryodhana too much and you indulged his every whim. You spoilt him so much that he could never deny himself anything, regardless of the cost. Duryodhana was always arrogant and envious. You are a wise woman; you knew your son’s nature. Why did you never try to curb him? You could have prevented this tragedy, not I.
You accuse me of indifference. Tell me, who came to Hastinapura to ask for peace? As for you, didn’t you know your brother Shakuni’s character? You still allowed him into your house. When Duryodhana was young and impressionable, you let him grow close to his uncle. Gandhari, tell me truly, did you know nothing about the house of lac?”
She gives a start and is silent. Krishna smiles and goes on, “You and your husband are responsible for this genocide and you want to shift that blame to me. You spoilt your son until he did not know wrong from right, but only what he wanted. He began the war that has destroyed the world and you cannot blame me for it.
Dhritarashtra is responsible for what happened. And you, who are a woman of dharma, allowed evil to take root and grow in your home. As for me, I feel no sorrow for your sons. They have what they deserve; why, they have better than they deserve. Duryodhana, the worst sinner on earth, has found Devaloka! Even as he lay dying, he made sure the Pandavas would suffer; and such a one has found heaven. Gandhari, it is because he was your son that he has gone there. Your penance and your prayers have not been in vain. Your sons are with the Gods now, mother. I beg you, set aside your anger in the knowledge that your princes, who deserve the cruelest hell, have attained paradise.
Just now, you told me about your final conversation with Duryodhana. He said, ‘Bless me, mother and I will win the war.’ You replied, ‘My son, victory will be only where there is dharma. Your cause is not just; you cannot win this war. But I bless you that you will die a glorious death and, thus, find swarga for yourself.’
Those were the bravest, most truthful words any mother could say to her son. You are not weak like your husband; you are a strong woman. You must not try to blame me for what happened. Be yourself again: face the truth, accept your sorrow as just punishment.”
Krishna speaks as to a favored child gone astray. Gandhari is speechless at what he says3.