After Kurukshetra – Section 3: The Lamentations
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The Pandavas Return with Ashwatthama's Capture
After the massacre of their sons, the Pandavas had pursued Ashwatthama with fury. Arjuna, guided by Krishna, engaged him in battle. Ashwatthama, desperate, invoked the Brahmashira, a weapon equal in power to the Brahmāstra, capable of annihilating worlds. Arjuna countered with the same weapon, and the two celestial missiles blazed in the sky, threatening to destroy creation itself.
Sages and gods intervened, warning both warriors of the destruction their weapons would cause. At their urging, Arjuna withdrew his weapon. Ashwatthama, however, unable to fully retract his, diverted it—casting it into the wombs of the Pandava women, intending to end their lineage.
Krishna, enraged, protected Uttara's unborn child, Parikshit, who would later continue the Pandava line. Still, Ashwatthama was cursed: stripped of his gem of power, condemned to wander the earth for thousands of years, suffering from wounds that would never heal, shunned by all.
With this grim act concluded, the Pandavas returned to Hastinapura. Their sons were gone, their enemy disgraced, but their grief remained heavier than any weapon.
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The Silent City of Hastinapura
When the Pandavas entered Hastinapura after the war, there were no sounds of celebration, no garlands, no songs of victory. The once-thriving city was wrapped in mourning. Thousands of women dressed in white stood in the streets, their hair unbound, their eyes swollen from tears. Mothers searched for sons who would never return. Wives sat by empty doorways, waiting for husbands who lay lifeless on Kurukshetra's soil.
Hastinapura, once the jewel of the Kuru dynasty, had become a city of widows. The Pandavas rode through its gates, not as heroes welcomed home, but as rulers of a broken kingdom.
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Gandhari's Grief
In the palace, Queen Gandhari, wife of Dhritarashtra and mother of the hundred Kauravas, awaited. When she saw the Pandavas, her heart filled with anguish. Her sons—all slain. Her brothers-in-law, teachers, and kin—gone. The line she had nurtured through love and sacrifice—destroyed.
She had bound her eyes with a cloth all her life, choosing to share her blind husband's darkness. Yet in her inner vision, she now saw only fire and corpses.
When Krishna arrived to offer her solace, her pain overflowed into anger. Her words were sharp, her voice trembling with sorrow and fury:
> "O Krishna, you who are worshipped as the Lord of the universe—you who could have prevented this war but did not—what glory is there in this? You stood by as my sons were slaughtered. You let this destruction unfold. You call yourself the protector of Dharma, but what Dharma is this, where mothers bury their children and widows wail in every street?"
Her grief turned into a terrible curse. With burning words, she declared:
> "Just as my sons have perished, so shall your clan, the Yadavas, perish by their own hands. You, Krishna, shall watch as your people destroy one another, and you shall meet your death in the forest, struck down by a hunter's arrow. You, too, shall taste the pain of loss."
Her curse echoed like thunder. Even Krishna, who knew destiny's path, bowed his head in silence. For he knew that Gandhari's words were not merely the cries of a grieving mother—they were the voice of fate itself.
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Kunti's Revelation
In the midst of mourning, another revelation shook the Pandavas. Their mother, Kunti, who had guided them through exile and war, could no longer keep her secret. She gathered her sons and spoke with a trembling voice:
> "My children, there is something you must know—something I should have told you long ago, but fear and shame silenced me. Karna… the warrior you fought and slew… he was not your enemy by birth. He was my son. He was your elder brother."
The Pandavas froze in shock. Arjuna staggered, remembering Karna's valor and nobility. Bhima clenched his fists, torn between rage and regret. Nakula and Sahadeva lowered their eyes, struggling to accept the truth.
Yudhishthira, the eldest, was struck hardest. He looked at his mother with eyes full of pain:
> "Why, Mother? Why did you keep this from us? If we had known, perhaps this war could have been avoided. So much bloodshed, so many deaths—was it all necessary? We killed our own brother, not knowing. You have burdened us with a sin we can never wash away."
Kunti wept, for she too carried unbearable guilt. She had abandoned Karna at birth, born of the sun-god before her marriage. Out of fear of dishonor, she had set him adrift, never claiming him, never revealing his identity until too late.
Now, as the Pandavas realized they had slain their own flesh and blood, their grief deepened. Yudhishthira cursed himself:
> "We have won a kingdom, but lost our brother. What victory is this, where the blood of kin stains our hands?"
The revelation of Karna's true parentage haunted the Pandavas forever. Though Karna had stood against them in battle, they now saw him not as an enemy but as the brother they never embraced.
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Draupadi's Sorrow
Draupadi, meanwhile, could not be consoled. Her sons lay dead, her joy extinguished. She sat in silence beside their bodies, her tears unending. She had once been the princess of Panchala, radiant and proud, but now she seemed a shadow of herself, broken by grief.
She whispered to Krishna:
> "What use is victory if my womb is empty, if my children lie in ashes? The palace may be filled with gold, but my heart is hollow. O Madhava, you promised justice for my humiliation, but tell me—what justice is this, where my sons are butchered in their sleep? Why did the gods not protect them? What crime had they committed?"
Krishna held her hands, his voice gentle yet firm:
> "Draupadi, beloved queen, your suffering is great, but it is not meaningless. Your sons have attained heaven, freed from the burdens of this world. The Pandavas still live, and their duty is not yet done. In your line shall rise kings who will uphold Dharma, for Parikshit, the unborn, shall live. From him, your legacy shall continue."
But Draupadi's tears did not cease. Her sorrow became part of the sorrow of Hastinapura itself.
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The Widows of Hastinapura
Beyond the palace walls, the grief of the people was overwhelming. Widows filled the streets, their wails rising like a storm. Mothers searched for the faces of sons they would never see again. Children clutched at their fathers' weapons, not understanding why they did not return.
The Mahābhārata describes the cries of the women as more terrible than the roar of battle. Their sorrow was a chorus of anguish that shook even the hardened hearts of warriors.
One widow cried:
> "Why did the gods give us husbands only to take them away? Why do the heavens drink the blood of the brave and leave us to suffer?"
Another lamented:
> "The Kuru throne is won, but at what price? A kingdom of widows, a palace of ashes—this is what remains."
The Pandavas, walking among them, felt their souls crushed. Yudhishthira's eyes overflowed with tears as he realized that his rule would not begin in celebration, but in grief.
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Dhritarashtra's Hidden Wrath
Blind King Dhritarashtra, father of the slain Kauravas, also awaited the Pandavas. Though he had lost all his sons, he still held power as the elder of the Kuru line. When the Pandavas came to pay their respects, his heart burned with hidden fury.
He embraced Yudhishthira with genuine sorrow, but when Bhima approached, his anger surged. He remembered that Bhima had slain all his sons, one by one, with merciless strength.
Dhritarashtra hugged Bhima tightly—but with the intent to crush him with his iron-like grip. Krishna, aware of his plan, substituted an iron statue in Bhima's place. Dhritarashtra crushed the statue to pieces, his strength fueled by rage. Realizing the deception, the old king wept.
> "My anger consumes me, but it cannot bring back my sons. My curse lies already in the destruction of this dynasty. All that remains is sorrow."
Thus, even Dhritarashtra's vengeance turned hollow.
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The Kingdom of Ashes
In the days that followed, Hastinapura mourned. The rituals of cremation filled the land with smoke. Priests chanted mantras, widows wailed, and the ashes of thousands drifted into the wind.
The Pandavas performed rites for their sons, Karna, their fallen allies, and even for the Kauravas, for death had erased enmity. But though the fires consumed the bodies, they could not burn away grief.
Hastinapura stood, but its spirit was broken. The throne awaited Yudhishthira, yet he felt no desire to claim it. Victory had brought only emptiness.
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