Virtuous Gandhari
Virtuous Gandhari
The Kurukshetra war had ended. All the sons of Dhritarashtra had died in the war. The last night had witnessed a massacre in the sleeping camp of the Pandavas, wherein children, grandchildren, and friends of the victors had all been put to the sword. Morning dawned with scenes of desolation and despair. True, the Pandava heroes and Krishna stood uninjured and victorious, but about them lay the death of all their hopes. The empire was theirs henceforth, but without an heir to whom it could be left. The throne was secured, but the home was empty.
On the other side were seen the woe-stricken women of Kurus mourning their dead. The Pandavas trembled as they gazed upon them. The hundred sons of Dhritarashtra all lay dead upon that field.
Somewhat withdrawn from the rest, not only by their rank but also by their manifold bereavements, their great age, and their blindness, Gandhari, the Queen, and Dhritarashtra, the King, were seated in their car of state. They were the heads of the defeated house and heads even, by blood kindred, of the family of the victors. For them, by reason of the respect due to them, the meeting with the Pandavas must necessarily seem more like the submission of Yudhishthira than his triumph. To them, therefore, came the young king – Dharmaraja, King of Righteousness, as his people called him henceforth – with his four brothers, Draupadi, and Krishna. Touching their feet, they stood before them in deep silence.
Right queenly was the aged Gandhari in her sorrow. Dhritarashtra, her husband, had been born blind, but she, out of wifely devotion, of her own accord had blindfolded her eyes with a bandage and worn it faithfully all the years of their union. And by this, deep spiritual insight had come to her. Her voice was as the voice of fate. That, which she had said, would happen, could not fail to come to pass. Day after day of the battle, when Duryodhana had come to her in the morning, asking for her blessing that he might return triumphant from that day’s fighting, she had said only, “Victory, my son, will follow the Right.” From the beginning, she had known that Kurukshetra would see the end of all her house. Even now – such was the sternness of her heart – she was weeping rather for her husband, in his sorrow and desolation, than for her own loss of her sons. And this was more true, since she knew well that had it not been for Dhritarashtra’s own weakness and desire, the disaster of this day need never have been theirs. Her own inflexible will had never wavered. Never of one moment had she cast longing glances towards empire, preferring it in her secret heart to righteousness. But this very fact, that her husband was being crushed under the doom he had himself brought down upon himself, was calling out her deepest tenderness in this sad hour. Proud and stern to the whole world as she was, to him Gandhari was all wife, gentle and loving and soothing at this moment of his pain. She knew well that from her, in these terrible moments, might go out the force that destroys what she had acquired automatically out of her virtue. This would bring harm upon Yudhishthira as he approached to salute. So, she restrained her powers forcibly and bent her eyes downwards, within their enfolding hands, upon his foot, and immediately, it is said, at that point where she was looking a burn appeared, so terrible was her gaze.
But, when she had spoken kindly with Draupadi and the Queen-mother of the Pandavas, Gandhari turned away from all others and addressed herself to Krishna. With Him alone there was no need of self-control. Hand in hand with the Lord, she might gaze on all, think of all, and tell out her whole heart.
“Behold, Oh Lotus-eyed,” she cried, “these daughters of my house. Widowed of their lords, with locks unbound, hear Thou their cries of woe. Brooding over their dead bodies, they call to mind the faces of the great Bharata chiefs. Behold them seeking out their husbands, their fathers, their sons, and brothers. The whole field is covered with these childless mothers and widowed wives of heroes. Here the bodies of great warriors, who in their lifetime were blazing fires. But now, beasts of prey roam hither and thither at their will, amongst the dead. How terrible, Oh Krishna, is this battlefield? Beholding these things, Oh powerful One, I am afire with grief. Oh, how empty has the Universe become now? Two armies, Oh Krishna, have been here consumed. While they thus put an end to each other, why were Thine eyes closed? Why hast Thou allowed this evil to come upon all?” She lamented.
As Gandhari ended, the Lord looked upon her with love and smiled. Then, the Holy Knight bent down to the aged Queen. “Arise, arise, Oh Gandhari,” He said, “and set not thy heart on grief. By indulging in sorrow, man increased it twofold. Think, Oh daughter that the Brahmin woman bears children for the practice of austerities. The cow brings forth offspring for the bearing of burdens. The labouring woman adds, by childbearing, to the ranks of the workers. But, those of royal blood are destined from their birth to die in the battle.”
The Queen listened in silence to the words of Krishna. Only too well did she know their truth. Desolation and despair was spread around and within. Nothing appeared before her save the life of austerity, to be spent in the forest. With vision purified by great events, she looked out upon the world and found it all unreal. There was nothing further to be said and she remained silent. Then, she and Dhritarashtra, together with Yudhishthira and other heroes, restraining their grief which rises from folly, proceeded together to perform the last rites for the dead by the side of the Ganga.