Chapter 1: The Aftermath of War

The air was thick with sorrow as the music of lament played on. Mirchi presented a special feature, the Times of Puran, echoing the ancient tales of duty and destiny. A voice, heavy with despair, spoke, "You have failed in your own duty. Why are you blaming me for that mistake now? What will I do with a kingdom in a world without sons, O Goddess? From now on, women will not be able to keep anything to themselves. Thirty-six years from today, the Yadav dynasty will be destroyed. What have I done?"

This lamentation seemed to weave itself into the very fabric of the great epic, the Mahabharata, an eternal story penned by the sage Vedavyasa. It had been translated into Bengali by many learned scholars, creating a simple version just for you, brought to life by Projotional Entertainment.

Nakula, one of the Pandavas, gently brought the grieving Draupadi to the battlefield. Her heart ached with the news of her five sons' deaths. To console the heartbroken Panchali, Bhima, her fierce protector, set out to find and kill Ashwatthama, the one responsible for their deaths. Ashwatthama, in his desperate attempt to destroy the five brothers, had unleashed the terrible Brahmashira weapon.

Meanwhile, in the heart of Hastinapur, the wise Vyasa sought to calm the nearly lifeless form of King Dhritarashtra. "Go to Kurukshetra," he instructed softly, urging the king to find strength amidst his overwhelming grief. I, Vidura, along with Sanjaya, stood by the king, offering counsel and support. After a long silence, Dhritarashtra's voice, tired and worn, finally called out.

"Vidura," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "bring Gandhari, Kunti Devi, and the widowed royal women to me. I will go to Kurukshetra with everyone. Arrange for the necessary chariots, palanquins, and other vehicles for us."

"As you wish, Maharaj," I replied, bowing my head. "I will make all the arrangements immediately." Following his orders, I helped Kunti, Gandhari, and all the royal women of Hastinapur onto the palanquins. The path was filled with sorrow, tears, and lamentation. The royal women, who had long stayed behind curtains, now fainted in the dust of the road. Overwhelmed by grief, their movements were slow, their cries echoing in the air as they clung to each other for comfort. Queen Mother Gandhari and Pandava Kunti's hearts seemed to shatter with sadness, their silent walk as heavy as a mountain.

I was filled with sorrow, carrying out King Dhritarashtra's orders like a machine. As the Kuru royal family settled into their carriages and chariots, the drivers directed them towards Kurukshetra. The people of Hastinapur stood wherever they could—in their homes, at windows, on the streets—crying out in grief. The palace city of Hastinapur was now filled with unbearable pain and cries. For the first time, King Dhritarashtra felt thankful for his blind eyes, as he did not have to witness this sorrow.

Even with tears overwhelming his heart, he kept his emotions in check. The Pandavas were like sons to him, yet they were also the slayers of his sons, stirring a deep conflict within. As they moved forward, they saw the three surviving great warriors of the Kurukshetra war. Kritavarma, Kripacharya, and Ashwatthama swiftly rode their horses towards them. Seeing Dhritarashtra’s chariot, Kripacharya dismounted.

"King Dhritarashtra," Kripacharya said, his voice filled with respect and sorrow, "only we three warriors—Ashwatthama, Kritavarma, and I—are left alive on your side. Please accept our combined greetings."

The family teacher, Kripacharya, continued, his voice breaking with emotion, "My Duryodhana, my hundred sons, today I have no one left, family teacher."

"Today, I am helpless and without support," he lamented. "Do not grieve, Your Majesty. Your son, King Duryodhana, fought bravely till his last drop of blood. After his duty was done, he went to the heavens with his followers and brothers. Except for us three, all his other soldiers have perished."

The words hung in the air, a testament to the devastation left in the wake of war.

Chapter 2: The Weight of Grief

As the dust of battle settled, I, Krishna Dwaipayana Vyasa, stood amid a scene heavy with sorrow and regret. Gandhari, the mother of the Kauravas, was consumed by a grief that threatened to turn into fury. I approached her cautiously, aware of the delicate balance between sorrow and wrath.

"Control yourself, Gandhari," I implored gently, sensing the storm within her. "Do not be angry with the Pandavas. Anger arises from passion, dear lady. Suppress this passion and be calm, kind one. This is not the time for curses, but for forgiveness. You blessed Duryodhana, saying that victory would be on the side of righteousness. You are truthful, Gandhari, and your words will come true."

Gandhari's eyes brimmed with tears as she listened. "The Pandavas have endured many hardships and emerged victorious, which means righteousness favored them," I continued. "The Pandavas are devoted to righteousness, so why be angry, Gandhari?"

She sighed deeply, the weight of her sorrow evident. "I do not wish to harm the Pandavas, nor do I blame them," she admitted, her voice trembling. "Yet, the loss of my sons weighs heavily on my heart, and my mind is troubled, great sage."

I nodded, understanding her turmoil. "Just as Kunti is the mother of the Pandavas, I have affection for them too," Gandhari went on, her voice softening. "King Dhritarashtra and I should protect them. I know that the destruction of the Kuru dynasty was due to the wrongdoings of Duryodhana, Dushasana, and Shakuni. Arjuna or Bhima are not to blame for this. The Kuru family destroyed itself through mutual conflict. I know, great sage, that the five Pandavas are not responsible for this."

I could see the struggle within her, torn between blame and acceptance. "But do you still have any doubts, Queen Mother?" I asked gently. "Can you not control yourself yet?"

Gandhari shook her head, her voice a whisper of pain. "No, Lord, I cannot. I cannot control myself when I remember the terrible crime Bhima committed in front of Krishna. Lord, Duryodhana is very skilled in mace fighting. So, unable to defeat him fairly, Bhima hit him unfairly on his lower body."

Bhima, who had been standing silently, stepped forward. "This act is not Bhima's crime, Lord," he said, his voice steady. "How can Bhima pride himself on being a hero after abandoning righteousness? Bhima truly deserves forgiveness."

He paused, looking directly at Gandhari. "Forgive me, Elder Mother. I was forced to act out of fear and self-defense, not because of a fine distinction between right and wrong. I know, Goddess, that no warrior on earth could defeat Duryodhana in a fair fight. That’s why I had to act unfairly."

Gandhari listened, her expression a mixture of sorrow and understanding. "King Yudhishthira and the Panchalas faced the same injustice," Bhima continued. "If Duryodhana were alive, he would never have given up the kingdom. So, I had no choice but to kill him. Even after admitting my wrongdoing, you consider this war a righteous one. Forgive Bhima, Goddess. I committed a sin by not punishing your eldest son when he humiliated the Panchali in the assembly."

He took a deep breath, his eyes filled with remorse. "When Duryodhana exposed his thigh to Draupadi, it sparked enmity between the Pandavas and the Kauravas. With his death, all our hatred has vanished. Elder Mother, dear Bhima, can any person drink someone’s blood despite extreme enmity? You drank Dushasana’s blood. What could be more gruesome and cruel than this?"

Gandhari's eyes were wide with shock, but Bhima pressed on. "What could happen, Bhima? I know, Elder Mother, one cannot drink one’s own blood. Both my body and my brother are my supporters. I lifted Dushasana’s blood with cupped hands. Only my hands were stained with that blood. If I hadn’t fulfilled the vow I made when Dushasana dragged Draupadi by her hair in the assembly, I would have no right to be a warrior, Mother."

A heavy silence fell over the battlefield, broken only by the distant cries of grieving families. "Son, are you comforting your grieving mother, Bhima?" Gandhari asked, her voice a mix of sadness and hope.

"No, Elder Mother, not comforting," Bhima replied, his gaze steady. "I am just telling you the truth. Today you speak of justice to me, Mother, but why didn’t you teach that justice to your hundred sons? Then this terrible destruction of our family wouldn’t have happened."

Gandhari's voice was a whisper of despair. "Goddess, you have killed all our 100 sons. Do you have so much hatred? You didn’t leave even one child to be our support in our old age. You have left us completely helpless, Bhima."

Bhima bowed his head, the burden of his actions heavy upon him. "No, not you. Where is your brother, whom you obey, Yudhishthira? Where is your king? Bring him to me. I am waiting for that son of righteousness."

Bhima turned, gesturing to his brother. "Goddess, here I am, as you commanded, standing before you," Yudhishthira said, stepping forward with a solemn expression. "I am Yudhishthira, who caused the death of your sons. Please curse me, Goddess. I deserve it. I have no need for wealth or a kingdom, Goddess. I was a forest dweller and will remain one. I beg you not to forgive me. Curse me, the humble king."

And with those words, the weight of their shared sorrow hung in the air, a testament to the heavy price of war and the enduring struggle for righteousness.

Chapter 3: The Burden of Truth

Yudhishthira, trembling with emotion, lowered himself to the ground and fell at Gandhari's feet. His touch startled Gandhari, and she let out a long, sorrowful sigh. Overwhelmed with grief for her sons, she remained silent, her head bowed, the weight of her sorrow too heavy for words.

Suddenly, Gandhari removed the cloth from her eyes, her gaze fixing on Yudhishthira's right toes. In an instant, his beautiful nails, which shone like moonbeams, were scorched by her fiery look. Witnessing Gandhari's anger, Arjuna quickly moved behind Krishna, seeking shelter from her powerful gaze. But as swiftly as her anger had flared, it faded away. Gandhari, her heart softening, forgave the Pandavas, embracing them with the warmth of a mother.

With the storm of anger calmed, Yudhishthira and his brothers made their way to their mother, Kunti. The sight of her sons, weary and wounded from the long battle, brought tears to her eyes. She touched their injuries tenderly, weeping for the pain they had endured. Draupadi, too, overcome with grief, approached her mother-in-law. She fell at Kunti's feet, her voice choked with sorrow.

"Goddess, Goddess," Draupadi cried, "where have your grandsons gone with Abhimanyu today? Why didn’t they come to greet you? Why didn’t they come to comfort me, seeing me fallen like this? What will I do with a kingdom in this world without my sons, Goddess, what will I do?"

Kunti's voice was gentle but firm as she urged, "Rise, rise Panchali. Endure this unbearable sorrow. Dear one, no one can change fate. What was destined for you has happened. Panchali, come, let’s go to your elder mother, Gandhari. Her happiness today is greater than anyone else's. Come, dear one, come with me. Come and pay your respects to her."

As they approached Gandhari, Draupadi greeted her with respect. "Greetings, noble mother."

Gandhari, her voice filled with compassion, said, "Panchali, accept my respect. Dear Panchali, do not grieve. Draupadi, look at me. I was the mother of a hundred sons. Krishna, today not a single child of mine is alive. The pain I have felt, no one understands, Panchali. The day Krishna left in defeat, this destruction was destined. Draupadi, this fate is harsh and difficult to prevent. Do not mourn, Panchali, this is our destiny. Accept it. The real culprit is me, Panchali, I am to blame."

Gandhari stood quietly, her presence calming Draupadi's storm of grief. Even with her eyes covered once more by the cloth, her divine sight allowed her to perceive the battlefield's horrors. She saw bones, hair, torn limbs, piles of dead bodies, scattered animal parts, screaming snakes, broken chariots, uprooted flags, and shattered weapons, a haunting testament to the war's devastation.

Meanwhile, King Dhritarashtra, the Pandavas, and some women made their way to the battlefield, their hearts heavy with sorrow. As they approached, the cries of the wives echoed through the desolate land. Some collapsed over the bodies of their loved ones, while others fell to the ground in despair. Demons, ghosts, and snakes feasted upon the fallen, and the sight was so terrifying it left them half-dead with fear.

Amidst this scene of deep sorrow, Gandhari spoke to Krishna, her voice filled with anguish. "Vasudeva, can you hear? Can you hear the cries of the Kuru women, the Panchala women, and the widows of my hundred sons, Vasudeva? The bodies of the world's heroes are scattered all over this battlefield. Look, Keshava, Duryodhana, the leader of eleven divisions of soldiers, lies dead, clutching his mighty mace. Bhanuvati, Lakshmana's mother, has fainted on her husband's chest. Can you see, Vasudeva?"

Krishna nodded solemnly. "I see everything, Devi."

Gandhari continued, her voice breaking with emotion. "Then look, half of my son Durmukha's face has been eaten by snakes. Look, look, Krishna, see Vikarna's wife. She is desperately trying to pull her husband's body away from the hungry jackals. Do you see Karna's wife? She clings to what's left of Karna's body, unable to move. Do you see them, Krishna? Do you see them?"

Krishna's gaze was steady. "I see everything. I see it all."

Gandhari's voice was a whisper now, filled with the weight of the world's grief. "Look at Uttara, Krishna, holding Abhimanyu's dead body and crying out in grief. Look at the women of the city of Virata."

The battlefield lay silent, save for the echoes of mourning. The cost of war was laid bare before them, a stark reminder of the fragility of life and the enduring power of fate.

Chapter 4: The Weight of Destiny

The battlefield was a somber expanse, filled with the muted cries of grief and the haunting echoes of loss. Gandhari's voice trembled with anguish as she pointed into the distance. "No one can calm them," she said, her eyes filled with sorrow. "Look, my daughter Duhsala runs like a madwoman, beating her head in despair as she heads towards Drona's wife, Kripi. Look, Keshava, the Brahmins are preparing the funeral pyres, and Kripi lies there, unmoving. Can you see, Krishna, can you see?"

Krishna, known as Madhusudan, watched the scene unfold with deep compassion. "You seem upset, Devi," he said gently.

Gandhari's voice rose in desperation. "I can see everything, Madhusudan. Krishna, why did you allow this war to happen? Why? You had great power, a unique personality, skills, and wisdom. Both sides listened to you, Krishna. If they didn’t, you could have scared them or used force. You could do anything, Krishna, you could do anything. But you didn’t. You did nothing to save this great family. You just waited, Krishna, and ignored it."

Krishna placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Devi, please calm down. Listen to me."

But Gandhari shook her head, her eyes blazing with a mixture of grief and determination. "No, Krishna, I won’t listen to anything else. I don’t want to hear it. I have served my husband with all my heart and soul for a long time, and with the power of that devotion, I am cursing you. Krishna, just as you allowed your relatives to be destroyed, 36 years from now, your Yadava family will be destroyed in the same way. You will be left without relatives, ministers, or sons, and you will die in the forest in a bad way. Just as the women of the Kuru family are crying on the ground today, the women of your Yadava family will cry in the same way, Krishna. They will be overwhelmed with grief."

Krishna's expression remained calm, though his eyes held a deep understanding of the pain in Gandhari's heart. "Devi, this event is unavoidable. What you said will happen exactly as you said. Devi, no one else can destroy the Vrishni family but themselves. They are bound by fate, and they will die fighting each other. Devi, I know what must happen, what destiny is. So why curse me, Devi, when it is all in vain? I know what will happen. Please be calm, Devi, be calm."

Nearby, Yudhishthira, the eldest Pandava, approached, his face lined with worry. "What are you saying, Vasudeva? After hearing your words, how can we continue to live? Are you saying you will leave us, Vasudeva?"

Krishna turned to him with a gentle smile. "You are the son of Dharma, the eldest Pandava, yet you are so worried? Go, can anyone change destiny? What is meant to happen will happen. Do not grieve in vain, King, focus on your duties."

He then addressed Gandhari with the same calm resolve. "Devi Gandhari, you too, calm down. It was your duty to guide Duryodhana. You failed in your own duty, so why blame me now? A Kshatriya woman bears a son knowing he might die in battle. So why grieve in vain now? Rise, Devi, and fulfill your responsibilities."

Gandhari, her spirit momentarily steadied by Krishna's words, fell silent. As the weight of the conversation settled, King Dhritarashtra, his voice heavy with sorrow, turned to Yudhishthira. "Son Yudhishthira, I believe you are wise and have divine knowledge. Can you tell me where the brave warriors who died in this war have gone, to give me some peace, my son?"

Yudhishthira, blessed with divine vision by Sage Lomasa, spoke with quiet assurance. "With the blessing of Sage Lomasa, I have gained divine knowledge and vision. With this sight, I can see that those who fought bravely and left their bodies with joy have gone to the realm of the gods. Those who died with heavy hearts have found a place in the land of the celestial musicians. The brave warriors who, despite being wounded and unarmed, did not retreat from the enemy, are now in the realm of the sages, shining brightly. The fighters who acted differently in this battle are in the northern land of the Kurus."

Dhritarashtra listened, relief softening his features. "I am happy to hear from you, my son. Among the brave warriors who died in this battle, we seek your advice on whose last rites we should perform. King Yudhishthira, there are many rules and instructions in the scriptures regarding this. However, we will perform the last rites for those who did not die with a sacred fire or whose bodies were partially consumed by snakes. Please give the order to start the arrangements for these warriors' last rites."

Under Dhritarashtra's guidance, Yudhishthira began overseeing all the funeral tasks. Vidura, Sanjaya, Indrasena, and many priests gathered to prepare the funeral pyres. The servants of Hastinapur brought all the necessary materials, like wood. Then, according to importance and worthiness, the cremation of all bodies began. Priest Dhaumya led the cremation, and rituals like chanting hymns and offerings were performed according to tradition. The air was filled with the solemnity of farewell, a tribute to the fallen heroes of a war that had changed their world forever.

Chapter 5: The Ashes of War

Under the solemn skies, Vidura diligently followed Yudhishthira's orders, ensuring that both the known and unknown were given their final rites. The funeral pyres, stretching out like a vast sea of flames, sent plumes of smoke spiraling into the heavens, forming ominous clouds that seemed to mourn alongside the grieving families. Once the flames had consumed the physical remains, the living turned to the sacred rituals of offering water, a tradition of honoring the departed.

Leading this somber procession was Dhritarashtra, his steps heavy with the weight of loss. The Pandavas followed, along with Gandhari, Kunti, and the women of the Kuru clan, their hearts shattered by the void left by their loved ones. They wept openly as they approached the Ganges, their tears mingling with the sacred waters. Together, they waded into the river, offering water for their husbands, sons, grandsons, brothers, and kin. The air was thick with the cries of the warrior wives, the sorrowful mantras intertwining with the rushing river, creating a haunting melody of grief.

Amidst this collective mourning, Kunti stood apart on the riverbank. Her heart was a tumultuous sea of sorrow and regret. She had held her composure for so long, but the overwhelming sadness of the scene finally broke her resolve. Her cries pierced the heavy air as she called out to Yudhishthira and his brothers.

"Among the great archers of the Kaurava side," Kunti began, her voice trembling, "there was a protector who was also your protector. You thought of him as the son of a charioteer, born of Radha, but you must offer water for the truthful Karna. Karna was your elder brother. Born from the sun god and my womb, he was a radiant son with armor and earrings, a true warrior."

The Pandavas stood frozen, shock rippling through them like a physical blow. "What are you saying, Mother?" Yudhishthira gasped, his voice filled with disbelief. "Karna is our elder brother! Oh no, what are you saying? What a painful truth you have told us."

Except for Arjuna, the brothers had often felt the sting of Karna's strength and harsh words. Now, learning of their true connection to him, their hearts were shattered anew. "That Karna," they echoed, their voices laden with anguish. "That Karna was our elder, our own family. Why did he keep this a secret? Why didn't Mother let us know his true identity?"

Kunti's eyes were wet with tears as she replied, "Both the Sun God, Karna's father, and I have asked him many, many times to unite with you. We have endured much hardship, but no, we couldn't persuade Karna. And that's why we had to keep his true identity hidden from you."

In the assembly, Yudhishthira's mind raced back to moments when he had noticed how much Karna's feet resembled his own. "All my anger towards him disappeared, Mother," he admitted, "but even then, I couldn't guess the real truth. Hearing this terrible truth, my heart is breaking, Mother."

The pain of losing Abhimanyu, Ghatotkacha, Panchali's five sons, and Dhrishtadyumna paled in comparison to the agony he felt now. "It feels like my whole body is on fire," he confessed. "If only we could have united with Karna, this terrible, destructive war would never have happened, Mother, it would never have happened."

Kunti's voice was a whisper of regret. "I know, my son, I know all of that. But Karna never wanted to leave Duryodhana and come to you, my son, he didn't want to."

Yudhishthira's heart ached with understanding. "Now I understand why, even after defeating our four brothers in battle, he didn't kill us. Karna knew we were his younger brothers. Even knowing that, he had to fight against us. What a terrible burden he must have carried to do this! What a heavy weight I am under! Karna, Karna, Karna, my elder brother!"

The tears flowed freely as Yudhishthira completed the funeral rites. After the final ceremonies, the Pandavas and Kauravas observed a month of mourning by the Ganges. During this time, Yudhishthira's grief for his sons, grandsons, relatives, and Karna became overwhelming. Sage Devala, Devarshi Narada, and other sages came to comfort him, sharing stories of Karna's true deeds and wrongdoings. Yet, Yudhishthira's heart, tormented by grief, found no peace.

One day, with sorrow weighing heavily upon him, Yudhishthira spoke to his mother, Kunti. "Mother, you have hidden a great truth from us. I cannot get over this truth. It burns me with pain every day. By keeping this secret, you have committed a wrong, Mother. I curse you that from now on, women will not be able to keep any secrets."

His words echoed in the quiet air, a poignant reminder of the heavy burden of secrets and the devastating power of truth.

Chapter 6: The Path to Redemption

The grand hall of Hastinapur was filled with a heavy silence, broken only by the soft rustle of robes as courtiers shifted uncomfortably. Yudhishthira sat on the throne, his face a mask of sorrow. His heart was heavy with the weight of the war that had ended, but left behind a trail of grief and loss.

A wise minister stepped forward, his voice gentle yet firm. "Your Majesty, please calm down. This deep sorrow does not suit you," he implored, his eyes full of concern. "This terrible war began because of Duryodhana's sins. Why do you blame yourself for this war, Your Majesty? Why is your heart so troubled?"

The minister turned to Krishna, who stood nearby, a beacon of calm amidst the storm of emotions. "Krishna, please comfort the king. Our words are not reaching him," he pleaded. "King Yudhishthira, you have done what is right for a warrior. All the brave souls who died in the war have gone to heaven. Why are you so upset for them, Your Majesty? Now that the wrong has ended, you should rule your people justly."

Krishna, with his serene demeanor, nodded in agreement. "Your Majesty, if you are troubled by your duty, then seek advice from the wise elder of the world. He will help you overcome this deep regret."

Arjuna, standing by his brother, spoke up, his voice tinged with his own grief. "My son Abhimanyu was killed because of my desire for the kingdom. My strategy led to the elder lying on a bed of arrows. My deceit caused the death of Guru Drona. Even so, Krishna, how can I face the elder?"

Krishna placed a reassuring hand on Arjuna's shoulder. "Yudhishthira, my son, accept my respects, great sage Vyasa," he said, turning to the king. "A person who does wrong out of ignorance and feels no regret is a true sinner. There is no atonement for such sin. But you have a pure nature. This war happened to stop Duryodhana's sins. You are not at fault, King. You fought this war unwillingly and now feel remorse."

The sage Vyasa, who had been quietly observing, spoke with a voice that carried the wisdom of ages. "The atonement for this sin is the Ashwamedha Yajna. Ascend the throne of Hastinapur and organize the Ashwamedha sacrifice, Yudhishthira. Only then will you be free from all your worries and sins. Trust my words, King. I never speak falsehoods."

With a heavy heart but newfound resolve, Yudhishthira was crowned on the throne of Hastinapur. The kingdom rejoiced, yet a shadow lingered, a reminder of the lives lost. Meanwhile, the life of the elder of the world was coming to an end. Accompanied by Krishna, King Yudhishthira went to the elder. There, following Krishna's guidance, the elder imparted all kinds of knowledge and advice to the king, preparing him for the path ahead.

As Yudhishthira listened, the wisdom of the ages began to lift the veil of sorrow from his heart, and he understood that his true duty lay in ruling justly and wisely, for the good of his people.