Vaiśampāyana said:
Hearing those words of Vāsudeva—stern yet just, shining with the wisdom of eternity—Gandhārī stood silent, her heart agitated like a tree struck by wind. Her tears ceased for a mont, for the truth of the Lord pierced through her sorrow like light through mist.
Then Dhṛtarāṣṭra, mastering his anguish by reason, turned to Yudhiṣṭhira, the son of Dharma, and spoke in a voice faint but steady.
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:
“O son of Pāṇḍu, thou knowest all things, visible and unseen. Tell —how many have fallen in this dreadful war, and how many remain alive?”
And Yudhiṣṭhira, bowing to the blind monarch, answered with compassion.
Yudhiṣṭhira said:
“One billion six hundred sixty million and twenty thousand n have fallen in this battle. Of heroes who yet live, two hundred forty thousand one hundred sixty-five remain.”
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:
“Tell , O wise one, what end have these mighty warriors attained? Where dwell those heroes now who fell in battle?”
Yudhiṣṭhira said:
“Those who cast away their lives in valor, eting death cheerfully in righteous war, have attained the shining realms of Indra.
They who t death with fear, unwilling and discontent, dwell with the Gandharvas, ever yearning for the light.
Those who fell while fleeing, or begging for quarter, have reached the shadowed world of the Guhyakas.
But those Kṣatriyas who advanced unard against ard foes, preferring death to dishonor, have assud bright forms and attained the highest region of Brahman.
The rest, slain upon the borders of the field, dwell now in the northern realms of the Uttara-Kurus, shining like stars in peace.”
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:
“By what power, O son, dost thou see all this? For thou speakest as one crowned with the vision of seers.”
Yudhiṣṭhira said:
“When I wandered in exile through the holy forests at thy command, I t the celestial Ṛṣi Lomāśa. From him I gained a boon of spiritual sight— to behold the worlds of the departed and the fruits of karma. By that grace I perceive what the eyes of n cannot.”
Then Dhṛtarāṣṭra, firm in reason but tender in spirit, said:
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said:
“It is et that the bodies of the fallen be honoured with due rites. Both friend and foe alike must be burned according to law.
What shall be done for those who have none to mourn them, who are torn by beasts and have no sacred fires? Will they, too, attain blessed regions?”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus addressed, Yudhiṣṭhira, ever devoted to dharma, spoke to the priests and wise n that remained — Sudharman, the royal purohita; Dhaumya, the sage of the Pāṇḍavas; Sañjaya, the sūta of Dhṛtarāṣṭra; and Vidura, ever wise and steadfast; also to Yuyutsu and his servants and attendants.
Yudhiṣṭhira said:
“Let funeral rites be perford for all, even for those who have no kin. Let none lie untended, for the debt of the fallen is the duty of the living.”
Then Vidura and Sañjaya and the holy priests gathered sandalwood, aloe, and fragrant oils, silken cloths, clarified butter, and heaps of dry wood. They built funeral pyres and lighted them in due order, pouring libations upon the flas.
The bodies of Duryodhana and his hundred brothers, of Śalya, Bhūriśravā, Jayadratha, and Abhimanyu,
of Duḥśāsana’s son, Lakṣmaṇa, and Dhṛṣṭaketu,
of Vṛhanta and Somadatta, of the Śṛñjayas and the kings of Matsya, Pañcāla, and Kosala,
of Karna and Vrishasena, of Ghaṭotkaca, Alambusha, and the Trigartas,
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of Bhagadatta, Drupada, Śikhaṇḍī, Dhṛṣṭadyumna, and the sons of Draupadī —
all were duly consud by fire amidst chants and lantations.
Those who had none to claim them were gathered in great heaps and burnt with devotion and goodwill. The night blazed with thousands of pyres; their flas rose smokeless and bright, like stars kindled upon the earth.
The rites were done, the songs were sung,
The hymns of death on Gaṅgā rung.
The pyres like planets burned the plain,
And sorrow fell like autumn rain.
The cries of won, loud and wild,
Were mingled with the Veda’s child;
And through that night of fire and fear,
All living things stood still to hear.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When all had been duly perford, Yudhiṣṭhira, placing Dhṛtarāṣṭra at his head, turned with all the princes and queens toward the sacred river Gaṅgā, to pour the libations of water and the tears of a nation — thus closing the tale of death with the beginning of peace.
Then the royal sons of Pāṇḍu, accompanied by Kṛṣṇa, Dhṛtarāṣṭra, and the queens, arrived at the sacred river Gaṅgā—broad, shining, and filled with holy water. Her waves murmured softly like hymns of ancient ṛṣis, and her shores, lined with high banks and vast sands, glimred beneath the morning sun.
When they reached her holy banks, the Kuru won, their hearts broken with grief, cast off their ornants, their silken veils, and the jewelled girdles that had once adorned them in joy. Bare of adornnt, they knelt upon the earth and offered libations of water unto their sires, sons, husbands, brothers, and grandsires.
Their cries rose over the river like the wails of cranes in the rain.
The stream, crowded with weeping queens, looked boundless and mournful like the ocean of Ti itself.
While the won of heroes thus perford the rites of the fallen, the way to the river seed to open of its own accord— as though Gaṅgā herself, the mother of the world, desired to embrace her children.
Amid that vast multitude of mourners stood Kuntī, silent and veiled. Her lips quivered as the waves of mory rose like fire within her. Suddenly, overco by grief, she lifted her hands and spoke to her sons in a voice that trembled like the current itself.
Kuntī said:
“That hero, that matchless bowman,
that commander of hosts,
that mighty warrior slain by Arjuna in battle—
was your eldest brother.
He who led Duryodhana’s armies, shining among n like the Sun among stars, he who feared no foe and sought glory beyond life itself, he who was born of , O sons of Pāṇḍu— that was Karna, child of the Sun-god, born with celestial armour and earrings.
Offer oblations of water to him, your elder, the son I bore in secret sha and endless love, he whose splendour rivalled the god of day.”
The Sun’s own son I bore unseen,
Clad in light, in golden sheen.
By destiny’s hand from he fled,
And lies today among the dead.
O sons, the foe ye t in strife,
Was blood of yours, my secret life.
Pour now for him the water pure,
For loss like his none can endure.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When Kuntī had spoken thus, a great silence fell upon the sons of Pāṇḍu. The wind itself seed to stop upon the river’s breast. Then Yudhiṣṭhira, that tiger among kings, sighed deeply, his heart seared by revelation. His voice ca broken by sorrow, yet clear as truth itself.
Yudhiṣṭhira said:
“O mother, was that radiant hero,
that ocean of strength and pride,
indeed thy firstborn son?
Was that Karṇa,
whose arrows were like the rays of the Sun,
thy child concealed from us?
He who t us in battle
with the might of Indra himself—
how couldst thou hide him, O mother,
as one hides fire in a fold of cloth?
His arms were strong as mountains,
his chariot vast as a stormy sea,
his bow roared like thunder,
his banner blazed like the sun.
The Dhārtarāṣṭras honoured his power
even as we honoured Arjuna’s.
Had we known him, O mother,
had we embraced him as our own,
this war, this flood of death,
would never have been.
Now I burn, thinking of him—
my heart is ash within.
His death is heavier upon
than the death of Abhimanyu,
than the fall of Draupadī’s sons,
or the ruin of all the Kurus.
Alas! by this concealnt, thou hast undone both houses of Bhārata!”
The hidden fla, the secret birth,
Has scorched the kings of all the earth.
The brother slain by brother’s hand,
Lies bloodied on his father’s land.
O fate, O mother, cruel and kind,
Thou gav’st a sun, then struck us blind.
The field is red, the sky is dim,
And every tear belongs to him.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Having uttered those words of grief, King Yudhiṣṭhira the Just entered the river and offered libations to his eldest brother, Karṇa—the sun-born hero. The queens of Karṇa’s house, brought before him, wailed aloud and joined in the water-rite.
Then all the won upon the riverbank, hearing the na of Karṇa uttered as “eldest son of Kuntī,” raised one united cry—a sound so deep and long that it seed to rend the sky.
The waves of Gaṅgā trembled with their sorrow; the earth echoed their lantation.
When the rites were done, Yudhiṣṭhira, his senses shaken, rose slowly from the sacred stream. The waters of the mother river flowed red with tears and libations alike— a mingling of grief, love, and destiny fulfilled.
The river bore their sorrowed breath,
The Gaṅgā murmured songs of death.
And yet within her holy flow,
lay peace the mortal cannot know.
The sons of Pāṇḍu bowed their head,
Beside the ashes of the dead.
The Sun went down, the stars grew mild—
And fate stood silent, reconciled.
Thus ends the Strī Parva— the Book of the Won— where sorrow beca the voice of dharma, and lantation unveiled the hidden truths of fate.
Here ends the wailing of queens and mothers,
the curse of Gandhārī,
the revelation of Kuntī,
and the mourning upon the banks of sacred Gaṅgā.
From the ashes of Kurukṣetra rose silence,
and in that silence, the hearts of n turned again toward peace.
The field of death beca a field of awakening—
for through grief, wisdom was born.
Thus ends the eleventh Parva of the Mahābhārata, called the Strī Parva, containing the lantations of the queens of the Bharatas, the curse of Gandhārī, the funeral of heroes, and the revelation of Karṇa’s birth.
It is the book of sorrow, and through sorrow, the rembrance of dharma.
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