Abstract
The article focuses on Śānti Parvan, a small section of the Mahābhārata, describing the scene after the cataclysmic war. It explores the convergences and divergences between masculine and feminine expressions of grief in response to bereavement, as described here. The former appears to be concerned with identities of the dead as kshatriyas and kings. The latter, on the other hand, focuses more centrally on the dead as kinsmen-related through both natal and marital ties, even as there are overlaps.
The Mahābhārata occupies a unique space in narrative texts of early India. Encyclopaedic in scope, running into over one lakh verses divided unevenly into eighteen parvans or books, it deals with kingship, kinship, gender and much else besides. Its major concern is a war of attrition between kinsfolk, the Kauravas and the Pāṇḍavas, where the latter emerge victorious, but the victory is overshadowed by remorse, anguish, exhaustion and despair. The causes of the battle are inextricably intertwined and include disputes over succession, the humiliation of Draupadī, the wife of the Pāṇḍavas, and major and minor frictional engagements. The events that are narrated have been recognised as marking the end of an era—a transition towards a more structured and stratified society, with a growing emphasis on settled and possibly intensive agriculture and more sharply defined administrative practices, amongst other things.
At another level, the text also engages with deep and complex human emotions such as bereavement and grief, which are encompassed within, as well as transcend, routine social relations. In doing so, it provides a timely and almost timeless reminder about the terrible price of violence.
Originating within bardic traditions associated with kshatriya lineages, and recognised as an itihāsa, the Mahābhārata is one of several texts that claim to be the fifth Veda. Composed in relatively accessible Sanskrit, it works through a strategy of interlocked dialogues, creating space for multiple voices and perspectives. Besides, like the Purāṇas, the Mahābhārata was meant to be open to those denied access to Vedic learning, namely women and shūdras. Apart from the implicitly inclusive audience, the protagonists, with notable exceptions, are kshatriya men. And yet it is the women and some of the non-kshatriya male protagonists on whom much of the narrative hinges.
Dating the epic is a task that has been attempted for several decades. Here I work with the understanding that the kernel of the epic, pertaining to the Kurus, Pāṇḍavas and Pañchālas, and focused on the Ganga–Yamuna doab, may belong to the second half of the first millennium
Where, in this long chronology, would we locate the Strī Parvan, and why is this relatively small segment of the text significant? This, the 11th parvan of the text, marks the formal end of the war, where the dead are acknowledged, mourned, and laid to rest. In describing these processes, the text probably draws on relatively early and possibly widespread beliefs and practices.
It is in this context that the different ways in which kshatriya men and women are represented as coping with bereavement acquire significance. In the case of the former, resolutions, not always effective, are proposed through discourses that resonate with Upanishadic and Buddhist ideas as well as with the Bhagavad Gītā, culminating, finally, in Brahmanical rituals of cremation. Women, on the other hand, are depicted as having a far more immediate, intimate and intense engagement with the dead. Do these suggest different strands and distinct cultural practices that are woven together in a narrative that is at once compelling and disturbing? In this context, the name of the parvan also deserves attention. Why, if both men and women grieve, and men are grieved for, is it associated with women (strī)? While definitive answers may elude us, the parvan enables us to explore an extremely deep human emotion, and how its gendered expressions are culturally constituted. At the same time, it is important not to flatten out the gendered responses—as we will see, not all women, nor all men, respond in exactly identical ways.
Voices
The Strī Parvan, 1 like other sections of the Mahābhārata, introduces several men and women, and it is through their conversations that the narrative advances along its grim and gory path towards its resolution. The first set of chapters, from one to fourteen, are dominated by men; Gāndhārī (SP 14.14), the mother of the Kauravas, who has lost all her hundred sons in the battle, is given a voice only when we are more than half way through the 14th chapter. Her conversation with Bhīmasena (SP 15.15) runs through two chapters. Subsequently, she emerges as the main narrator 2 before giving way to other voices that carry the narrative to its conclusion in the funerary rites.
The narrative itself is triggered off by the query of Janamejaya, the descendant of the Pāṇḍavas (SP I.1–3; 9.1–2), animated by curiosity about the fate of his ancestors. This is met by Vaiśampāyana, the disciple of Vyāsa, traditionally acknowledged as the composer of the text. Vaiśampāyana strings the narrative together at several points. 3 But, more important, the first few chapters are dominated by Vidura, who scolds, consoles and advises Dhṛtarāṣṭra, the distraught father of the Kauravas. 4 Vidura and Dhṛtarāṣṭra share a common biological father, Vyāsa. However, their mothers are different. The mother of Vidura is a dāsī, or slave woman, while that of Dhṛtarāṣṭra is an ex-royal. Their different mothers ostensibly determine their different status. Vidura’s acknowledged insight and wisdom does not translate into power.
Vyāsa himself intervenes and takes over from the 8th chapter. And, in the 9th chapter, Sañjaya, another wise yet liminal figure, advises the king to perform the last rites (pretakārya) for his putras, pautras and pitṛs (sons, grandsons and fathers) (SP 9.7). Yet, the reader/listener/audience has to wade through tears, blood and much more to reach that closure.
When we reach that point, the voices change somewhat dramatically in the last two chapters. Here, Vāsudeva/Kṛṣṇa intervenes (SP 26.1) for the first time in this parvan. We then hear Yudhiṣṭhira (SP 26.9, 12, 19, 21) and Dhṛtarāṣṭra (SP 26.11, 18). Thus, structurally, Gāndhārī’s voice, with all its resonances and dissonances, is enclosed within a framework where male narrators are assigned the first and the last word. This is a pattern that recurs in other parts of the narrative as well.
At the same time, the men who begin and end the conversation do not necessarily echo one another—their responses range from attempting to persuade Dhṛtarāṣṭra to accept his responsibility, to convince him about the merits of a heroic death, or to raise philosophical arguments based on the inevitability of death.
Naming and Describing the Dead
Men, once again, are assigned a framing role in naming and describing the dead, even as some of the most vivid, graphic and moving descriptions are attributed to women.
One of the first lists of the dead is provided by Sañjaya, who, gifted with insight, offers a running commentary on the events of the battlefield to Dhṛtarāṣṭra. He mentions pitṛs (paternal ancestors), putras (sons), pautras (grandsons), jñāti (kinsfolk), and suhṛd (friends or well-wishers) (SP 1.8). Dhṛtarāṣṭra adds the amātya (ministers), bandhus (kinsfolk) and mitra (friends) to the list (SP 1.10, 12, 20), but specifically mourns the loss of his two sons, Duryodhana and Duhśāsana, their ally, Karṇa, and the preceptor, Droṇa (SP 1.16–17). Both Sañjaya and Dhṛtarāṣṭra thus focus on patrilineal kinsfolk and allies in identifying the dead.
By contrast, when we encounter the anonymous women mourners for the first time, although we are told that they have lost their lords and masters (īśvara, nātha), (SP 10.8–9), they cry out for their sons, brothers and fathers (SP 10.12), blurring the distinction between natal and marital kin. They themselves reach the battlefield to find the remains of sons, brothers, fathers and husbands (SP 16.11). Further, when they encounter Yudhiṣṭhira (SP 12.6–9), they accuse him of having killed fathers, brothers, gurus, sons and sakhis (companions), and, more specifically, Droṇa, Bhīṣma and Jayadratha. The selection of these three men is interesting—one is the brāhmaṇa preceptor and trainer in martial arts of the Kurus, the second is the celibate patriarch of the lineage and the third is linked through marital ties. One has a sense of the women invoking a diverse network rather than allowing themselves to be confined to the immediate patrilineage.
In many ways, Gāndhārī, the mother of the Kauravas, represents the archetypal woman mourner. She is among the first to mention the dead specifically (SP 16.21). The sequence is significant in terms of its breadth. It begins with Karṇa, whose ancestry is yet to be publicly acknowledged, and therefore remains ambiguous at this point, followed by Bhīṣma, Abhimanyu, Arjuna’s brave son, Droṇa, Drupada, an ally of the Pāṇḍavas and Śalya. Here, and elsewhere, she mourns for both friends and foes.
The way in which Duryodhana figures in this context is also illuminating. As is well known, his acts are supposed to have precipitated the catastrophic descent into disaster. One of the first assessments of him is provided by Sañjaya: he is cruel, dissatisfied and brave (SP 1.31). It is this last attribute of heroic death that is reiterated by Kṛpa, who attempts to assuage the grief of both Dhṛtarāṣṭra and Gāndhārī, assuring them that the way their son has met his end was ideal for a kshatriya (SP 11.3–9).
In spite of this reassurance, Gāndhārī’s response when she discovers the corpse of Duryodhana is more complex. Initially, she collapses (SP 17.1). Once she has recovered, she takes him in her arms (SP 17.3) and laments, recalling how she had wished for the victory of dharma rather than his personal triumph (SP 17.7). She also recognises her other sons: Duhśāsana and his offences that have led to terrible retribution (SP 18.19), as also the mutilated Vikarṇa (SP 19.1), who had unsuccessfully attempted to prevent the rupture between the cousins, Durmukha (SP 19.7), Citrasena (SP 19.11), Viviṃśati (SP 19.14) and Duhsaha (SP 19.19). Each one of them emerges as an individual whom she had cherished and nurtured, and is thus distinguished from the amorphous, anonymous mass of the dead.
Yet, as noted earlier, Gāndhārī is represented as nothing if not impartial. Having acknowledged the fate of her beloved sons, she turns to lament the death of Abhimanyu (SP 20.3), the valiant son of the Pāṇḍavas, sharing the grief of the disconsolate widow (SP 20.5–29), who embraces and converses with her dead husband as she attempts to come to terms with his death. Gāndhārī also recognises the death of Virāṭa, (SP 20.30) the ally of the Pāṇḍavas, and of his son Uttara, as well as Kamboja, along with that of her grandson Lakṣmaṇa (SP 20.34–35). Once again, the blurring of the distinction between friends and foes is remarkable.
Gāndhārī goes on to mention Karṇa (SP 21.2), mourned by his devoted wife (SP 21.10), the king of Avanti (SP 22.1), Bahlika (SP 22.5), Jayadratha (SP 22.8), Śalya (SP 23.1), Bhagadatta (SP 23.10), the dying Bhīṣma (SP 23.15), Droṇa (SP 23.26), Bhuriśravas (SP 24.2), Śakuni (SP 24.23), the king of Kaliṅga (SP 25.6), Jayatsena the lord of Magadha (SP 25.7), Bṛhadbala, the lord of the Kosalas (SP 25.10), Dhṛṣṭadyumna’s sons (SP 25.13), as also the Kekaya princes (SP 25.15), Drupada (SP 25.17), Dhṛṣṭaketu (SP 25.20), the princes of Avanti, Vinda and Anuvinda (SP 25.28). Here, once again, what is striking is lack of any obvious order—in terms of either kinship, or allegiance, or even varṇa hierarchies.
There are other contexts within which the dead are named. Kṛpa, Droṇa’s brother, reports the events of the preceding Sauptika Parvan, to Gāndhārī. These centre around the nocturnal attack on the Pandava camp engineered by Aśvatthāman, enraged at the way in which Bhīmasena had attacked Duryodhana. Kṛpa specifically mentions the slaughter of all the Pancālas, led by Dhṛṣṭadyumna, as well as the sons of Draupadī (SP 11.12). Here, unlike Gāndhārī’s own vision, it is the death of rival kinsfolk that is explicitly foregrounded.
If this provides a contrast to the principles of listing associated with Gāndhārī, so does the list of those who are cremated. Here, Duryodhana and his hundred brothers are followed by Śalya, Śala, Bhūriśravas, Jayadratha, Abhimanyu, Duhśāsana’s son and Lakṣmaṇa, Dhṛṣṭaketu, Bṛhanta, Somadatta, a hundred Sṛñjayas, Kshemadhanvan, Virāṭa, Drupada, Śikhandin, Dhṛṣṭadyumna, Yudhāmanyu, Uttamaujas, the sons of Draupadī, Śakuni, Acala, Vṛṣaka, Bhagadatta, Karṇa, Vaikartana and his sons, Kekayas, Trigartas, Ghaṭotkacha, the brother of Baka, the king of the rākshasas Alambuṣa, and Jalasandham (SP 26.31–37). One can discern a certain pattern, based on patrilineal kinship, marital ties, and distinctions in terms of those considered more human than others. But before we reach this enumeration, there is more to come.
Deaths and corpses are described in graphic detail. One of the first such descriptions is provided by Vidura. This is not specific to Kurukshetra, but is generic. The space of the dead is described as pitṛvana, literally the forest of the ancestors, where the flesh disintegrates, leaving behind a mass of sinews and bones. Consequently, any markers of identity in terms of kula or lineage and rūpa or form are lost (SP 3.5–7). Inherent in this description is a notion that death is indiscriminate, and erases all markers of social identity.
Such imagery of death and decay is meant to evoke horror; however, there are others that are more exalted. In one instance (SP 9.20), Vidura compares the bodies of warriors to sacrificial fires, into which arrows seem to be poured as oblations.
Yet, this imagery, vivid as it is, pales into insignificance in comparison to the horrors of the battlefield as seen by Gāndhārī. The description is at once generic and specific. It includes dismembered bodies, torn apart not only because of injuries but through the ravages wrought by birds of prey and scavenging animals, and indistinguishable remains of elephants, horses, chariots, men and women (SP 16.5–9). Those who were used to soft beds now lie on the hard earth; the praise of bards is replaced by the howls of the jackal (SP 16.33).
It is not only the inauspicious but also the incongruous that attracts attention. We are presented with a delicately balanced imagery of the erotic and the violent. Some men appear to embrace their weapons as if these were their lovers (SP 16.37). And some seem virtually alive, so that even the scavengers do not touch them (SP 16.38–39).
We will return to how the women respond to these men. For the moment, it is evident that while both men and women acknowledge the ‘same’ set of men who have died, they do so in markedly different ways. For the women, kinship bonds, both natal and marital, appear far more significant, and there is little attempt to classify other men. The men, when they name the dead, tend to list them along more obvious lines of kinship, kingship and varṇa affiliations.
And yet, we must remember that all the women mourners are kshatriyas. However, before we turn to their collective and individual responses, let us make a detour into some ideas that remain confined to the rarefied realms of male discourse, and evaporate as the text proceeds towards its resolution.
Masculinity and the Futility of Grief
The authors of the text choose the somewhat unlikely figure of Dhṛtarāṣṭra to open up the discussion on bereavement, and how the ideal man should respond to it. His immediate reaction is described vividly—he is like a tree whose branches have been cut, and he falls down like a tree in a storm (SP 1.4; 9). He considers himself to be a bird whose wings have been clipped, and like the sun whose rays have faded (SP 1.11; 12).
His first response is one of disbelief and denial. He claims that he is not aware of doing anything that is forbidden (duṣkṛtam) (SP 1.18) and that what has befallen should be attributed to some karma done in his previous birth (SP 1.19). Yet Sañjaya, one of the first voices in the conversation, firmly forecloses these facile assertions, pointing out that Dhṛtarāṣṭra ignored the advice of his suhṛds, something that the aged king himself acknowledges (SP 1.13–14) and had been guided by self-interest and greed, apart from listening to the undeserving. To reinforce his argument, Sañjaya provides a list of those whose advice was bypassed. These include Bhīṣma, the celibate patriarch, Gāndhārī (Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s devoted and wise wife), Vidura, Droṇa, the martial brāhmaṇa, Kṛpa, his brother, Nārada, the veteran sage, and Vyāsa, at once the biological father of Dhṛtarāṣṭra and Vidura and the acknowledged author of the text (SP 1.27–30). Sañjaya insists that as someone who knows the Vedas, shāstras and āgamas, Dhṛtarāṣṭra should not give way to grief (SP 1.22). The cultural resources represented by these textual traditions are evidently not available to the women.
The longer response to Dhṛtarāṣṭra is assigned to Vidura (SP 2.7), the son of Vyāsa and a slave woman, and one of the wisest men represented in the text. His response includes messages about the inevitability of death, which resonate with early Buddhist ideas. He also suggests that death in the battlefield is ideal for the kshatriya, almost echoing verses from the Bhagavad Gītā. Later (SP 9.18), Vidura adds that the death of the valorous sura is even more meritorious than sacrifices performed with plentiful dakṣiṇā, asceticism, and learning. This notion of the triumphal death of the hero is reiterated by the three survivors on the Kuru side, who assure the distraught Dhṛtarāṣṭra that his son would have attained the world of Indra (SP 11.3–4).
In the course of this discussion (SP 2–7, 9) these chapters mention that Yama, the god of death, takes both the brave as well as the coward, that kāla, or time and fate, is indifferent to all, that kshatriyas who die in the battlefield attain heaven, while those who are victorious are guaranteed fame, and that there is no escape from karma. Births and deaths, moreover, are countless—so, asks Vidura, which of the thousands of mothers and fathers, and hundreds of sons and daughters that one has had, should one mourn for? (SP 2.21). Further, Vidura conceptualises birth and not death as deeply troubling. Thus, life in the womb and coming out of it are represented as difficult (SP 4.4–6.), an idea that resonates with ascetic and renunciatory traditions.
Yet, these wise words prove ineffective. Dhṛtarāṣṭra duly collapses, and is only revived when Vyāsa, Vidura, Sañjaya and other attendants sprinkle water on him, fan and massage him (SP 8.2–4). His immediate response is to contemplate ending his life (SP 8.9), and this prompts Vyāsa’s intervention in the conversation. He reiterates much that his predecessors have said, emphasising that Dhṛtarāṣṭra is wise, well versed in dharma and artha, and thus aware of the inevitability of death (SP 8.13.14), the war and its outcome (SP 8.15–19). For good measure, Vyāsa inserts an account of a conversation between Pṛthivī, the earth goddess, who complains about the burden she bears, and Viṣṇu. The latter assures her that Duryodhana and his friends and accomplices will be incarnated to wage a war in which all will perish, so that the burden under which she groans will be lightened (SP 8.22–32). As his biological father, Vyāsa also reminds Dhṛtarāṣṭra about Yudhiṣṭhira, who deserves compassion, and, evoking vivid imagery typical of the epic, urges him to pour the waters of wisdom in order to extinguish the fire caused by grief at the loss of his sons (SP 8.45–49). On being assured by Dhṛtarāṣṭra that his words have had the desired result, Vyāsa disappears (SP 8.54). However, when Sañjaya reminds Dhṛtarāṣṭra about the need to perform the last rites for the deceased members of the patriliny, he collapses once again, and is, once more, revived and consoled by Vidura (SP 9.7–9).
In fact, both the proposed resolutions, philosophical and ritual, prove ineffectual at a critical juncture. When Dhṛtarāṣṭra ultimately meets the Pāṇḍavas, he is barely able to greet Yudhiṣṭhira; and his wrath when he encounters Bhīma, who is directly responsible for Duryodhana’s death, is literally fiery (SP 12.14). It is this fury that he displays when he pretends to greet Bhīma. Kṛṣṇa, at once perceptive and pragmatic, substitutes a metal image for the human Bhīma. Dhṛtarāṣṭra crushes this in a fierce embrace, injures himself in the process, and falls to the ground, bloodied like a tree in full bloom (SP 12.15–20). Raised to his feet by the alert and conscientious Sañjaya, his anger turns to anguish at the thought that he has killed Bhīma (SP 12.21–22). When he calms down and realises the truth, Kṛṣṇa intervenes to point out that his sons would not return to life even if he did kill Bhīma (SP 12.29–30). Kṛṣṇa reiterates much of what has been said by Sañjaya and Vidura, and this intervention (SP 13) is, expectedly, far more effective, and marks a turning point in the narrative. Dhṛtarāṣṭra acknowledges his misplaced anger, embraces the Pāṇḍavas and addresses them gently (SP 13.15–17). As we will see, Gāndhārī’s anger has an altogether different intensity and range.
Women on the Scene
It is after these preliminaries that the women make their first appearance, when Dhṛtarāṣṭra summons Gāndhārī, Kuntī, the mother of the victorious Pāṇḍavas, and the women of the Bharatas as well as all the women who are present. It is here that the terms strī and yoṣitah are introduced for the first time (SP 10.2).
The women’s expression of grief is far more explicit and public. They begin by crying out aloud (SP 10.5). What is more, this is all-pervasive, encompassing all Kuru households (sarveṣu Kuru veṣmasu), (SP 10.7) and is not confined to the exclusive space of the royal court. It is accompanied by a dramatic overturning of conventions: women (nārī) who had never been seen even by the gods, now wander, on the death of their lords, with their beautiful hair let loose, bereft of ornaments, wearing only a single cloth (SP 10.8–9). They are specifically described, in this context, as anātha, without a lord, master or protector.
It is at this moment of mourning that the larger non-royal populace is introduced. These include a list that both accommodates and circumvents varṇa identities—artisans (śilpins), merchants (vanij), the vaishya and those pursuing a variety of means of livelihood (sarva-karmopajīvinah) (SP 10.17).
These women are both united and distinct in their sorrow. As seen by Gāndhārī, their faces, red with weeping, resemble red lotuses (raktotpala) (SP 16.43). Red is at once symbolic of anger and grief (roṣa, rodana) (SP 16.45) and reminds the viewer of the rising sun. Some die broken hearted; others beat their heads with their soft palms (SP 16.48–49). Yet others attempt to piece together the bodies of their loved ones (SP 16.50–54).
Convergences and Divergences
There are points in the narrative when the men and women meet. The first of these occurs as the Kurus leave the city, and Yudhiṣṭhira, accompanied by Draupadī amongst others, meet (SP 12.1–4) a mass of grieving women who wonder how he would rule without his fathers, brothers, Abhimanyu and the sons of Draupadī (SP 12.9).
More dramatic is the encounter between Gāndhārī and the Pāṇḍavas, as the former, in spite of her wisdom, is bent on cursing the latter (SP 14.2). Here, Vyāsa resurfaces to deflect her anger, reminding her that she had constantly hoped for the victory of dharma (SP 14.9). Gāndhārī’s response is restrained, even if anguished, but what pains her, in particular, is the way in which Duryodhana was killed, violating all norms of righteous warfare (SP 14.20–21). Bhīma, the accused, acknowledges his guilt, and begs for pardon, both on the ground that he was acting in self-defence and that Duryodhana himself had set the precedent by violating norms on several occasions (SP 15.1–4). Yet, Gāndhārī does not concede ground easily. She reminds him that he drank the blood of Duhśāsana, an act at once ignoble and disgusting (SP 15.13–14). Bhīmasena’s defence is the vow he had made when Draupadī was publicly humiliated, as well as a somewhat disingenuous plea that he had simply pretended to drink the blood. Gāndhārī’s response is dignified and restrained: he should have spared at least one son for the blind couple, out of the hundred she had borne (SP 15.21–23). Yet, she does not wait for a response, but turns, instead to Yudhiṣṭhira, who duly acknowledges the carnage, and its meaninglessness, and is ready to bear the burden of any curse she may wish to inflict (SP 15.26–27). She does not curse, but Yudhiṣṭhira’s nails wither under her glance, and, frightened, Arjuna takes refuge behind Kṛṣṇa (SP 15.29–31).
The anger, however, does not last, and the Pāṇḍavas are able to meet their mother. There is silence, as tears flow, and it is discovered that Draupadī has collapsed, weeping, on the ground (SP 15.33–36). Ultimately, it is the trio of Kuntī, who has lost her first-born (a fact that the other protagonists do not know as yet), Draupadī and Gāndhārī who share the common grief of losing all their sons, who work out the resolution. Gāndhārī consoles the other women, especially Draupadī, saying that they should not mourn for those who have died in battle (SP 15.43) and finally, unlike Dhṛtarāṣṭra, takes responsibility for the destruction of the kula on herself (SP 15.44). This is reiterated somewhat differently when she attributes the death of her sons, grandsons and brothers to a possible sin committed in a previous birth (SP 16.60–61).
That Gāndhārī is pivotal is unsurprising, because, we learn (SP 16.1) that she is endowed with divine sight (divya cakṣu), on account of being a pativratā, through her asceticism, and her adherence to the truth (satatam satyavādinī) (SP 16.2). It is she who is able to see the battlefield with almost dreadful clarity. She identifies all the bereaved women as her daughters-in-law (snuṣa) (SP 16.19), who, while united in their grief, had to embark on a solitary search for the remains of sons, brothers, fathers and husbands. What is more, after her initial outburst of sorrow on discovering Duryodhana, she laments not for herself, but for Dhṛtarāṣṭra, who has lost all his bandhus (SP 17.10).
It is this ability to extend herself and empathise with others that makes her forget her grief and draw attention to Duryodhana’s widow, who embraces both her dead husband and her son (SP 17.29). In fact, Gāndhārī mourns for both her daughter and her daughters-in-law who have become widows (SP 22.15). It is only after identifying and eulogising the dead, and sharing the grief of the women they have left behind, that Gāndhārī collapses, only to recover almost immediately (SP 25.37–38).
But when she does recover, it is with a vengeance and a power that is awe-inspiring. She turns on Kṛṣṇa, accusing him of having been able to prevent the carnage, and, through the strength of her asceticism as well as the service she has rendered to her husband, she curses him to meet a fate worse than what has befallen the jñātis, kinsfolk, the Kurus and Pāṇḍavas who have killed one another. His jñātis and amātyas will perish, as will his sons, and he himself will die an ignoble death, while his kinswomen, having lost sons, jñātis, and bandhus, will wander as the women of the Bharatas do (SP 25.40–46). Kṛṣṇa concedes that this will happen, but claims to have foreseen it (SP 25.28–29). What is more, he goes on to argue, somewhat unfairly, it would seem, that her love for Duryodhana had blinded her to his faults (SP 26.3). Further, the ultimate consolation offered returns us to categories of varṇa. Kṛṣṇa says (SP 26.5) that the brāhmaṇī bears a potential ascetic, the cow bears an ox, the mare a swift steed, the shūdra woman a dāsa or slave, the vaishya woman a cowherd, and a rājaputrī or princess of the kshatriya category a son who is meant to kill.
This rebuke seems to shut Gāndhārī up; the subsequent conversation shifts to Dhṛtarāṣṭra and Yudhiṣṭhira (SP 26.7–23). Where Gāndhārī has identified and mourned for individual heroes, Dhṛtarāṣṭra is interested in statistics, and Yudhiṣṭhira dutifully provides one of over a billion killed (SP 26.9). It is Yudhiṣṭhira, moreover, who claims to know the fate of the dead; some will attain the world of the king of the devas, Indra, others the world of the gandharvas, the celestial musicians, yet others, the world of the guhyakas associated with Kubera, the god of wealth, others the world of Brahma, or the mythical world of the Uttara Kurus (SP 26.12–17).
The Last Rites
After describing scenes of grief, and providing eulogies to the fallen heroes, Gāndhārī turns to the last rites. Interestingly, the first cremation that is described is Droṇa’s (SP 23.38–42). The pyre is arranged from bows, and remains of weapons and chariots, according to rules, by brahmacārins who chant verses from the Sāmaveda; it is kept alight with blazing arrows, they circumambulate the pyre and then accompany his widow Kṛpī to the Ganga. Ironically, but perhaps befittingly, the next pyre to be mentioned is that of Droṇa’s arch enemy, Drupada, lit by his daughters-in-law and wives (SP 25.19). Interestingly, neither Droṇa nor Drupada have sons who survive them. Yet, the substitutes are different. For the martial brāhmaṇa, they are his disciples, while for the kshatriya, they are the women of his family.
Later, the text introduces the notion of a more formal ritual, which emerges through a discussion between Dhṛtarāṣṭra and Yudhiṣṭhira. Dhṛtarāṣṭra is eager that both those who have no one as well as those who have someone (the anātha and the sanātha) should receive proper ritual treatment (SP 26.21) and hopes that Yudhiṣṭhira will ensure the same.
It is here that men of various ranks come into focus. Yudhiṣṭhira chooses the brāhmaṇas Sudharman and Dhaumya, the sūta Sañjaya, the wise Vidura, the Kuru Yuyutsu, Indrasena, and the bhṛtyas (servants) and sūtas (bards) from all sides to ensure that rites are performed for all (SP 26.24–26). They set about collecting the requisites, which include sandalwood, ghee, and fragrant substances (SP 26.28).
The dead are now ranked and cremated. The ritual itself involves chanting of Vedic mantras as well as the weeping of women (SP 26.40). It falls to Vidura, whose own status is liminal, to cremate those who have no one (SP 26.43).
The cremation over Yudhiṣṭhira makes his way towards the Ganga, as part of a procession led by Dhṛtarāṣṭra (SP 26.44). Here, the women figure again, removing part of their clothing and ornaments (SP 27.2). The Kuru women offer water for their fathers, brothers, grandsons and kinsfolk, as well as for their sons and husbands (SP 27.3). They also make offerings for their suhṛds (SP 27.4).
It is at this point that Kuntī intervenes, to eulogise and publicly acknowledge her first born Karṇa, and advise the Pāṇḍavas to make offerings to him as a brother (SP 27.12). Yudhiṣṭhira duly recognises Karṇa as his eldest brother (SP 27.20), and, after praising him, and grieving for his loss, completes the rituals. That done, they turn back from the river (SP 27.30). Lost in this description of the last rites are any traces of the philosophical musings on the inevitability of death, with which the parvan began.
The Strī Parvan: What’s in a Name?
Let us step back from the intense, demanding narrative for a moment, to view the text as a resource that was developed, in a changing historical context, to understand, negotiate and represent a complex human emotion, contextualising it in terms of gender, varṇa, kinship, and kingship identities, to name a few.
First, it is important to recognise that the heroic death, and all deaths in the narrative are acknowledged as heroic, is a fate that is exclusive to kshatriya men, and exceptional brāhmaṇas like Droṇa. It is not something that is accessible to lesser mortals, or to women. The ubiquitous sūta, no matter how wise, is denied or spared this level of exalted annihilation.
Second, while both kinsmen (the handful that survives) and kinswomen mourn, the former appear far more restrained. The women, on the other hand, are represented as lamenting for one another, across the barriers of enmity and rivalry, as well as for their loved ones. Grief is thus at once specific and universal.
This also extends to the ways in which Dhṛtarāṣṭra and Gāndhārī respond to their bereavement. Both lament the loss of Duryodhana, their brave yet flawed son. Yet, while Dhṛtarāṣṭra collapses repeatedly, and even contemplates death, Gāndhārī seems to eschew this option. In fact, throughout, while men attempt to console Dhṛtarāṣṭra, Gāndhārī appears differently: she consoles and comforts other women. At the same time, while Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s rage is directed towards Bhīma, Duryodhana’s immediate opponent, Gāndhārī’s righteous anger is more wide ranging; nothing less than the annihilation of the Yadavas will satiate it.
Yet, it is not only her anger that is more devastating; her compassion allows her to be non-partisan; widows and daughters across the divide between friends and foes appear as one to her. And, in this, once more, she moves beyond the narrow confines of paternal affection, bordering on infatuation, that characterise Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s response.
What is more, the listing of the dead by Gāndhārī transcends categories of varṇa, and rivalry between kings. In this, as noted earlier, it contrasts with the way the dead are classified by Kṛpa, and in the order of cremation created by Dhṛtarāṣṭra and Yudhiṣṭhira.
Third, while men have access to philosophical discourses on the inevitability of death, as well as to textual traditions, ineffectual as they may prove, these resources seem to be unavailable to women. This, interestingly, is in marked contrast to the early Buddhist tradition, where the mother who loses a child is a common figure, almost invariably successfully consoled by being reminded about the transience of human existence. The women in Buddhist narratives include but are not confined to the category of royal women. Do we have a hint here that access to these alternative traditions was structured in different ways through intersections of varṇa and gender identities?
Finally, it is interesting that many of the parvans of the Mahābhārata are named after those who fought bravely, but unsuccessfully—Bhīṣma, Droṇa, Karṇa, for instance. In the Strī Parvan, as we have seen, the women are at once central and yet circumscribed—they are excluded from the initial discourse on the inevitability of death and are marginal in the rituals that mark the formal closure of the battle. And yet, like the heroic men whose names figure in parvans, the image of the women, grieving and perhaps transcending grief, lingers on. In creating and preserving these traditions, the ancient bards and their successors probably carved out a space for engaging with some of the most powerful human emotions. In suggesting that these were gendered, they probably attempted to contain and channelise them within what was considered legitimate modes of expression. Whether these were always successful or not is another matter.