The news that Abhimanyu had been slain

Spread all along the battle-front and filled

Pandava hearts with grief. A messenger

Sped to the camp behind the fighting lines

Where ladies of the royal households stayed

And, unwillingly and in halting words,

Conveyed it to them. Oh, alack the day!

Who can describe, or in what words, the grief

That over-powered wife and mother? Who

can bear to think of that resounding wail

And outcry. Sashirekha, wedded wife

Of the young prince, now widowed, in ecstacy

Of sorrow, dropped to earth. Subhadra, mother,

Crying a cry that seemed to break the welkin

Rolled on the ground. "My son, my darling child,

And have I lost you? and how shall I live

Without you? Why, oh, why did you insist

And go to battle? Could you not have proved

That you were such a hero without dying?

Would not the world have praised you? Was there not

A million of men to fight instead?

Oh son, why did you from my womb take birth

If it were just to die so young and cast

This helpless woman on a sea of sorrow?

Why shall I, now that you have left me, bear

This life on earth? Is Krishna uncle to you?

Father, the great Arjuna? and valorous

Bheema, your father’s elder brother own?

And are they younger uncles, Nakula.

And Sahadeva, of whose prowess all

The world speaks in such praise? When you were little

All of them took you in their hands and kissed you

And as you grew played with you" How could they,

Without revulsion, find it in their hearts

To let you go to battle, there to die,

And they themselves, arms folded, stay behind?

If these could thus abandon you what bond

Of blood or kin or love is there on which.

Men may rely? My boy, my child, those valiant

And mighty men who led our hordes to battle,

Could not a single one of them break through

The murderous formation that closed round

A boy so young? How could they leave their prince

Unhelped, to die?–a young one who could live,

If left to live, of days at least some twenty

Thousand, and let him die and live themselves?

What valour strange was this that dreaded death

Or was it but a wisdom years had brought?

Yudhishthira, renowned for still refusing

To bear what is unseemly, did he too

Consent to let you go? Did he not say

‘The boy is far too young.’ ‘I’d rather not

Send out my handsome nephew.’ ‘Tis too early.’

Why did not Krishna think of me and save

His sister’s son? The dream of Arjuna,

That you should in your fame for valour be

His peer, has now become a dream indeed.

Alas, what fruit is this of what great crime

Of mine which blackened some past life? Woe! Woe!"

As thus the mother cried aloud and moaned

In grief unbearable, to soothe her came

Her elder brother whom one half the world,

Revered as god descended to the earth,

At sight of him, grief in the mother’s heart

Grew four-fold and again she wailed and cried

And fell upon his feet and begged of him

To give her back her son, "You surely knew

He was too young, you knew I loved him so.

Why did you leave him to be slain? You might

Forget what else so ever but not that he

Was your own sister’s son. How could you leave him

Thus to be slain, a mere boy as if

He were no more than just a stranger to you?

Krishna took Subhadra up and looked

With eyes, from which the light had gone, upon her–

Yet in those eyes was pity infinite–

And said in accents calm yet sad: "My sister,

A man is sent to battle-field because

He is a hero; not for that he is

Related thus or thus to them who lead.

You surely know this just as well as I.

Those who would win the good should risk such loss

In life on earth. We have to bear this grief:

Both you and I. What if he died so young?

So young he won a fame that comes to few

In greater length of life. Your son died great.

What is the thing achieved if one should live

For years on top of years without a name

Like piling grass in bundle upon bundle

Until a stack is made to which at last

A spark of fire is set to burn it down

On the cremation ground? Of such a life

Each day is worth no more than wisp of straw,

Empty and of no value. What does man

Gain by collecting days innumerable

To throw into the jaws of death? Of them

Not one remains and all is wiped away.

No life is such a life. Oh sister mine,

Know you not that your son by fame for valour

Fills the four quarters of the world? Are you not

Proud that you bore the hero whom all men

Praise as so worthy? What can a mother have

More than the privilege that her son grow great?

Your son, oh sister, put the last fine touch

With his puissance on the noble picture

Limned by the lives of all the Pandavas,

And like the crescent moon that shines atop

The mount of Kailas and completes it, he,

In fame that even to their fame adds beauty,

Stands in eternal glory. Think of it

And learn to withstand grief."

While thus he spoke

Subhadra, stormed by gusts of memory

Of what her son had said or how he looked

Or stood, was tossed as if her heart would break,

Her pain soared in a peak without control,

And suddenly she fainted and fell down

On Krishna’s feet unconscious. Krishna sat

Upon the ground there where his sister fell

And took her head on to his lap as in

The days of old when he was small and she

Was smaller still. Alas, he thought, that this,

My sister, should have come on grief so hard

To endure. She cannot bear this pain and be

Sound in her mind unless the root of it,

The thought of self undue that makes excess

Alike of joy and sorrow, be removed.

No words of mine by play upon the ear

Can bring peace in her being. So he led

Her soul along a path in realms of dream

And thus she dreamt.

She was again a young

And growing girl and wandered fancy-free

In the gardens round Dwaraka, her joy of being

Tinting each moment of the live-long day

Golden with hope of what should come. Spring came

Bringing soft sprout and tender leaf and flower

To tree and creeper and eke to maiden hearts;

And parrots flew across blue bits of sky

Garlanding them; and pairs of turtle cooed

In love; and keen the cuckoo raised its note.

And that same spring brought Arjuna to her,

Hero disguised in garb of ascetics,

Like Winter’s moon in mist. All easily

He won her love and threw himself and her

Upon a sea of joy and stretched his arms

And murmured, "Come my love": and she, too happy

Could she but do his wish, gave up herself

And closed in love embrace and floated out

In depths of happiness immeasurable,

Eyes shut. Some moments passed and then she wished

To look upon her lover and oped her eyes

And he who held her was not Arjuna

But Abhimanyu. Startled, she released

Herself from that embrace and forthwith lost

the thought of what had occurred, and again

Hied on another dream. And now she was

Proud mother of her newly-born son

Named Abhimanyu by his uncles all,

In hope and pride that he would make their line

Illustrious for prowess. She held him close

And looked upon his lips and eyes and curls

With eyes that knew not how to cease and whelmed him

With kisses and again she pressed him hard

Against her breast and with that joy full filled

Her heart and mind and soul; and that she might

Be undisturbed in it she closed her eyes

And drank it in her being. When she had

Sunk deep in that deep happiness she would

look on the child again and oped her eyes.

It seemed to her then that he who lay so little

Within her arms against her breast was not

Child Abhimanyu but Arjuna’s self

And thus the wonder child herseemed to speak:

"My beloved, know you not that for the war

Of Bharata we need two Arjunas,

One Arjuna to live and one to die?

And I whom you have borne am one, the other

Is he whom Kunti bore." Again Subhadra

Started, and lost the thread of thought again,

And on again she wandered in her dream.

Along a path, she felt, not known to her

She walked upon a time and from afar

Descried three figures Coming up to her.

She looked and saw that they were Arjuna,

Krishna and Abhimanyu. Eagerly

She walked to them and all three looked on her

But did not know her. Wondering she moved

Close to them thinking: Well, how mad I was

To think my son was dead. He’s hale and strong.

When with this thought she tried to touch the sob.

The figure changed and seemed like Arjuna

And what had borne the shape of Arjuna

Took Abhimanyu’s shape. Subhadra tried

To touch this Abhimanyu and he changed

And wore the form of Krishna and the one

That had been Krishna in that moment seemed

To be her Abhimanyu. So the mother

Tried oft to touch her son and found that form

To change and change and change, each of the three

That stood before her taking on the shape

Of Abhimanyu, Arjuna or Krishna

And still eluding grasp; till, tired of trying

And puzzled deep at heart, she wished to speak

To Krishna asking what this thing could mean

And fell upon his feet and cried: "Help brother."

Then ceased her roaming in the realms of dreams

And she awoke to find him tending her

His eyes so full of pity. What matters it

If when we call on God we are awake

Or in a dream? He hears either cry

And stretches out His arms of help and saves.

Subhadra, calmer now, lay with her head,

A child again, on her great brother’s lap;

And he, in tone of deep concern yet calm,

Said: "Sister, you were troubled in your dream."

Her strength depleted by overwhelming grief,

Subhadra could not part her lips in speech

And lying motionless just where she was

She looked on Krishna and allowed her mind

To dwell upon him. Then she in her heart

Saw that in truth this being whom she knew

As brother Krishna was all other selves;

And in great sadness said: "Krishna, oh brother,

What was the need for all this? When a girl

You gave me dolls and changed them as you willed

And I a girl cared not; is later life

Of no more moment than is childhood’s sport

And is it right to give a son and take him

At will as if a doll?" Her words were few

And weak like drops of a remainder shower

That might follow a storm; Krishna was moved

Deeply as if to weep himself but withstood

The poignancy of his grief. As if

The tears suppressed had turned to dark wry smile,

He smiled a cheerless smile in agony

And said: "Oh sister, if the mass of men

Who live in ignorance said what you say

I should not wonder. But when it is you

That speak so or when it is Arjuna

That turns his face from the embattled front,

From pity for his kinsmen and his friends,

It is then I know not what to think of it.

You care for two out of this host. Your husband

Cares for another two. And he, my brother

Bala, two others, and thus all for whom

I care, for others still, and still those others

For still two others. If all these should live

Because I love them or those whom I love

Would have them live, will anyone be left

To fight for righteousness, the general good?

There could be no such thing as this great war

And unstrung bows would clutter up the ground

And good and bad live as each wills and cares

And never finger raised to put down evil.

I love you sister; I love Arjuna;

I love the other Pandavas; I loved

Your son, my nephew; and believe me, dear,

The sons of queen Gandhari are to me

All worthy pity; and each single one

Of these long serried ranks is dear to me.

Whom shall I keep alive, whom leave to die?

And if I shall not bear the thought that any

Should die at all where will righteousness stand?"

"Alas" Subhadra sighed and said: "My brother,

Whose is the fault and whom is it you kill?"

Krishna replied: "You know Subhadra how

The truth is. All this world is but a life

Not many or a myriad lives. One life

Includes the life of all of us. And when,

In that one life, a limb errs there is pain

Over all the limbs, even those that not offend;

And when for righteousness men have to fight

And at deep need, even the best of men

Should die for it. My sister, if a house

Should be on fire would we not pour on it,

To save it, all the water we can get?

The water kept for drinking, aye, the little

In those small cups that we have used in worship

And consecrated, no less than that store,

For we would save the house? The right should live

If living should be worthy; and, that it may,

The nephew of the Generalissimo

May have to die as does the meanest soldier.

This age is running, sister, to its end.

The sense of right and wrong no longer lives

Within men’s hearts, and low and evil thought

And impulse are parading brazenly,

Like dark malignant spirits of the night

Walking in light of day; and doubt and wonder

If what is right is worthwhile have become

Common, and all the law of decent living

Is abrogated quite. We have to stem

The onward march of these battalions

Of darkness and, to do this, should give up

Some goodness from our lives, some conduct good,

Some lives that we would rather keep; to vanquish

What is malignant and infernal, man

Should make a sacrifice of things that he

Holds dear and even sacred. This, our race,

Has laid up tons of evil and should now

Work out that evil by this suffering.

The debt needs must be paid. The better life

Will pay it quicker. Grieve not, sister mine,

That Abhimanyu died. Remember rather

That Arjuna is left. I saw the two

Fighting the mighty men opposed to them

And, sister, truly as I looked on them

I wondered if for doing doughty deeds

In this great war, my brother Arjuna

Had taken on two bodies. For the two,

Father and son, did each the other excel.

You bore that son that Arjuna might live.

Believe me, Arjuna is truly he

The son you think you have lost. My nephew is

And has not ceased to be. He is in me

In whom are all the lives that ever were

And are and will be to the end of time."

So spoke the brother and the sister heard

The wisdom spoken in those accents sad

Yet calm, and felt the truth of them a little.

But could not quite accept, remembering

The son that had been and no longer was

Present to earthly eyes. Yet in her heart

She glimpsed that Krishna whom the gods worshipped

Was sole refuge in sorrow as in joy

For those who live, and that the son who died

Lived in him yet; and in this thought lay still

Upon that lap on which the universe

Plays while it lives and dying finds its peace.