Faith in Motion: The Story of The Curse of Gandhari
What this moment reveals about faith and destiny.
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You won’t find my name in any scroll, though I served the Queen. I was there, just beside her, when the ash of war hadn't yet settled, and the air still smelled of loss.
My name is Malini. I was Gandhari’s handmaiden—silent, watchful, invisible in the great halls of Hastinapur. I saw a mother’s love turn to fire. I saw the weight of dharma crush a soul who had followed it all her life.
Gandhari was not born of the Kuru race. She was the daughter of Subala, King of Gandhara. A princess. But when she was given in marriage to Dhritarashtra—the blind prince—she chose, in an act of devotion, to blindfold herself forever. She believed in Bhakti—devotion with every breath.
She wore that cloth across her eyes for decades, trusting sight would weaken the clarity of her inner faith. Devotion over desire. It was her way. The way of dharma.
But even the purest faith can be tested.
Her one son—Duryodhana—stood tall with pride, stronger than most. Handsome like a prince from the epics of the Ramayana, but with fire in his veins. He was the eldest of the Kauravas, the hundred sons of Dhritarashtra. But his pride, his refusal to bend to Lord Krishna’s counsel, brought calamity.
The war of Kurukshetra wasn’t just a battle. It was dharma against adharma. The Pandavas on one side—sons of righteousness, guided by Krishna—and Duryodhana and his brothers on the other. Arjuna. Bhima. Nakula. Sahadeva. Yudhishthira. Warriors taught by Drona, led by Krishna, filled with grace.
The war ended with corpses in ravines and silence in the kingdom. Not one of the Kauravas survived.
I remember the moment Gandhari removed her blindfold. For one moment only. She asked Lord Krishna to come—yes, that Krishna, incarnation of Lord Vishnu, the one who made the universe his breath. She stood before him, eyes like two suns—burning with grief, heavy with thousands of prayers unanswered.
"You are God," she whispered, even now with reverence. "You could have stopped this. You who gave Arjuna his strength. You, who hold the power to calm every storm, to stop every sword. Why did you let my sons die?"
Lord Krishna was calm. “Dharma had spoken,” he replied. “And I obeyed it.”
The silence after that felt long.
Then, she did what few dared. Gandhari cursed him. Her voice cracked, but her words were firm. “Just as my sons lie dead, your Yadava clan will perish. They will turn on each other. And though you are Vishnu, you too will leave this world, alone.”
I had never heard a curse wrapped in so much pain and truth. It wasn’t hate—it was heartbreak. The kind that comes when everything you trust collapses.
And Krishna? He bowed his head.
"A mother’s curse," he said gently, "even against God, must pass. Your faith, Queen Gandhari, has power beyond the heavens."
That moment changed me.
Ganesha, the remover of obstacles, had taught us that wisdom doesn’t always come with answers—it comes with clarity of vision. And Gandhari, blind to the world, saw something even divine eyes did not: the cost of justice.
That day, I realized something about the path of faith. It’s not always peaceful. It's not always easy. Even those who walk it devoutly—who trust in dharma and chant the name of Lord Shiva—can feel abandoned in moments of loss.
But Gandhari never turned away from her path. Her curse wasn’t a betrayal of faith. It was the voice of someone who held her God accountable. And in doing so, reminded all of us that faith isn’t passive. Bhakti moves. It questions. It grows.
It changes history.
Years later, I heard that Krishna, as Gandhari had said, watched his own people fall. He went into the forest, barefoot and silent. And under the weight of her words, he allowed destiny to end his avatar.
The Curse of Gandhari was not a twist of fate—it was the unveiling of a truth. That even the divine bows to the pain of those who love deeply and lose deeply.
I still wear that cloth she gave me, tied at my wrist. A reminder.
That to believe is not always to be spared.
But to believe, even through heartbreak—that is faith in motion.
---
Keywords: Bhakti, Shiva, Ganesha, spiritual wisdom, truth, Ramayana
Themes: faith, dharma, transformation
Word Count: 595
Faith in Motion: The Story of The Curse of Gandhari
What this moment reveals about faith and destiny.
---
You won’t find my name in any scroll, though I served the Queen. I was there, just beside her, when the ash of war hadn't yet settled, and the air still smelled of loss.
My name is Malini. I was Gandhari’s handmaiden—silent, watchful, invisible in the great halls of Hastinapur. I saw a mother’s love turn to fire. I saw the weight of dharma crush a soul who had followed it all her life.
Gandhari was not born of the Kuru race. She was the daughter of Subala, King of Gandhara. A princess. But when she was given in marriage to Dhritarashtra—the blind prince—she chose, in an act of devotion, to blindfold herself forever. She believed in Bhakti—devotion with every breath.
She wore that cloth across her eyes for decades, trusting sight would weaken the clarity of her inner faith. Devotion over desire. It was her way. The way of dharma.
But even the purest faith can be tested.
Her one son—Duryodhana—stood tall with pride, stronger than most. Handsome like a prince from the epics of the Ramayana, but with fire in his veins. He was the eldest of the Kauravas, the hundred sons of Dhritarashtra. But his pride, his refusal to bend to Lord Krishna’s counsel, brought calamity.
The war of Kurukshetra wasn’t just a battle. It was dharma against adharma. The Pandavas on one side—sons of righteousness, guided by Krishna—and Duryodhana and his brothers on the other. Arjuna. Bhima. Nakula. Sahadeva. Yudhishthira. Warriors taught by Drona, led by Krishna, filled with grace.
The war ended with corpses in ravines and silence in the kingdom. Not one of the Kauravas survived.
I remember the moment Gandhari removed her blindfold. For one moment only. She asked Lord Krishna to come—yes, that Krishna, incarnation of Lord Vishnu, the one who made the universe his breath. She stood before him, eyes like two suns—burning with grief, heavy with thousands of prayers unanswered.
"You are God," she whispered, even now with reverence. "You could have stopped this. You who gave Arjuna his strength. You, who hold the power to calm every storm, to stop every sword. Why did you let my sons die?"
Lord Krishna was calm. “Dharma had spoken,” he replied. “And I obeyed it.”
The silence after that felt long.
Then, she did what few dared. Gandhari cursed him. Her voice cracked, but her words were firm. “Just as my sons lie dead, your Yadava clan will perish. They will turn on each other. And though you are Vishnu, you too will leave this world, alone.”
I had never heard a curse wrapped in so much pain and truth. It wasn’t hate—it was heartbreak. The kind that comes when everything you trust collapses.
And Krishna? He bowed his head.
"A mother’s curse," he said gently, "even against God, must pass. Your faith, Queen Gandhari, has power beyond the heavens."
That moment changed me.
Ganesha, the remover of obstacles, had taught us that wisdom doesn’t always come with answers—it comes with clarity of vision. And Gandhari, blind to the world, saw something even divine eyes did not: the cost of justice.
That day, I realized something about the path of faith. It’s not always peaceful. It's not always easy. Even those who walk it devoutly—who trust in dharma and chant the name of Lord Shiva—can feel abandoned in moments of loss.
But Gandhari never turned away from her path. Her curse wasn’t a betrayal of faith. It was the voice of someone who held her God accountable. And in doing so, reminded all of us that faith isn’t passive. Bhakti moves. It questions. It grows.
It changes history.
Years later, I heard that Krishna, as Gandhari had said, watched his own people fall. He went into the forest, barefoot and silent. And under the weight of her words, he allowed destiny to end his avatar.
The Curse of Gandhari was not a twist of fate—it was the unveiling of a truth. That even the divine bows to the pain of those who love deeply and lose deeply.
I still wear that cloth she gave me, tied at my wrist. A reminder.
That to believe is not always to be spared.
But to believe, even through heartbreak—that is faith in motion.
---
Keywords: Bhakti, Shiva, Ganesha, spiritual wisdom, truth, Ramayana
Themes: faith, dharma, transformation
Word Count: 595
