The Mahabharata: The Kurukshetra War

On the sacred plain of Kurukshetra, where the ancient kings had performed great sacrifices and where the very soil was consecrated by centuries of righteous deeds, two mighty armies faced each other as the sun rose on what would be remembered as the most devastating war in human history.

Eighteen long years had passed since the dice game that had led to the exile of the Pandavas. Thirteen years of exile had been completed—twelve in the forest and one year living incognito in the court of King Virata. Now the time had come for the Pandavas to reclaim their rightful kingdom, but the Kauravas, led by the stubborn Duryodhana, refused to return even a needle’s point of land.

All attempts at peace had failed. Even Lord Krishna himself had gone as an ambassador to Hastinapura, offering to settle the dispute with the Pandavas receiving just five villages—one for each brother. But Duryodhana’s pride and hatred had grown beyond all reason. “I will not give them enough land to drive a needle into,” he had declared, sealing the fate of both dynasties.

Now, as the morning mist lifted from the battlefield, the two armies stood arrayed in all their terrible magnificence. On one side stood the Pandava forces—smaller in number but united by righteousness and the presence of Lord Krishna as Arjuna’s charioteer. Their army included the surviving Panchalas under Dhrishtadyumna, the Matsyas led by King Virata, and various other kingdoms that supported their just cause.

On the other side spread the vast Kaurava army—eleven akshauhinis compared to the Pandavas’ seven—a force so enormous that it seemed to stretch to the very horizon. Here stood the flower of Bharata’s military might: the grandsire Bhishma, whose arrows were like death incarnate; the teacher Drona, master of all weapons; Karna, whose skill rivaled even Arjuna’s; and countless other heroes and kings who had chosen to honor their obligations to the throne of Hastinapura, even while knowing in their hearts that the cause was unjust.

As the conch shells sounded and the drums of war began their terrible rhythm, Arjuna asked Krishna to drive their chariot to the center of the battlefield so he could observe both armies. What he saw there filled his heart with despair that would lead to the most important spiritual discourse in human history—the Bhagavad Gita.

“Krishna,” Arjuna said, his voice trembling with anguish, “I see before me my grandsire, my teacher, my cousins, and my friends. How can I fight against those who raised me, taught me, and loved me? What victory could be worth the destruction of my own family?”

For a moment, the greatest archer in the world was paralyzed by doubt and sorrow. His bow Gandiva slipped from his nerveless fingers, and he sank down in his chariot, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what was about to unfold.

It was then that Krishna, revealing his divine nature, spoke the immortal words that would guide humanity for millennia: “Arjuna, you grieve for those who should not be grieved for. The soul is eternal; only the body perishes. Your duty as a warrior is to fight for righteousness, without attachment to results. Act according to your dharma, and leave the consequences to divine will.”

Inspired and enlightened by Krishna’s teaching, Arjuna picked up his bow once more, ready to fulfill his destiny as the instrument of divine justice.

The war began with single combat between champions, as was the custom. But this conflict would evolve into something far more terrible—a total war that would consume entire armies and change the very nature of warfare forever.

Bhishma, the grandsire of both dynasties, led the Kaurava forces for the first ten days. His prowess was so overwhelming that he seemed less like a mortal warrior than a force of nature. Each day, thousands fell before his arrows, and the Pandava army was pushed to the brink of destruction.

But Bhishma fought with a heavy heart, for his loyalty to the throne of Hastinapura warred with his love for the Pandavas. On the tenth day, following Krishna’s counsel, the Pandavas placed Shikhandi—who had been born female—in front of Arjuna. Bhishma, bound by his vow never to fight against a woman, lowered his weapons, and Arjuna’s arrows found their mark. The grandsire fell, though by his own boon, he would not die until he chose to do so.

After Bhishma’s fall, Drona became the supreme commander. The teacher’s grief at fighting his beloved students drove him to unleash weapons of mass destruction that had never been used in warfare before. Divine astras flew across the battlefield like falling stars, and the very elements seemed to participate in the conflict.

Drona’s strategy was to capture Yudhishthira alive, ending the war through the Pandava leader’s surrender. But Arjuna’s protection of his elder brother was so complete that Drona could never reach his target. Finally, the teacher was brought down through a deception—when he was told (falsely) that his son Ashwatthama had died, his grief made him vulnerable to Dhrishtadyumna’s attack.

On the fourteenth day, young Abhimanyu, Arjuna’s son, penetrated the Kaurava army’s deadliest formation—the Chakravyuha—but was trapped inside when the Pandava forces could not follow. The brave youth fought against impossible odds, facing multiple warriors simultaneously in violation of the rules of combat, until he fell, pierced by countless weapons. His death marked the point where honor gave way to desperate tactics on both sides.

Karna’s ascension to supreme command brought new hope to the Kaurava forces. His rivalry with Arjuna, built over years of mutual respect and enmity, culminated in a duel that shook the very earth. But on the seventeenth day, when Karna’s chariot wheel sank into the ground at the crucial moment, and he knelt to free it, Arjuna—following Krishna’s stern reminder that enemies had shown no mercy to Abhimanyu—struck down his greatest rival with a divine arrow.

By the eighteenth day, only a handful of warriors remained on each side. Duryodhana, seeing his army destroyed and his cause lost, hid in a lake, maintaining it through his spiritual powers. When dragged out to fight the final battle against Bhima, the war reached its bitter conclusion with Bhima’s unfair but decisive blow to Duryodhana’s thigh.

As the sun set on that final day, the battlefield of Kurukshetra was a vision of desolation that would haunt the survivors forever. Millions had died—kings and commoners, heroes and common soldiers, the flower of an entire generation. The rivers ran red with blood, and the sky was dark with vultures and crows feasting on the fallen.

That night, the three surviving Kaurava warriors—Ashwatthama, Kripacharya, and Kritavarma—performed a night raid on the Pandava camp, killing the sleeping Panchalas and Draupadi’s five sons in violation of all codes of warfare. This act of desperate revenge ensured that the cycle of violence would continue into the next generation.

When morning came, Yudhishthira was crowned king of a kingdom of ashes. He had won his throne back, but at a cost that made victory taste like poison in his mouth. The dharmic king wept over the bodies of his enemies as much as for his own fallen warriors, realizing that this war had been a catastrophe for all humanity.

The Kurukshetra War had achieved its cosmic purpose—the destruction of the corrupt Kuru dynasty and the establishment of dharma on earth. But it had also demonstrated the terrible price of justice when it must be achieved through violence. Every family in the kingdom had lost fathers, sons, and brothers. An entire generation of heroes had been consumed in eighteen days of unprecedented carnage.

Krishna, his mission on earth complete, prepared to depart from the mortal realm. The age of heroes was ending, and the darker age of Kali Yuga was beginning—a time when righteousness would be scarce and conflicts would be settled more through cunning than courage.

Yet from this great destruction came profound wisdom. The Bhagavad Gita, spoken on the battlefield, became humanity’s greatest spiritual guide. The stories of the heroes’ courage, sacrifice, and adherence to duty became eternal examples for future generations. And the recognition that even necessary wars exact terrible costs became a lesson that would echo through the ages.

The Kurukshetra War was not just a conflict between two families—it was the universe correcting itself, ensuring that dharma would prevail even at the cost of destroying an entire civilization. It stands as both an inspiration and a warning: that righteousness will ultimately triumph, but the price of justice can be almost too terrible to bear.