58 days… 1,392 hours have passed since the war ended, and yet I still live. But would you call this a life?
I lie upon this bed of arrows, each piercing my flesh, yet none as deeply as the regrets that weigh upon my soul. Pain and suffering beyond measure have become my companions, yet, in this agony, I find a strange solace—one I have not felt in years.
I am Bhishma.
I am Devavrata.
I am Gangaputra.
I was born a prince, and I shall be remembered as the greatest commander to have ever graced this world. Yet my life has been one of sorrow and strife. My mother, the divine Ganga, took the lives of my brothers at birth, casting them into the river's embrace. But I… I was spared—not out of mercy, not because the gods' wrath was appeased, but because my fate was to suffer. To atone for sins I never committed. To walk a path that would forever deny me moksha.
I was the rightful heir to the throne, but my father, blinded by desire, chose a fisherwoman over the stability of a kingdom. And I, ever the dutiful son, surrendered my birthright. I vowed never to marry, never to claim the throne, never to know love or companionship. I cast aside my own happiness and became Bhishma, the one who took the terrible vow.
And what did my honor bring me?
Amba's curse has now run its course. A warrior unparalleled, the greatest Kshatriya of my time, struck down not by strength or skill, but by fate itself. Arjun may have loosened the arrows, but it was Shikhandi—the ghost of Amba—who sealed my fate. And Krishna, the divine Vasudeva, orchestrated it all. Who am I to resist his web of destiny?
I followed my dharma, upheld my vows, and secured the throne of Hastinapura, even when it meant fighting against those I loved most. Yet here I lie, still suffering.
Perhaps this was my punishment… for a life of cruelty, of silence, of blind obedience masked as honor.
I took Amba, Ambika, and Ambalika from their home, from their choices, for my brother, for my king. I shattered Amba's life. I repeated my sin with Gandhari, crushing Gandhara in the process.
I remained silent when the Kauravas walked the path of injustice. I should have spoken. I should have guided them. I should have been better. But I was weary—so weary of this life, of its endless trials.
I should have stopped them.
I should have silenced the tongue that proposed Draupadi's humiliation.
I should have severed the hands that dared touch her.
I should have blinded the eyes that leered at her in lust.
But I did nothing. I watched. I remained bound by my vows.
I was meant to be a protector, a man of virtue. But I failed. The vows I upheld so rigidly—I now see they were my prison. I hid behind them, used them as my shield, convincing myself I was righteous when I was merely a coward.
I was meant to be better, to be good—but I have failed. The vows that I had to shield and protect, became my shield—not to protect others, but to hide behind.
But now, I have done all that I was meant to do. And now, it is time.
Time to leave this body of pain. Time to return to the warmth of my mother's embrace. Time to face the judgment of the gods.
How will they see me? As a man of honor? Or a man of failure?
Time to return to the warmth of my mother's embrace.
Oh, Maa… how I have missed you.