Krishna Explains Death to a Grieving Mother

Subhadra hadn't moved in hours. She sat in the corner of her chamber, Abhimanyu's flute clutched to her chest, staring at nothing. The servants had tried to bring food. Arjuna had tried to speak with her. Even Draupadi, herself grieving, had attempted comfort. Nothing reached her.

Krishna entered quietly and sat on the floor beside his sister.

Subhadra: "Go away,"

she whispered.

Krishna: "No."

They sat in silence for a long time.

Subhadra: "He was sixteen, Sixteen years. That's all he got. I remember the day he was born. I remember his first steps. I remember his first word—it was 'bow.' Not 'mother' or 'father.' 'Bow.' And now..."

Her voice broke.

Krishna: "Now you want me to tell you he's in heaven, That he's free from suffering. That he's with the gods."

Subhadra: "Isn't he?"

Krishna: "Yes. But you don't want to hear that right now. Right now you want him back. And nothing I say will change that wanting."

Subhadra looked at her brother—her playmate from childhood, her protector, her god.

Subhadra: "Then why are you here?"

Krishna: "Because even wanting that can't be changed, the understanding can be. And understanding is what will eventually transform your grief."

Subhadra: "I don't want to transform it. I want to keep it forever. It's all I have left of him."

Krishna: "That's not true. You have his courage—the same courage that made him enter the Chakravyuha knowing he couldn't exit. You have his skill—trained by his father, the greatest archer alive. You have his laughter—do you remember how he laughed? Like he had discovered the most wonderful secret."

Subhadra: "Yes. He laughed like that even as a baby."

Krishna: "Those things are not gone. They are in you now. They were always in you—he inherited them from you. And they will pass to his son."

Subhadra: "Uttara is pregnant."

Krishna: "I know. And that child will have Abhimanyu's eyes, and Abhimanyu's courage, and probably Abhimanyu's ridiculous laugh. Death doesn't end a soul, Subhadra. It passes the flame forward."

Subhadra: "Does it hurt? Dying?"

Krishna: "For a moment. Like waking from a dream. There's an instant of confusion—where am I? What was that? And then... peace. Absolute peace. No more body weighing you down. No more fear. No more separation."

Subhadra: "Was he afraid?"

Krishna: "In the beginning, perhaps. At the end, no. At the end, he was fighting the way children play—completely absorbed, completely alive. He didn't die thinking of death. He died thinking of victory."

Subhadra: "That should make me feel better."

Krishna: "Does it?"

Subhadra: "A little. I want to be angry at someone. I want to blame someone."

Krishna: "Blame me, I knew. I knew the moment he entered that formation that he wouldn't exit. I could have warned him. I could have stopped him. I didn't."

Subhadra: "Why?"

Krishna: "Because stopping him would have been worse than death. He was a warrior. A Kshatriya. To deny him his moment of glory would have been to deny his very nature. Some souls come to live long lives of quiet contribution. Some come to burn bright and brief. Abhimanyu was always going to burn bright."

Subhadra: "So his death was... planned?"

Krishna: "His death was his. His choice. His karma. His moment. I simply didn't interfere with what was always his to decide."

Subhadra leaned against her brother. The flute slipped from her fingers as her body finally surrendered to exhaustion.

Subhadra: "Will I see him again?"

Krishna: "You see him now. Every time you close your eyes and remember. Every time you feel courage you didn't know you had. Every time that baby kicks in Uttara's womb. He's not somewhere else, Subhadra. He's here. He's always here."

She slept. And in her dreams, Abhimanyu laughed—that wonderful, secret laugh—and told her everything was exactly as it should be.