Dhritarashtra Embraces Bhima - The Iron Statue

The war was over. One hundred sons dead. A kingdom in ashes.

Dhritarashtra stood in his empty palace, waiting for the victors to pay their respects.

Bhima: "Let me embrace my nephews, Let me welcome them home."

Bhima: "Don't go to him. He wants to kill you."

Dhritarashtra: "He's an old blind man."

Bhima: "He's a man who watched you drink his son's blood. Trust me."

Krishna directed the servants to bring an iron statue of Bhima—same height, same build. They placed it before the blind king.

Dhritarashtra: "Come, Bhima, Let me embrace the mighty warrior who killed my Dushasana. Let me feel the strength that destroyed Duryodhana."

His arms closed around the iron.

And squeezed.

The statue—solid iron—crumpled. Metal screamed and bent. Dhritarashtra's arms, empowered by decades of rage, crushed what should have been uncrushable.

When he let go, the statue was fragments. Metal shards scattered across the floor.

Dhritarashtra stumbled back, blood running from his palms where the iron had cut him.

Bhima: "What—what happened? Bhima? Are you—"

Dhritarashtra: "That wasn't Bhima. That was a statue. I knew what you intended."

The blind king froze.

Bhima: "You came to embrace your nephew, and you tried to murder him. All that grief, all those tears, all those prayers for peace—lies. The moment you had a chance for revenge, you took it."

Dhritarashtra: "He killed my sons!"

Bhima: "In a war your sons started. For a kingdom your sons stole. After your sons violated every law of dharma. But none of that matters to you, does it? You don't see justice or karma. You only see your loss."

Dhritarashtra sank to his knees.

Dhritarashtra: "I wanted... I needed..."

Bhima: "You needed to hurt someone. Anyone. Even an innocent man come to pay respects to an elder. This is why the war happened, Dhritarashtra. Not because of dice games or kingdoms or insulted wives. Because there is something in your family—in your blood—that cannot let go. That chooses violence over healing, every single time."

Dhritarashtra: "What am I supposed to do with this rage?"

Bhima: "Feel it. Own it. Don't pretend it away. You hate the Pandavas. Fine. Hate them. But stop pretending to be the grieving grandfather. Stop expecting them to comfort the man who just tried to kill one of them."

Bhima stood in the doorway, watching. He had seen the iron crumple.

Dhritarashtra: "Uncle, I am sorry for your sons. But I would do it again. Every death I caused, I would cause again. Because they earned it. And tonight, you showed me—you would have earned it too."

Dhritarashtra wept. Not for his sons, this time.

For himself. For the moment when his hidden heart became visible.

For the peace he could never find because he kept choosing violence.