Krishna Tells Arjuna Why Good People Suffer

The battlefield was silent now. Eighteen days of slaughter had ended. Arjuna walked through the field of corpses—warriors he had known since childhood, teachers, cousins, friends. The vultures were already gathering.

Arjuna: "Why?"

he whispered.

Krishna walked beside him.

Krishna: "Why what?"

Arjuna: "Abhimanyu. My son. Sixteen years old. What did he do to deserve being surrounded by seven maharathis and butchered like an animal? He was righteous. He was brave. He was everything a warrior should be."

He turned to Krishna, tears streaming.

Arjuna: "And not just him. Ghatotkacha. Iravan. The sons of Draupadi. All dead. All good. All on the side of dharma. Meanwhile, Duryodhana lived to the last day, comfortable in his palace for thirteen years while we rotted in exile. Where is the justice?"

Krishna was quiet for a long moment.

Arjuna: "Do you remember Yudhishthira's question at the lake?"

he finally asked.

Krishna: "The Yaksha Prashna? Yes. The Yaksha asked what the greatest wonder in the world was."

Arjuna: "And Yudhishthira answered: Day after day, people see others dying, yet they think 'I will live forever.' That is the greatest wonder."

Krishna: "What does that have to do with—"

Arjuna: "Everything, Arjuna. You're asking why good people suffer as if death is a punishment. But death is not a punishment. It's a doorway. Abhimanyu didn't lose anything—he simply moved to the next room."

Krishna: "Easy for you to say. He was my son."

Arjuna: "And I loved him too. But here is what you cannot see from where you stand: Abhimanyu's sixteen years were complete. Not short—complete. Some souls need a hundred years to learn what they came to learn. Some need sixteen. He accomplished in those years what most warriors don't in a lifetime."

Krishna: "But the manner of his death—"

Arjuna: "Was his final teaching. His death will be remembered for ten thousand years. It will inspire warriors who aren't born yet. It will show the world what courage looks like when there is no hope. Do you think that was an accident?"

Arjuna shook his head.

Krishna: "I can't accept that his suffering was... designed."

Arjuna: "Then don't accept it. Rage against it. Weep for him. That is right and proper—you are his father. But when the weeping is done, ask yourself: Would Abhimanyu trade his death for a long life of mediocrity? Would he choose to die old in bed, unknown, rather than as the hero of Kurukshetra?"

Arjuna was silent.

Krishna: "The good suffer, because they are strong enough to bear it. The universe doesn't give burdens to those who will be destroyed by them—it gives burdens to those who can transform them into something beautiful. Abhimanyu's suffering became immortal glory. Your suffering in exile became the strength that won this war."

Arjuna: "And the wicked? Why do they prosper?"

Krishna: "Do they? Duryodhana slept every night for thirteen years knowing that dharma was against him, that his claim was unjust, that his victory was built on cheating. He woke every morning with the weight of adharma on his chest. His palace was a prison. His prosperity was poison."

Arjuna: "But he seemed happy."

Krishna: "The wicked often do. But there's a difference between happiness and peace. Between pleasure and fulfillment. Duryodhana had the former but never the latter. And in the end, he died alone, his thighs shattered, knowing that everything he built was built on sand."

Arjuna looked at the sun setting over the corpses.

Arjuna: "It's still not fair."

Krishna: "No, It's not fair. It was never meant to be fair. It was meant to be meaningful. Abhimanyu's life was meaningful. Your suffering was meaningful. Even this conversation is meaningful—because someday, someone else will ask the same question, and your story will be their answer."