People call me immortal.
The one Blessed by The Gods. Born from the Goddess Ganga.
But here I lie-pinned by arrows to the earth, not by death… but by my own choices.
A bed of arrows are holding my body above the soil like some cruel throne carved by fate.
The Great Bhishm, pitamah of Hastinapur.
Now I hear nothing, not the cries of soldiers, nor the whispers of my great grandchildren.
Only silence.
And In that silence… The only thing I had was memory.
Memory of the time I was not on the battlefield.
But I am drifting-back through time-searching for the boy I once was.
The war has been paused for me. Strange, isn't it? I who had commanded armies, crushed rebellions, trained kings… yet now, pierced through my whole body and bleeding, I have become the reason for this silence on the battlefield where just a few minutes ago people were dying. And screams could be heard through 10 of kms.
The sky above me is red–like it, too, has bled with us. The earth below has soaked in so much death that even the winds feel heavy. And I… I float somewhere between the two, held aloft by the arrows Arjuna fired into my body.
He hesitated, I saw it in his eyes.
And still. I had asked him to strike.
Because that is who I have always been. The man who chose duty–even when it came dressed as pain or even my death.
But the truth?
I no longer know whether I chose duty… or whether duty had chosen me.
I am thinking of my father
King Shantanu. The noble king. The man whose silence had taught me strength, and whose love cost me my everything.
And my mother–Ganga.
Not just a river, nor just a goddess–but a mother who whispered truths that even the Vedas forgot.
(The Vedas—four ancient texts revealed to sages—were the roots of all dharma, ritual, and wisdom in Bhishma's time.)
I remember being a child, running barefoot on the banks of the river. I was not Bhishma then.
But a Boy called Devarata. Who knew joy. Who laughed. Who asked questions.
"Maa, do you ever stop flowing?" I had once asked her.
She smiled, her voice was as calm as the current.
"Duty doesn't stop, my child. It moves, whether the world understands it or not."
Back then. I thought I understood.
But I was wrong.
I remember the court.
That one day.
My father stood before me, desperate, in love with a woman from a fisherman's family. He had already lost so much. I had seen it in his eyes–the need, the hope, the helplessness.
And I made my decision.
"I renounce my claim to the throne," I said. Loud, firm, unwavering.
The ministers murmured, stunned.
But I went further.
"I vow to never marry. I vow to never love. I vow to never father and heir. I will only protect Hastinapur… alone till my last breath."
The hall was stunned into silence. My Father wept. The heavens opened and showered flowers. They called it a Divine vow.
They called me Bhishm–the Terrible.
But no one asked me what it felt like.
What it felt like to bury a lifetime in a single sentence..
People think vows are noble. But they never talk about the impacts they leave behind.
The arrows press deeper into my spine. Each breath is harder than the last.
I see Krishna standing at a distance looking this way calm as ever. Eyes full of something that I could never read–compassion, wisdom, detachment, all at once.
Yudhishthira stands beside me, restless searching for something–guidance, maybe. Forgiveness, even. Arjuna's head hangs low. Perhaps he still feels guilty for the arrows. But it was I who asked for them. I begged for them.
I knew the war would not move forward unless I stepped aside.
Even my death had to be… useful.
But I am not dead yet.
That is my curse.
The boon I once saw as a gift.
The freedom to choose my moment of death.
So here I lie–waiting for the sun to turn north, for uttarayana that even in death, I can serve dharma one last time.
(*Uttarayana - the holy time when the sun moves north, and souls leave the world to find peace and freedom)
The memories pull me under again.
Amba.
Her name is an arrow to my chest far sharper than any Arjuna Arrows.
I had taken her–along with her sisters–as brides by force for my half-brother. A political move. A royal order. A warrior's right.
She begged me to let her go, to choose her love, her own life.
I sent her back.
Then she returned.
Rejected. Shamed. Ruined.
I could have saved her. Married her. Given her a name.
But the vow I had taken couldn't let me do it.
So, I turned her away.
And in that moment, I had created my own dissertation.
She cursed me. And died.
And was reborn–just to end me.
Even now, on this arrow bed, I wonder…
Was she truly my enemy?
Or simply the only one who dared show me my reflection?
My body aches.
But pain has never been the problem for me.
What haunts me is silence.
The silence in the count when Draupadi was humiliated.
The silence in my own voice when I could have spoken but I didn't.
Could have stopped the dice game.
Could have defended her.
But I didn't.
Become I had sworn not to interfere.
Become I had wrapped myself so tightly in the justice smelled like.
I trained them all.
Every Prince on this battlefield.
I raised them like my own sons.
Taught them to wield weapons, command armies and speak with wisdom.
But I never taught them to listen.
To question.
To feel.
And now… they kill each other.
Kauravas. Pandavas.
All mine. All broken.
Krishna steps closed.
I feel his gaze on me–not judging not questing but simply witnessing.
He knows.
He knows the burden of choices. The weight of paths that bender under the pressure of fate.
"You always knew this would happen, didn't you?" I whisper.
He doesn't answer.
He doesn't need to.
I close my eyes.
And I see myself again–not as Bhishm, not as Pitamah.
But as Devavrata.
A boy.
Barefoot, running through palace gardens.
Laughing.
Unafraid.
Untouched by any duty.
A boy who had not yet buried himself beneath honor.
I feel something wet on my feet.
Rain.
Gentle. Soft. A mercy.
As if the heavens have decided to moutn with me.
Or perhaps, to bless me–one last time before my end.
"Did I live?" I ask the wind.
"Or did I only serve?"
No one answers.
Not the wind.
Not the gods.
Not even the voice inside me.
But I know.
I lived.
Not for myself
But I lived for the Hastinapur
And in this final moment, that is enough.
So let the world wait.
Let the war pause.
Let the dharma hold its breath.
(*Dharma means the right path the duty, truth, and moral law each person must follow based on who they are and what is just.)
Tonight, I do not speak.
Tonight, I do not guide
Tonight, I do not bleed for the kingdom.
Tonight…
I rest.
Just once more–
As Devavrata.
To be continued…