The Mahabharata is often told as the story of kings, warriors, and battles. Arjuna’s bow Gandiva, Bhima’s mace, Karna’s arrows, Krishna’s counsel — these shine like lightning in the tale. Yet beneath the roar of conches and clash of steel lies a deeper current, the voices of women — voices that do not always shout, but endure, that do not always strike, but guide, that do not always command armies, but shape destinies.
The Mahabharata is not only the story of Bhishma, Drona, Karna, or Arjuna. It is also the story of Kunti, Gandhari, Draupadi, and countless others whose silent strength bore the weight of a war that changed the world. Their power was not always seen on the battlefield, but it was felt in every decision, in every vow, in every consequence.
Let us return to the beginning. Kunti, daughter of Shurasena, was still a girl when she received a boon from the sage Durvasa: the power to invoke any god and bear a child by him. Curious, she tested it, and from Surya, the Sun, was born Karna. Fearful of shame, she set the infant afloat on the river, never imagining that this act would one day shape the war of Kurukshetra. Kunti bore the weight of that secret her whole life, a secret that burned her heart when she saw Karna fighting against her sons, a secret she revealed only at the very end. Her silence is both strength and sorrow. She raised the Pandavas with courage in exile, guided Yudhishthira in wisdom, urged Arjuna toward discipline, restrained Bhima’s fury, and taught Nakula and Sahadeva humility. She was not on the battlefield, yet she was in every choice the Pandavas made.
Opposite her stood Gandhari, queen of Hastinapura, wife of Dhritarashtra. On the day of her marriage, she bound her eyes with cloth, choosing to share her husband’s blindness. For life she walked in darkness, but her spirit was luminous. She endured the arrogance of her son Duryodhana, the schemes of Shakuni, the silence of her husband. She bore one hundred sons, and she watched them march to war, knowing most would not return. At the end, when Kurukshetra was littered with their corpses, her wail pierced heaven itself. Yet even in her grief, she did not lose her strength. When Krishna came to console her, she cursed him: “You could have stopped this war, but you did not. May your Yadava clan too perish by strife.” Her words were not empty. They became destiny. Gandhari reminds us that even the grief of a mother is power.
And then there is Draupadi, the fire-born queen, who walked beside the Pandavas in every joy and sorrow. From her swayamvara, where she chose Arjuna, to the dice hall, where she was dragged and humiliated, to the forest, where she endured exile, Draupadi’s presence shaped the very heart of the epic. When insulted before the court, she raised her voice when all others fell silent. When disrobed, she called upon Krishna with faith unshaken. When wronged, she vowed never to tie her hair until it was washed with Dushasana’s blood. And when she reminded her husbands of their duty in exile, her fire kept their vows alive. Draupadi is the flame of the Mahabharata — not only victim, but warrior of spirit, whose endurance ignited Kurukshetra itself.
Yet the Mahabharata holds more women than these. There is Subhadra, Krishna’s sister, wife of Arjuna, mother of Abhimanyu, who watched her young son march into the Chakravyuha and never return. Her cries echo through the ages as the cry of every mother who has given a child to war. There is Hidimbi, the rakshasi who fell in love with Bhima, who bore him a son, Ghatotkacha, who sacrificed his life on the battlefield so that Arjuna might live. Hidimbi, half-demon and all-devotion, shows that love transcends race and form.
There is also Uttara, wife of Abhimanyu, who carried within her the seed of the future when all else was destroyed. When Ashwatthama, in his vengeance, unleashed a weapon to slay her unborn child, Krishna himself shielded her womb. From her was born Parikshit, the continuation of the Pandava line, the bridge from Mahabharata into the future.
And let us not forget the women whose silence speaks volumes: Ambika and Ambalika, whose fear and pallor birthed the flawed heirs of Hastinapura; Satyavati, whose ambition bound the Kuru dynasty; Amba, whose humiliation turned her into Shikhandi, destined to bring down Bhishma. Each woman, whether by word or silence, by choice or compulsion, shaped the course of dharma.
The Mahabharata does not hide their suffering. It does not veil their tears. It shows us queens disrobed in public, mothers blinded in grief, wives widowed in war. Yet it also shows us their resilience, their vows, their strength that no arrow could pierce. If the men fought Kurukshetra with weapons, the women fought it with endurance.
What lesson do we learn here? That strength is not always the clash of steel. Sometimes strength is silence. Sometimes strength is faith. Sometimes strength is enduring humiliation without letting dignity die. Sometimes strength is cursing with truth when the heart is broken. Sometimes strength is carrying the future in your womb while the world around you burns.
Kunti shows us sacrifice. Gandhari shows us grief turned to power. Draupadi shows us fire that endures. Subhadra shows us the pain of mothers. Uttara shows us hope after ruin. Each woman of the Mahabharata is not background, but foundation. Without them, the epic collapses.
And in our own lives too, we must remember the strength of women. The Mahabharata tells us that dharma is not only upheld by warriors with bows. It is upheld by mothers who teach their sons, by wives who endure with dignity, by daughters who carry hope. Do not mistake silence for weakness. Do not mistake tears for surrender. In silence lies patience. In tears lies power.
The women of the Mahabharata are eternal because they reflect the truth of every age. Where men wage war, women bear its wounds. Where men win kingdoms, women hold them together. Where men take vows of steel, women keep vows of the heart. They remind us that dharma is not male or female. Dharma is sustained by sacrifice, by faith, by courage, wherever it arises.
So when you read the Mahabharata, do not look only at Arjuna’s arrows or Bhima’s mace. Look also at Draupadi’s unbound hair, at Gandhari’s blindfold, at Kunti’s silence, at Subhadra’s tears, at Uttara’s womb. For there lies the unseen strength, the enduring fire, the power that does not shout but sustains.
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