श्रुत्वा हतं रुक्मरथं वैयाघ्रपरिवारणम् ॥
जातरूपपरिष्कारं नाद्य शोकम् अपानुदे ॥
न नूनं परदुःखेन कश् चिन् म्रियति संजय ॥
यत्र द्रोणम् अहं श्रुत्वा हतं जीवामि न म्रिये ॥
अश्मसारमयं नूनं हृदयं सुदृढं मम ॥
यच् छ्रुत्वा निहतं द्रोणं शतधा न विदीर्यते ॥
śrutvā hataṃ rukmarathaṃ vaiyāghraparivāraṇam ||
jātarūpapariṣkāraṃ nādya śokam apānude ||
na nūnaṃ paraduḥkhena kaś cin mriyati saṃjaya ||
yatra droṇam ahaṃ śrutvā hataṃ jīvāmi na mriye ||
aśmasāramayaṃ nūnaṃ hṛdayaṃ sudṛḍhaṃ mama ||
yac chrutvā nihataṃ droṇaṃ śatadhā na vidīryate ||
On hearing that the gold-charioted one, whose chariot was draped in tiger skin and trimmed with gold, has been slain, I am now unable to dispel my grief. It seems that no one dies of another's sorrow, O Sanjaya, since I, having heard that Drona is slain, still live and do not perish. Surely my heart is made of stone, exceedingly hard, since, on hearing that Drona has fallen, it does not break into a hundred pieces.
f51d2212a343 · publicado 19 jul 2026, 14:46:26 UTC
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The mourner reproaches his own heart for not having broken — and in this reproach lies the measure of his love for the departed: grief regards mere living itself as a betrayal of the fallen one's memory. "No one dies of another's sorrow" is a bitter recognition of the solitude of grief: suffering is not transferable, and each bears his own. But in Dhritarashtra's mouth there is something else too: his "heart of stone" is nothing new — it did not waver even when truth was trampled; now that same hardness keeps him from dying of grief. The verse teaches that the depth of love is measured by the pain of loss; that grief is by nature solitary and unshared; and that a heart hardened against truth in life reveals that same fatal rigidity even in the hour of grief.