'What other woman but me, having reached such a state, would still wish to live: I, the queen of the sons of Pāṇḍu and the daughter of Drupada. My affliction has come despite all the Kurus, the Pāñcālas, and the sons of Pāṇḍu, O scourge of enemies. What other woman, surrounded by brothers, fathers-in-law, sons and so many kinsmen, would become so wretched? Surely, even as a child, I did something displeasing to the Creator, by whose grace I have come to such a wretched state, bull of the Bharatas. See, Pāṇḍava, what my complexion has become: it was never like this even then, in the greatest sorrow. You alone, Bhīma, know what happiness was once mine, Pārtha. And now I have become a slave and, helpless, find no peace. I do not consider this to be anything but fate: Pārtha Dhanañjaya, mighty-armed with his fearsome bow, sits silent as a fire at rest. It is impossible for men to know the course of living beings, Pārtha; I consider this fall of yours unthinkable. She on whose face you, equal to Indra, always used to gaze — she herself, though the best of women, now gazes upon the faces of other, lesser women.'