After the devastating war, Dhritarashtra, the son of Ambika, performed the funeral rites for his sons according to tradition, giving generous gifts to the Brahmins. When all the rituals were complete, the king, accompanied by Gandhari, Kunti, and Vidura, quickly left for the forest, seeking solace away from the city. Sanjaya recognized them as they departed, and even though her sons tried to restrain her, Kunti, the daughter of Shurasena, was resolute and went with them. Bhimasena and the Kauravas mourned deeply. With heavy hearts, they turned back from the banks of the Ganga and returned to Hastinapura. Meanwhile, at the banks of the sacred Jahnavi, the group reached the auspicious hermitage of Shatayupa. There, they constructed a simple hut of grass and devoted themselves to severe austerities, focusing their minds on spiritual practice. Six years passed in this manner. When the ascetics departed from the hermitage, Yudhishthira, anguished by separation, spoke to his brothers: “In a dream, I saw Kunti, frail and living in the forest. My heart longs to see my mother and father as well. If you agree, let us go and visit Vidura, the great soul, and wise Sanjaya. This is my wish.” All the brothers, along with Subhadra, Draupadi, the princess of Virata, and the citizens of Hastinapura, gathered together. Eager for a reunion, the Pandavas and their companions journeyed to the hermitage of Shatayupa, where they found everyone assembled. However, Vidura was not present. Yudhishthira, seeking him, asked, “Where is Vidura, the wise one?” Dhritarashtra replied, “The charioteer wanders detached, indifferent, and without possessions. He lives in solitude, meditating inwardly upon the eternal.” On the second day, as Yudhishthira walked through the forest towards the Ganga, he saw Vidura—emaciated, steadfast in his austerities. The king greeted him respectfully: “I bow to you, Vidura.” Vidura, however, stood still, unmoving like a statue. In that moment, a wondrous radiance emerged from Vidura’s face and merged into Yudhishthira’s, for both shared the very essence of Dharma. With that, Vidura gave up his life. Yudhishthira was stricken with grief and prepared for the cremation of Vidura’s body. But as he listened, a bodiless voice resounded: “He is detached and not fit for burning; go as you wish, O king.” Hearing these words, the brothers bathed in the pure waters of the Ganga and returned to report everything in detail to Dhritarashtra. The Pandavas, along with the citizens, remained in the hermitage. There, Vyasa, the son of Satyavati, and the sage Narada also arrived, joined by other great sages. At this gathering, Kunti approached Vyasa, who radiated auspiciousness, and spoke: “O Krishna, Karna is my son. I saw him only after his birth. My heart is troubled—please, by your austerities, show him to me.” Gandhari, too, pleaded, “Duryodhana went to battle, and I never saw him again, O sage. Show me my son and his brothers.” Subhadra also entreated Vyasa: “Abhimanyu, my beloved son, is dearer to me than life itself. Please let me see him today, O all-knowing one.” Hearing these heartfelt requests, Vyasa, the son of Satyavati, performed breath control and meditated upon the eternal Goddess. As twilight descended, the great sage stood on the banks of the Ganges, summoning Yudhishthira and the others. There, he praised the Mother of the Universe, having bathed in the sacred river. Vyasa extolled Her as Nature itself, as the delight of Spirit, as both possessing and surpassing all attributes, as the Goddess of gods, as the very form of Brahman, dwelling in the jeweled isle. He invoked Her who alone existed when neither Creator, nor Vishnu, nor Shiva, nor Indra, nor the lord of waters, nor Kubera, nor Yama, nor Fire had come to be. When there was neither water, nor wind, nor earth, nor sky, nor their qualities, nor senses, nor mind, nor intellect, nor even the moon—then, O Goddess, You alone were. He praised Her who, having gathered all beings into Her mind and withdrawn the subtle body into absorption, remains alone by Her own will, unknown even to those who have attained discernment. Vyasa then confessed, “The world beseeches me for a vision of the departed, but I am unable, O Mother. You alone can reveal the dead to these people.” Thus praised, the Goddess—the enchantress and glorious Lady of the Worlds—summoned all from heaven and revealed the departed kings. Kunti, Gandhari, Subhadra, and the princess of Virata rejoiced, and all the Pandavas were filled with happiness as they beheld their loved ones returned. When Vyasa, of immeasurable brilliance, released the vision, they remembered the Goddess, the great enchantress, as if waking from a wondrous dream. Having received this blessing, the Pandavas and the sages took their leave. The king journeyed to Nagapura, recounting Vyasa’s tale along the way. Three days later, tragedy struck: Dhritarashtra, the king, perished in the forest, consumed by wildfire, together with his faithful wife Gandhari and accompanied by Kunti. Sanjaya, having gone on pilgrimage, had already left the king’s side. When Yudhishthira heard this from Narada, he was overwhelmed with grief. After thirty-six years had passed since the destruction of the Kauravas, another calamity befell: all the Yadavas perished at Prabhasa, the result of a Brahmin’s curse. Intoxicated by wine, they quarreled and fought among themselves, meeting their end before the very eyes of Balarama and Krishna. Balarama abandoned his body, and Krishna, lotus-eyed and blessed, fulfilled the curse—struck by a hunter’s arrow, he departed from this world as the divine Hari.