Why Kurukshetra War Happened

In the sacred loom of Mahabharata, the sixty-first chapter of Amshavatarana Parva is the fire-spark that sets the forest of Kurukshetra ablaze. This is no ordinary tale. This is a war explained before it was ever fought. And the one speaking it — Vaisampayana — carries Vyasa's flame in his breath, uncoiling it before Janamejaya and the rishis seated at the Sarpa Yajna.

The question hangs heavy in the yajna-shala: Why did brothers become enemies? What made blood seek blood?

And Vaisampayana begins — not with the battlefield, but with the ache that came before the sword.

Pandu died. His five lion-hearted sons — forged in forest-fire and divinity — walked into Hastinapura. Not as outsiders. As princes. As dharma's own messengers.

They mastered the Vedas. They conquered the Dhanurveda. Their fame spread like fragrance on wind. Their valor, their humility, their restraint — made them darlings of the realm. Flowers followed their footsteps.

And when the kingdom bloomed for them, Duryodhana’s heart withered.

Jealousy is a silent serpent. It hisses first, then coils.

Duryodhana, with Karna beside him and Shakuni whispering poison, plotted — either crush them or cast them out. And the first attempt was brutal: Bhima poisoned, tied in sleep, and drowned in the sacred Ganga. But Bhima returned — not weak, but thunder-charged.

Yet the Pandavas raised no sword. Their anger, restrained. Their dharma, unbroken. Forgiveness, their shield.

But envy is never satisfied with one failure.

A new trap: a palace in Varanavata, laced with shellac — a house of fragrance that reeked of death. Built to burn. Meant to consume the Pandavas and their mother in a quiet cremation.

But Vidura — the wise uncle who walked like a man but saw like a rishi — unveiled the plan. And so the Pandavas smiled, entered the death-house, and dug their freedom beneath it.

One night, the flame roared. The palace collapsed into ashes. Purochana — the puppet of the plan — died. The world believed the Pandavas died too. But death had missed its mark.

Into the forests they went — unrecognized, unbound. Bhima slew the rakshasa Hidimba and wedded his sister Hidimbaa. From that wild love was born Ghatotkacha, the storm-child.

They reached Ekachakra, draped in disguise, chanting Vedas like wandering sages. There, a demon named Baka fed on flesh. Bhima broke his spine and flung his carcass like a curse lifted from the land.

Then came Panchala — where Draupadi’s swayamvara sparked fate. Arjuna struck the target. Draupadi became their wife. The veil of disguise fell. The world saw the Pandavas again — not as exiles, but as destiny returned.

They stayed in Panchala. Then back to Hastinapura.

The elders — Dhritarashtra and Bheeshma — played peacekeepers. Go to Khandavaprastha, they said, and rule there. It sounded noble. It was political. A neat cut of the kingdom.

But the Pandavas accepted — not as defeat, but as a challenge.

In Khandavaprastha, they built not a city, but a future. Dharma ruled. Prosperity followed. And when Arjuna went on his pilgrimages, he returned with Subhadra, Uloopi, and Chitrangada — not just wives, but bonds that widened the Pandava fire.

Then came Krishna.

With Krishna by Arjuna’s side, Agni himself bent low — offering Gandeeva, divine chariot, and bottomless quivers. Why? Because Arjuna burned the forest of Khandava to feed Agni — and from that ash rose the rebirth of their power.

Maya, the asura architect, owed his life to Arjuna. As thanks, he built the Maya Sabha — a palace that made men gasp and fools stumble.

And Duryodhana came. And stumbled.

He mistook illusions for insults. Laughter rang. His pride cracked.

What followed was venom disguised as dice.

Shakuni, master of loaded fate, invited Yudhishthira to play. Dharma walked into the trap — blindfolded by courtesy. And in that cursed game, everything was lost: jewels, land, even Draupadi’s honor. The dice laughed. The Pandavas bled without a battlefield.

Twelve years in the forest. One in hiding.

When they returned, they asked only what was right. Our kingdom. Our dharma. Return it.

The Kauravas said no. War became inevitable.

And Kurukshetra answered.

Steel clashed. Dharma stood wounded but unyielding. Pandavas fought — not for revenge, but for restoration. They broke the Kaurava backbone and reclaimed what was stolen.

And that, says Vaisampayana, is not just the story of enmity — it is the anatomy of it.

This isn’t about one insult. It’s about pride that refused to bend, dharma that refused to break, and fate that walked its full circle — from forest to throne to battlefield.

Mahabharata does not end in war. It begins in silence.
And it teaches — not how kingdoms fall — but how hearts are tested, dharma is cornered, and truth, however delayed, always returns with a sword in hand.

Ramaswamy Sastry and Vighnesh Ghanapaathi