Bhagavad Gita - The Song of God
Contents
Translators’ Preface
Introduction by Aldous Huxley
Gita and Mahabharata
BHAGAVAD-GITA
I.
THE SORROW OF ARJUNA
II.
THE YOGA OF KNOWLEDGE
III.
KARMA YOGA
IV.
RENUNCIATION THROUGH KNOWLEDGE
V.
THE YOGA OF RENUNCIATION
VI.
THE YOGA OF MEDITATION
VII.
KNOWLEDGE AND EXPERIENCE
VIII.
THE WAY TO ETERNAL BRAHMAN
IX.
THE YOGA OF MYSTICISM
X.
DIVINE GLORY
XI.
THE VISION OF GOD IN HIS UNIVERSAL FORM
XII.
THE YOGA OF DEVOTION
XIII.
THE FIELD AND ITS KNOWER
XIV.
THE THREE GUNAS
XV.
DEVOTION TO THE SUPREME SPIRIT
XVI.
DIVINE AND DEMONIC TENDENCIES
XVII.
THREE KINDS OF FAITH
XVIII.
THE YOGA OF RENUNCIATION
Appendix I
THE COSMOLOGY OF THE GITA
Appendix II
THE GITA AND WAR
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Introduction to the Bhagavad Gita by Aldous Huxley
(The Introduction is in the Translation of Bhagavad-Gita by Swami Prabhavananda and Christopher Isherwood.)
The Perennial Philosophy
More than twenty-five centuries have passed since that which has been called the Perennial Philosophy was first committed to writing; and in the course of those centuries it has found expression, now partial, now complete, now in this form, now in that, again and again. In Vedanta and Hebrew prophecy, in the Tao Teh King and the Platonic dialogues, in the Gospel according to St. John and Mahayana theology, in Plotinus and the Areopagite, among the Persian Sufis and the Christian mystics of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance–the Perennial Philosophy has spoken almost all the languages of Asia and Europe and has made use of the terminology and traditions of every one of the higher religions. But under all this confusion of tongues and myths, of local histories and particularist doctrines, there remains a Highest Common Factor, which is the Perennial Philosophy in what may be called its chemically pure state. This final purity can never, of course, be expressed by any verbal statement of the philosophy, however undogmatic that statement may be, however deliberately syncretistic. The very fact that it is set down at a certain time by a certain writer, using this or that language, automatically imposes a certain sociological and personal bias on the doctrines so formulated. It is only the act of contemplation when words and even personality are transcended, that the pure state of the Perennial Philosophy can actually be known. The records left by those who have known it in this way make it abundantly clear that all of them, whether Hindu, Buddhist, Hebrew, Taoist, Christian, or Mohammedan, were attempting to describe the same essentially indescribable Fact.
The original scriptures of most religions are poetical and unsystematic. Theology, which generally takes the form of a reasoned commentary on the parables and aphorisms of the scriptures, tends to make its appearance at a later stage of religious history. The Bhagavad-Gita occupies an intermediate position between scripture and theology; for it combines the poetical qualities of the first with the clear-cut methodicalness of the second. The book may be described, writes Ananda K. Coomaraswamy in his admirable Hinduism and Buddhism, “as a compendium of the whole Vedic doctrine to be found in the earlier Vedas, Brahmanas and Upanishads, and being therefore the basis of all the later developments, it can be regarded as the focus of all Indian religion” is also one of the clearest and most comprehensive summaries of the Perennial Philosophy ever to have been made. Hence its enduring value, not only for Indians, but for all mankind.
At the core of the Perennial Philosophy we find four fundamental doctrines.
First: the phenomenal world of matter and of individualized consciousness–the world of things and animals and men and even gods–is the manifestation of a Divine Ground within which all partial realities have their being, and apart from which they would be non-existent.
Second: human beings are capable not merely of knowing about the Divine Ground by inference; they can also realize its existence by a direct intuition, superior to discursive reasoning. This immediate knowledge unites the knower with that which is known.
Third: man possesses a double nature, a phenomenal ego and an eternal Self, which is the inner man, the spirit, the spark of divinity within the soul. It is possible for a man, if he so desires, to identify himself with the spirit and therefore with the Divine Ground, which is of the same or like nature with the spirit.
Fourth: man’s life on earth has only one end and purpose: to identify himself with his eternal Self and so to come to unitive knowledge of the Divine Ground.
In Hinduism the first of these four doctrines is stated in the most categorical terms. The Divine Ground is Brahman, whose creative, sustaining and transforming aspects are manifested the Hindu trinity. A hierarchy of manifestations connects inanimate matter with man, gods, High Gods, and the undifferentiated Godhead beyond.
In Mahayana Buddhism the Divine Ground is called Mind or the Pure Light of the Void, the place of the High Gods is taken by the Dhyani-Buddhas.
Similar conceptions are perfectly compatible with Christianity and have in fact been entertained, explicitly or implicitly, by many Catholic and Protestant mystics, when formulating a philosophy to fit facts observed by super-rational intuition. Thus, for Eckhart and Ruysbroeck, there is an Abyss of Godhead underlying the Trinity, just as Brahman underlies Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. Suso has even left a diagrammatic picture of the relations subsisting between Godhead, triune God and creatures. In this very curious and interesting drawing a chain of manifestation connects the mysterious symbol of the Divine Ground with the three Persons of the Trinity, and the Trinity in turn is connected in a descending scale with angels and human beings. These last, as the drawing vividly shows, may make one of two choices. They can either live the life of the outer man, the life of the separative selfhood; in which case they are lost (for, in the words of the Theologia Germanica, “nothing burns in hell but the self”). Or else they can identify themselves with the inner man, in which case it becomes possible for them, as Suso shows, to ascend again, through unitive knowledge, to the Trinity and even, beyond they Trinity, to the ultimate Unity of the Divine Ground.
Within the Mohammedan tradition such a rationalization of the immediate mystical experience would have been dangerously unorthodox. Nevertheless, one has the impression, while reading certain Sufi texts, that their authors did in fact conceive of al haqq, the Real, as being the Divine Ground or Unity of Allah, underlying the active and personal aspects of the Godhead.
The second doctrine of the Perennial Philosophy–that it is possible to know the Divine Ground by a direct intuition higher than discursive reasoning–is to be found in all the great religions of the world. A philosopher who is content merely to know about the ultimate Reality–theoretically and by hearsay–is compared by Buddha to a herdsman of other men’s cows. Mohammed uses an even homelier barnyard metaphor. For him the philosopher who has not realized his metaphysics is just an ass bearing a load of books. Christian, Hindu, Taoist teachers wrote no less emphatically about the absurd pretensions of mere learning and analytic reasoning. In the words of the Anglican Prayer Book, our eternal life, now and hereafter, “stands in the knowledge of God”; and this knowledge is not discursive, but “of the heart,” a super-rational intuition, direct, synthetic and timeless.
The third doctrine of the Perennial Philosophy, that which affirms the double nature of man, is fundamental in all the higher religions. The unitive knowledge of the Divine Ground has, as its necessary condition, self-abnegation and charity. Only by means of self-abnegation and charity can we clear away the evil, folly and ignorance which constitute the thing we call our personality and prevent us from becoming aware of the spark of divinity illuminating the inner man. But the spark within is akin to the Divine Ground. By identifying ourselves with the first we can come to unitive knowledge of the second. These empirical facts of the spiritual life have been variously rationalized in terms of the theologies of the various religions. The Hindus categorically affirm that thou art That–that the indwelling Atman is the same as Brahman. For orthodox Christianity there is not an identity between the spark and God. union of the human spirit with God takes place–union so complete that the word deification is applied to it; but it is not the union of identical substances. According to Christian theology, the saint is “deified,” not because Atman is Brahman, but because God has assimilated the purified human spirit in to the divine substance by an act of grace. Islamic theology seems to make a similar distinction. The Sufi, Mansur, was executed for giving to the words “union” and “deification” the literal meaning which they bear in the Hindu tradition. For our present purposes, however, the significant fact is that these words are actually used by Christians and Mohammedans to describe the empirical facts of metaphysical realization by means of direct, super-rational intuition.
in regard to man’s final end, all the higher religions are in complete agreement. The purpose of human life is the discovery of Truth, the unitive knowledge of the Godhead. The degree to which this unitive knowledge is achieved here on earth determines the degree to which it will be enjoyed in the posthumous state. Contemplation of truth is the end, action the means. In India, in China, in ancient Greece, in Christian Europe, this was regarded as the most obvious and axiomatic piece of orthodoxy. The invention of the steam engine produced a revolution, not merely in industrial techniques, but also much more significantly in philosophy. Because machines could be made progressively more and more efficient, Western man came to believe that men and societies would automatically register a corresponding moral and spiritual improvement. Attention and allegiance came to be paid, not to Eternity, but to the Utopian future. External circumstances came to be regarded as more important that states of mind about external circumstances, and the end of human life was held to be action, with contemplation as a means to that end. These false and historically, aberrant and heretical doctrines are now systematically taught in our schools and repeated, day in, day out, by those anonymous writers of advertising copy who, more than any other teachers, provide European and American adults with their current philosophy of life. And so effective has been the propaganda that even professing Christians accept the heresy unquestioningly and are quite unconscious of its complete incompatibility with their own or anybody else’s religion.
These four doctrines constitute the Perennial Philosophy in its minimal and basic form. A man who can practice what the Indians call Jnana yoga (the metaphysical discipline of discrimination between the real and the apparent) asks for nothing more. This simple working hypothesis is enough for his purposes. But such discrimination is exceedingly difficult & can hardly be practiced, at any rate in the preliminary stages of the spiritual life, except by persons endowed with a particular kind of mental constitution. That is why most statements of the Perennial Philosophy have included another doctrine, affirming the existence of one or more human Incarnations of the Divine Ground, by whose mediation & grace the worshipper is helped to achieve his goal–that unitive knowledge of the Godhead, which is man’s eternal life & beatitude. The Bhagavad-Gita is one such statement. Here, Krishna is an Incarnation of the Divine Ground in human form. Similarly, in Christian & Buddhist theology, Jesus and Gotama are Incarnations of divinity. But whereas in Hinduism and Buddhism more than one Incarnation of the Godhead is possible (and is regarded as having in fact taken place), for Christians there has been and can be only one.
An Incarnation of the Godhead and, to a lesser degree, any theocentric saint, sage or prophet is a human being who knows Who he is and can therefore effectively remind other human beings of what they have allowed themselves to forget: namely, that if they choose to become what potentially they already are, they too can be eternally united with the Divine Ground. (NB Baha’is argue that only Messengers or Manifestations of God can act as mediators between the finite and the Infinite – as in ‘the perfect mirror – sun – warmth/light and love/heat analogy’.
Worship of the Incarnation and contemplation of his attributes are for most men and women the best preparation for unitive knowledge of the Godhead. But whether the actual knowledge itself can be achieved by this means is another question. Many Catholic mystics have affirmed that, at a certain stage of that contemplative prayer in which, according to the most authoritative theologians, the life of Christian perfection ultimately consists, it is necessary to put aside all thought of the Incarnation as distracting from the higher knowledge of that which has been incarnated. From this fact have arisen misunderstandings in plenty and a number of intellectual difficulties. Here, for example, is what Abbot Josh Chapman writes in one of his admirable Spiritual Letters: “The problem of reconciling (not merely uniting) mysticism with Christianity is more difficult. The Abbot (Abbot Marmion) says that St. John of the Cross is like a sponge full of Christianity. You can squeeze it all out, and the full mystical theory remains. Consequently, for fifteen years or so, I hated St. John of the Cross and called him a Buddhist. I loved St. Teresa, and read her over and over again. She is first a Christian, only secondarily a mystic. Then I found that I had wasted fifteen years, so far as prayer was concerned.” And yet, he concludes, in spite of its “Buddhistic” character, the practice of mysticism (or, to put it in other terms, the realization of the Perennial Philosophy) makes good Christians. He might have added that it also makes good Hindus, good Buddhists, good Taoists, good Moslems and good Jews.
The solution to Abbot Chapman’s problem must be sought in the domain, not of philosophy, but of psychology. Human beings are not born identical. There are many different temperaments and constitutions; and within each psycho-physical class one can find people at very different stages of spiritual development. Forms of worship and spiritual discipline which may be valuable for one individual maybe useless or even positively harmful for another belonging to a different class and standing, within that class, at a lower or higher level of development. All this is clearly set forth in the Gita, where the psychological facts are linked up with general cosmology by means of the postulate of the gunas. Krishna, who is here the mouth-piece of Hinduism in all its manifestations, finds it perfectly natural that different men should have different methods and even apparently differently objects of worship. All roads lead to Rome–provided, of course, that it is Rome and not some other city which the traveler really wishes to reach. A similar attitude of charitable inclusiveness, somewhat surprising in a Moslem, is beautifully expressed in the parable of Moses and the Shepherd, told by Jalauddin Rumi in the second book of the Masnavi. And within the more exclusive Christian tradition these problems of temperament and degree of development have been searchingly discussed in their relation to the way of Mary and the way of Martha in general, and in particular to the vocation and private devotion of individuals.
We now have to consider the ethical corollaries of the perennial Philosophy. “Truth,” says St. Thomas Aquinas, “is the last end for the entire universe, and the contemplation of truth is the chief occupation of wisdom.” The moral virtues, he says in another place, belong to contemplation, not indeed essentially, but as a necessary predisposition. Virtue, in other words, is not the end, but the indispensable means to the knowledge of the divine reality. Shankara, the greatest of the Indian commentators on the Gita, hold the same doctrine. Right action is the way to knowledge; for it purifies the mind, and it is only to a mind purified from egotism that the intuition of the Divine Ground can come.
Self-abnegation, according to the Gita, can be achieved by the practice of two all-inclusive virtues–love and non-attachment. the latter is the same thing as that “holy indifference,” on which St. Francois de Sales is never tired of insisting. “He who refers every action to God,” writes Camus, summarizing his master’s teaching, “and has no aims save His Glory, will find rest everywhere, even amidst the most violent commotions.” So long as we practice this holy indifference to the fruits of action, “no lawful occupation will separate us from God; on the contrary, it can be made a means of closer union.” Here the word “lawful” supplies a necessary qualification to a teaching which, without it, is incomplete and even potentially dangerous. Some actions are intrinsically evil or inexpedient; and no good intentions, no conscious offering them to God, no renunciation of the fruits can alter their essential character. Holy indifference requires to be taught in conjunction not merely with a set of commandments prohibiting crimes, but also with a clear conception of what in Buddha’s Eightfold Path is called “right livelihood.” Thus, for the Buddhist, right livelihood was incompatible with the making of deadly weapons and of intoxicants; for the mediaeval Christian, with the taking of interest and with various monopolistic practices which have since come to be regarded as legitimate good business. John Woolman, the American Quaker, provides a most enlightening example of the way in which a man may live in the world, while practicing perfect non-attachment and remaining acutely sensitive to the claims of right livelihood. Thus, while it would have been profitable and perfectly lawful for him to sell West Indian sugar and rum to the customers who came to his shop, Woolman refrained from doing so, because these things were the products of slave labor. Similarly, when he was in England, it would have been both lawful and convenient for him to travel by stage coach. Nevertheless, he preferred to make his journeys on foot. Why?
Because the comforts of rapid travel could only be bought at the expense of great cruelty to the horses and the most atrocious working conditions for the post-boys. In Woolman’s eyes, such a system of transportation was intrinsically undesirable, and no amount of personal non-attachment could make it anything but undesirable. So he shouldered his knapsack and walked.
In the preceding pages I have tried to show that the Perennial Philosophy and its ethical corollaries constitute a Highest Common Factor, present in all the major religions of the world. To affirm this truth has never been more imperatively necessary than at the present time. There will never be enduring peace unless and until human beings come to accept a philosophy of life more adequate to the cosmic and psychological facts than the insane idolatries of nationalism and the advertising man’s apocalyptic faith in Progress towards a mechanized New Jerusalem. All the elements of this philosophy are present, as we have seen, in the traditional religions.
But in existing circumstances there is not the slightest chance that any of the traditional religions will obtain universal acceptance. Europeans and Americans will see no reason for being converted to Hinduism, say, or Buddhism. And the people of Asia can hardly be expected to renounce their own traditions for the Christianity professed, often sincerely, by the imperialists who, for four hundred years and more, have been systematically attacking, exploiting, and oppressing, and are now trying to finish off the work of destruction by “educating” them. But happily there is the Highest Common Factor of all religions, the Perennial Philosophy which has always and everywhere been the metaphysical system of prophets, saints and sages. It is perfectly possible for people to remain good Christians, Hindus, Buddhists, or Moslems and yet to be united in full agreement on the basic doctrines of the Perennial Philosophy.
The Bhagavad-Gita is perhaps the most systematic scriptural statement of the Perennial Philosophy to a world at war, a world that, because it lacks the intellectual and spiritual prerequisites to peace, can only hope to patch up some kind of precarious armed truce, it stands pointing, clearly and unmistakably, to the only road of escape from the self-imposed necessity of self-destruction. For this reason we should be grateful to Swami Prabhavananda and Mr. Isherwood for having given us this new version of the book–a version which can be read, not merely without that dull aesthetic pain inflicted by all too many English translations from the Sanskrit, but positively with enjoyment.
Helping build peace via Huxley’s Highest Common Factor – Dr Roger Prentice
I can see only two ways to help build peace. The one I am to discuss in this paper – reaching harmony in diversity by teaching the universality of what Aldous Huxley calls the Highest Common Factor – or Perennial Philosophy. Secondly there is the chance to unite around a deepening of what it is to be human, in the world with others. The greatest writer on this second subject that I have found is Abraham Joshua Heschel in his Who is Man?. This ‘humanistic’ line often gets confused with Humanism, but in truth it is a correlative of deepening in Huxley’s concern for the Highest Common Factor in The Perennial Philosophy. But I will focus here on the Highest Common Factor as presented by Huxley in his introduction to the translation of the Bhagavad Gita as translated by Swami Prabhavananda and Christopher Isherwood.
In outline form Huxley’s arguments in his Introduction are;
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Outline to follow
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Gita and Mahabharata THE MAHABHARATA is said to be the longest poem in the world. In its original form, it consisted of twenty-four thousand verses, and it grew to about one hundred thousand. Like the Old Testament, it is not a homogeneous work, but a collection of narratives. Its central theme, as the name indicates, is the story of the descendants of King Bharata (Maha means great), and of ancient India, the land where the Bharatas lived and ruled. After the death of King Pandu, the Mahabharata tells us, his brother Dhritarashtra succeeded to the throne. Dhritarashtra educated the five sons of Pandu, the Pandavas, along with his own one hundred sons. As they grew to be men, the Pandavas distinguished them- selves by their piety and heroic virtues. In consequence, Duryodhana, Dhritarashtra’s eldest son, became jealous and planned to mur- der them. Duryodhana’s scheme was to build a palace in a distant town, and invite the Pandavas to stay there during a religious festival. The palace was made of specially inflammable materials, so that Duryodhana’s servants could easily set it on fire. It burned to ashes, but the Pandavas and Kunti, their mother, had been warned in time, and escaped. Duryodhana believed them dead. The Pandavas lived in the forest, disguised as Brahmins, meeting all kinds of dangers and adventures. One day they heard that a neighbouring king was to choose a husband for his daughter. The winner must bend a bow of enormous strength and hit a tiny target. The Pandavas thought they would try. They went to the city in their disguise. Suitors had gathered from all over India, Duryodhana among them. One after another, they failed in the test. At last Arjuna, third of the Pandavas, stood up, bent the bow and hit the target with the greatest ease. Draupadi, the princess, threw him the victor’s garland. But the assembled princes could not accept this humiliation at the hands of a seemingly poor and unwarlike Brahmin. There would have been a fight—just as in the story of Ulysses—if Krishna, who was present, had not intervened and persuaded them that Arjuna had a right to his bride. Krishna was a cousin of the Pandavas, but he was not one of Dhritarashtra’s sons. The brothers took Draupadi back to the forest, where Kunti was awaiting them. ‘Mother,’ they cried, ‘we have brought home a won- derful treasure!’ ‘Be sure to share it equally, my children,’ Kunti answered; then she saw the girl, and exclaimed in dismay: ‘Oh, what have I said!’ But it was too late. Her word was sacred to her sons. So Draupadi married all the brothers together. Dhritarashtra and his son now knew that the Pandavas were not only alive, but allied by marriage to a powerful monarch. Duryodhana was for carrying on the feud, but Dhritarashtra wisely listened to the advice of his uncle Bhisma, which was to send for the brothers and offer them half of his kingdom. So the kingdom was divided. The Pandavas got the worst of the land, a wilderness along the Jamuna River. They cleared it, built a fine city, and crowned Yudhisthira, the eldest brother, as their king. Now the five brothers lived in triumph and splendour, and Duryodhana hated them more than ever. His jealousy hatched a new plot for their ruin. The pious and noble Yudhisthira had a dangerous weakness for gambling. So Duryodhana challenged him to play dice with a clever sharper named Sakuni, knowing that the king would feel bound in honour to accept. They played, Sakuni cheated, Yud- histhira lost game after game, staking his wealth, his kingdom, and finally his brothers, Draupadi and himself. All were now the slaves of Duryodhana’s vengeance, subject to insult and cruelty, until Dhritarashtra intervened, and insisted that they be set at liberty and their kingdom given back. But Duryodhana worked upon his father until he obtained permission for another dice-match. The loser was to forfeit his kingdom and retire to the forest for twelve years, then he must live for a year in the city without being recognized; if he was discovered, the term of exile would begin again. This game Yudhisthira also lost. So the Pandavas went back to the forest. They made a virtue of their misfor- tune, practising spiritual austerities and doing many heroic deeds. Once, during their wanderings, we are told, the brothers suffered greatly from thirst. Nakula, the youngest, was sent to look for water. He found a lake which was clear as crystal. As he bent over it, a voice said: ‘Stop, child. First answer my questions. Then you may drink.’ But Nakula, in his desperate thirst, paid no attention to the voice: he drank, and immediately fell dead. His brother Sahadeva went out to look for him. He, too, found the lake, and the same thing happened. In this manner, four of the brothers died. Last of all came Yudhisthira. He found the corpses, and began to lament. Then the voice told him: ‘Child, first answer my questions, and then I will cure your grief and your thirst.’ He turned, and saw Dharma, the personification of duty and virtue, standing beside him in the form of a crane. ‘What is the road to heaven?’ the crane asked. ‘Truthfulness.’ ‘How does a man find happiness?’ ‘Through right conduct.’ ‘What must he subdue, in order to escape grief?’ ‘His mind.’ ‘When is a man loved?’ ‘When he is without vanity.’ ‘Of all the world’s wonders, which is the most wonderful?’ ‘That no man, though he sees others dying all around him, believes that he himself will die.’ ‘How does one reach true religion?’ ‘Not by argument. Not by scriptures and doctrines; they cannot help. The path to religion is trodden by the saints.’ Dharma was satisfied. He revealed himself to Yudhisthira. Then he brought the four brothers back to life. When the period of exile was over at last, Yudhisthira asked for the return of his kingdom; but Duryodhana refused. Yudhisthira said he would be content with just one village for himself and for each of his brothers. But Duryodhana, in the insanity of his greed, would not agree even to this. The older members of the family tried to arbitrate, and failed. So war became inevitable. Neighbouring kings were
drawn into the quarrel, until the whole of India was involved. Both sides wanted Krishna’s aid. To both, Krishna offered the same choice. ‘Either you can have the help of my kinsmen, the Vrishnis, in the battle,’ the told them, ‘or you can have me alone. But I shall take no part in the fighting.’ Duryodhana chose the Vrishnis. Arjuna preferred to take Krishna himself, as his personal charioteer. The battle was fought on the plain of Kurukshetra, a sacred place of pilgrimage. It was here, just before the armies engaged, that Krishna and Arjuna had the conversation which is recorded in the Bhagavad-Gita. The battle lasted eighteen days, and ended with the death of Duryodhana and the complete victory of the Pandavas. Thereafter, Yud- histhira became undisputed ruler of India. He reigned for thirty-six years. The story ends with the pilgrimage of Draupadi and the Pandavas up the heights of the Himalayas to the abode of God. On the way, the queen and four of the brothers died: they were not sufficiently pure to be able to enter heaven in their human bodies. Only Yud- histhira, the royal saint, journeyed on, accompanied by his faithful dog. When they reached heaven, Indra, the king of gods, told him that the dog could not come in. Yudhisthira replied that, if this was so, he would stay outside heaven too; for he could not bring himself to desert any creature which trusted him and wished for his protection. Finally, after a long argument, both dog and king were admitted. Then the dog was revealed as Dharma himself. This had been another test of Yudhisthira’s spiritual greatness. One more was to follow. When the king looked around him, he found that heaven was filled with his mortal enemies. Where, he asked, were his brothers and his comrades? Indra conducted him to a gloomy and horrible region, the pit of hell itself. ‘I prefer to stay here,’ said Yudhisthira, ‘for the place where they are is heaven to me.’ At this, the blackness and horror vanished. Yudhisthira and the other Pandavas passed beyond the appearance of hell and heaven into the true Being of God which is immortality. The Bhagavad-Gita (meaning, literally, the Song of God) is not regarded by Hindus as Sruti (scriptural teaching actually revealed by God to man, as in the Upanishads) but only as Smriti (the teaching of divine incarnations, saints or prophets, who further explain and elaborate the God-given truths of the scriptures). Nevertheless, it is the most popular book in Hindu religious literature; the Gospel, one may say, of India. It has profoundly influenced the spiritual, cultural, intellectual and political life of the country throughout the cen- turies, and it continues to do so to-day. Every westerner should study it if he wants to understand the mental processes of India’s thinkers and leaders. The date of the Gita is generally placed by scholars somewhere between the fifth and second centuries, B.C. Most of them agree that it was not originally a part of the Mahabharata itself, but this does not necessarily mean that it was composed later than the epic. It seems to have existed for some time independently. In the Gita dialogue there are four speakers: King Dhritarashtra, Sanjaya, Arjuna and Krishna. Dhritarashtra is blind. The sage Vyasa (who is traditionally supposed to be the author of the Gita) offers to restore his sight, in order that he may watch the battle of Kurukshetra. But Dhritarashtra refuses. He cannot bear to see his kinsmen killed. So Vyasa confers the psychic powers of clairvoyance and clairaudience upon Sanjaya, who is Dhritarashtra’s minister and charioteer. As they sit together in the palace, Sanjaya describes to his master everything he sees and hears on the distant battlefield. Through his mouth, the words of Krishna and Arjuna are mediumistically reported. Occasionally, he pauses in his report to add descriptive remarks of his own. Sri Krishna (Sri is a title of reverence, such as Lord) has been called the Christ of India. There are, in fact, some striking parallels be- tween the life of Krishna, as related in the Bhagavatam and elsewhere, and the life of Jesus of Nazareth. In both cases, legend and fact mingle; but the historical problem has nothing to do with a consideration of the message of the Bhagavad-Gita. To a seeker after spir- itual reality who reads the Gita or the Sermon on the Mount, it cannot matter very much whether or not the historical Krishna and the historical Jesus ever existed at all. The Gita is not primarily concerned with Krishna as an individual, but with his aspect as Brahman, the ultimate Reality. When Krishna addresses Arjuna, he sometimes speaks as an individual, but often as God Himself: For I am Brahman Within this body, Life immortal That shall not perish: I am the Truth And the Joy forever. Arjuna, in his attitude to Krishna, also expresses this dual relationship. Krishna is the divine incarnation of Vishnu, Arjuna’s chosen deity. Arjuna knows this—yet, by a merciful ignorance, he sometimes forgets. Indeed, it is Krishna who makes him forget, since no ordi- nary man could bear the strain of constant companionship with God. After the vision of Krishna’s divine aspect, which is recorded in chapter eleven, Arjuna is appalled by the realization that he has been treating the Lord of the universe as ‘friend and fellow-mortal.’ He humbly begs Krishna’s pardon, but his awe soon leaves him. Again, he has forgotten. We may infer the same relationship between Jesus and his disciples after the vision of the transfiguration. King Dhritarashtra speaks but once. In fact, the whole narrative of the Gita is Sanjaya’s answer to his single opening question.
Gita and Mahabharata
THE MAHABHARATA is said to be the longest poem in the world. In its original form, it consisted of twenty-four thousand verses, and it grew to about one hundred thousand. Like the Old Testament, it is not a homogeneous work, but a collection of narratives. Its central theme, as the name indicates, is the story of the descendants of King Bharata (Maha means great), and of ancient India, the land where the Bharatas lived and ruled.
After the death of King Pandu, the Mahabharata tells us, his brother Dhritarashtra succeeded to the throne. Dhritarashtra educated the five sons of Pandu, the Pandavas, along with his own one hundred sons. As they grew to be men, the Pandavas distinguished themselves by their piety and heroic virtues. In consequence, Duryodhana, Dhritarashtra’s eldest son, became jealous and planned to murder them.
Duryodhana’s scheme was to build a palace in a distant town, and invite the Pandavas to stay there during a religious festival. The palace was made of specially inflammable materials, so that Duryodhana’s servants could easily set it on fire. It burned to ashes, but the Pandavas and Kunti, their mother, had been warned in time, and escaped. Duryodhana believed them dead.
The Pandavas lived in the forest, disguised as Brahmins, meeting all kinds of dangers and adventures. One day they heard that a neighbouring king was to choose a husband for his daughter. The winner must bend a bow of enormous strength and hit a tiny target. The Pandavas thought they would try. They went to the city in their disguise.
Suitors had gathered from all over India, Duryodhana among them. One after another, they failed in the test. At last Arjuna, third of the Pandavas, stood up, bent the bow and hit the target with the greatest ease. Draupadi, the princess, threw him the victor’s garland. But the assembled princes could not accept this humiliation at the hands of a seemingly poor and unwarlike Brahmin. There would have been a fight—just as in the story of Ulysses—if Krishna, who was present, had not intervened and persuaded them that Arjuna had a right to his bride. Krishna was a cousin of the Pandavas, but he was not one of Dhritarashtra’s sons.
The brothers took Draupadi back to the forest, where Kunti was awaiting them. ‘Mother,’ they cried, ‘we have brought home a wonderful treasure!’ ‘Be sure to share it equally, my children,’ Kunti answered; then she saw the girl, and exclaimed in dismay: ‘Oh, what have I said!’ But it was too late. Her word was sacred to her sons. So Draupadi married all the brothers together.
Dhritarashtra and his son now knew that the Pandavas were not only alive, but allied by marriage to a powerful monarch. Duryodhana was for carrying on the feud, but Dhritarashtra wisely listened to the advice of his uncle Bhisma, which was to send for the brothers and offer them half of his kingdom. So the kingdom was divided. The Pandavas got the worst of the land, a wilderness along the Jamuna River. They cleared it, built a fine city, and crowned Yudhisthira, the eldest brother, as their king.
Now the five brothers lived in triumph and splendour, and Duryodhana hated them more than ever. His jealousy hatched a new plot for their ruin. The pious and noble Yudhisthira had a dangerous weakness for gambling. So Duryodhana challenged him to play dice with a clever sharper named Sakuni, knowing that the king would feel bound in honour to accept. They played, Sakuni cheated, Yudhisthira lost game after game, staking his wealth, his kingdom, and finally his brothers, Draupadi and himself. All were now the slaves of Duryodhana’s vengeance, subject to insult and cruelty, until Dhritarashtra intervened, and insisted that they be set at liberty and their kingdom given back.
But Duryodhana worked upon his father until he obtained permission for another dice-match. The loser was to forfeit his kingdom and retire to the forest for twelve years, then he must live for a year in the city without being recognized; if he was discovered, the term of exile would begin again. This game Yudhisthira also lost. So the Pandavas went back to the forest. They made a virtue of their misfortune, practising spiritual austerities and doing many heroic deeds.
Once, during their wanderings, we are told, the brothers suffered greatly from thirst. Nakula, the youngest, was sent to look for water. He found a lake which was clear as crystal. As he bent over it, a voice said: ‘Stop, child. First answer my questions. Then you may drink.’ But Nakula, in his desperate thirst, paid no attention to the voice: he drank, and immediately fell dead. His brother Sahadeva went out to look for him. He, too, found the lake, and the same thing happened. In this manner, four of the brothers died.
Last of all came Yudhisthira. He found the corpses, and began to lament. Then the voice told him: ‘Child, first answer my questions, and then I will cure your grief and your thirst.’ He turned, and saw Dharma, the personification of duty and virtue, standing beside him in the form of a crane.
‘What is the road to heaven?’ the crane asked.
‘Truthfulness.’
‘How does a man find happiness?’
‘Through right conduct.’
‘What must he subdue, in order to escape grief?’
‘His mind.’
‘When is a man loved?’
‘When he is without vanity.’
‘Of all the world’s wonders, which is the most wonderful?’
‘That no man, though he sees others dying all around him, believes that he himself will die.’
‘How does one reach true religion?’
‘Not by argument. Not by scriptures and doctrines; they cannot help. The path to religion is trodden by the saints.’
Dharma was satisfied. He revealed himself to Yudhisthira. Then he brought the four brothers back to life.
When the period of exile was over at last, Yudhisthira asked for the return of his kingdom; but Duryodhana refused. Yudhisthira said he would be content with just one village for himself and for each of his brothers. But Duryodhana, in the insanity of his greed, would not agree even to this. The older members of the family tried to arbitrate, and failed. So war became inevitable. Neighbouring kings were
drawn into the quarrel, until the whole of India was involved. Both sides wanted Krishna’s aid. To both, Krishna offered the same choice. ‘Either you can have the help of my kinsmen, the Vrishnis, in the battle,’ the told them, ‘or you can have me alone. But I shall take no part in the fighting.’ Duryodhana chose the Vrishnis. Arjuna preferred to take Krishna himself, as his personal charioteer.
The battle was fought on the plain of Kurukshetra, a sacred place of pilgrimage. It was here, just before the armies engaged, that Krishna and Arjuna had the conversation which is recorded in the Bhagavad-Gita.
The battle lasted eighteen days, and ended with the death of Duryodhana and the complete victory of the Pandavas. Thereafter, Yudhisthira became undisputed ruler of India. He reigned for thirty-six years.
The story ends with the pilgrimage of Draupadi and the Pandavas up the heights of the Himalayas to the abode of God. On the way, the queen and four of the brothers died: they were not sufficiently pure to be able to enter heaven in their human bodies. Only Yudhisthira, the royal saint, journeyed on, accompanied by his faithful dog. When they reached heaven, Indra, the king of gods, told him that the dog could not come in. Yudhisthira replied that, if this was so, he would stay outside heaven too; for he could not bring himself to desert any creature which trusted him and wished for his protection. Finally, after a long argument, both dog and king were admitted. Then the dog was revealed as Dharma himself. This had been another test of Yudhisthira’s spiritual greatness. One more was to follow. When the king looked around him, he found that heaven was filled with his mortal enemies. Where, he asked, were his brothers and his comrades? Indra conducted him to a gloomy and horrible region, the pit of hell itself. ‘I prefer to stay here,’ said Yudhisthira, ‘for the place where they are is heaven to me.’ At this, the blackness and horror vanished. Yudhisthira and the other Pandavas passed beyond the appearance of hell and heaven into the true Being of God which is immortality.
The Bhagavad-Gita (meaning, literally, the Song of God) is not regarded by Hindus as Sruti (scriptural teaching actually revealed by God to man, as in the Upanishads) but only as Smriti (the teaching of divine incarnations, saints or prophets, who further explain and elaborate the God-given truths of the scriptures). Nevertheless, it is the most popular book in Hindu religious literature; the Gospel, one may say, of India. It has profoundly influenced the spiritual, cultural, intellectual and political life of the country throughout the centuries, and it continues to do so to-day. Every westerner should study it if he wants to understand the mental processes of India’s thinkers and leaders.
The date of the Gita is generally placed by scholars somewhere between the fifth and second centuries, B.C. Most of them agree that it was not originally a part of the Mahabharata itself, but this does not necessarily mean that it was composed later than the epic. It seems to have existed for some time independently.
In the Gita dialogue there are four speakers: King Dhritarashtra, Sanjaya, Arjuna and Krishna.
Dhritarashtra is blind. The sage Vyasa (who is traditionally supposed to be the author of the Gita) offers to restore his sight, in order that he may watch the battle of Kurukshetra. But Dhritarashtra refuses. He cannot bear to see his kinsmen killed. So Vyasa confers the psychic powers of clairvoyance and clairaudience upon Sanjaya, who is Dhritarashtra’s minister and charioteer. As they sit together in the palace, Sanjaya describes to his master everything he sees and hears on the distant battlefield. Through his mouth, the words of Krishna and Arjuna are mediumistically reported. Occasionally, he pauses in his report to add descriptive remarks of his own.
Sri Krishna (Sri is a title of reverence, such as Lord) has been called the Christ of India. There are, in fact, some striking parallels between the life of Krishna, as related in the Bhagavatam and elsewhere, and the life of Jesus of Nazareth. In both cases, legend and fact mingle; but the historical problem has nothing to do with a consideration of the message of the Bhagavad-Gita. To a seeker after spiritual reality who reads the Gita or the Sermon on the Mount, it cannot matter very much whether or not the historical Krishna and the historical Jesus ever existed at all.
The Gita is not primarily concerned with Krishna as an individual, but with his aspect as Brahman, the ultimate Reality. When Krishna addresses Arjuna, he sometimes speaks as an individual, but often as God Himself:
For I am Brahman
Within this body,
Life immortal
That shall not perish:
I am the Truth
And the Joy forever.
Arjuna, in his attitude to Krishna, also expresses this dual relationship. Krishna is the divine incarnation of Vishnu, Arjuna’s chosen deity. Arjuna knows this—yet, by a merciful ignorance, he sometimes forgets. Indeed, it is Krishna who makes him forget, since no ordinary man could bear the strain of constant companionship with God. After the vision of Krishna’s divine aspect, which is recorded in chapter eleven, Arjuna is appalled by the realization that he has been treating the Lord of the universe as ‘friend and fellow-mortal.’ He humbly begs Krishna’s pardon, but his awe soon leaves him. Again, he has forgotten. We may infer the same relationship between Jesus and his disciples after the vision of the transfiguration.
King Dhritarashtra speaks but once. In fact, the whole narrative of the Gita is Sanjaya’s answer to his single opening question.
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