The Song of God: BHAGAVAD-GITA TRANSLATED BY Swami Prabhavananda AND Christopher Isherwood
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Contents
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Contents
Translators’ Preface
Introduction by Aldous Huxley (Not here)
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
Contents
Translators’ Preface
Introduction by Aldous Huxley
Gita and Mahabharata
BHAGAVAD-GITA
Previous ChapterNext Chapter
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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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I. The Sorrow of Arjuna* DHRITARASHTRA: Tell me, Sanjaya, what my sons and the sons of Pandu did, when they gathered on the sacred field of Kurukshetra eager for battle? (In the following verses, Sanjaya describes how Duryodhana, seeing the opposing army of Pandavas in array, went to Drona, his teacher, and expressed his fear that their own army was the weaker of the two, although numerically larger. He named the leading war- riors on either side. This is one of the catalogue-passages to be found in nearly all epics. It need not be translated in full. In order to raise Duryodhana’s failing courage, Bhisma, the commander-in-chief, sounded his conch-shell horn. But this was ill- advised—for the enemy chieftains immediately blew their horns in reply, and made much more noise. The trumpeting ‘resounded through heaven and earth,’ we are told. Arjuna now addresses Krishna, his friend and charioteer.) ARJUNA: Krishna the changeless, Halt my chariot There where the warriors, Bold for the battle, Face their foemen. Between the armies There let me see them, The men I must fight with, Gathered together Now at the bidding Of him their leader, Blind Dhritarashtra’s Evil offspring: Such are my foes In the war that is coming. SANJAYA (TO DHRITARASHTRA): Then Krishna, subduer of the senses, thus requested by Arjuna, the conqueror of sloth,* drove that most splendid of chariots into a place between the two armies, confronting Bhisma, Drona and all those other rulers of the earth. And he said: ‘O Prince, behold the assembled Kurus!’ Then the prince looked on the array, and in both armies he recognized fathers and grandfathers, teachers, uncles, sons, brothers, grandsons, fathers-in-law, dear friends, and many other familiar faces. When Kunti’s son saw all those ranks of kinsmen he was filled with deep compassion, and he spoke despairingly, as follows: ARJUNA: Krishna, Krishna, Now as I look on These my kinsmen Arrayed for battle, My limbs are weakened, My mouth is parching, My body trembles, My hair stands upright, My skin seems burning, The bow Gandiva Slips from my hand, My brain is whirling Round and round, I can stand no longer: Krishna, I see such Omens of evil! What can we hope from This killing of kinsmen? What do I want with Victory, empire, Or their enjoyment? O Govinda,* How can I care for Power or pleasure,
My own life, even, When all these others, Teachers, fathers, Grandfathers, uncles, Sons and brothers, Husbands of sisters, Grandsons and cousins, For whose sake only I could enjoy them Stand here ready To risk blood and wealth In war against us? Knower of all things, Though they should slay me How could I harm them? I cannot wish it: Never, never, Not though it won me The throne of the three worlds; How much the less for Earthly lordship! Krishna, hearing The prayers of all men, Tell me how can We hope to be happy Slaying the sons Of Dhritarashtra? Evil they may be, Worst of the wicked, Yet if we kill them Our sin is greater. How could we dare spill The blood that unites us? Where is joy in The killing of kinsmen? Foul their hearts are With greed, and blinded: They see no evil In breaking of blood-bonds, See no sin In treason to comrades. But we, clear-sighted, Scanning the ruin Of families scattered, Should we not shun This crime, O Krishna? We know what fate falls On families broken: The rites are forgotten, Vice rots the remnant Defiling the women, And from their corruption Comes mixing of castes: The curse of confusion Degrades the victims And damns the destroyers. The rice and the water No longer are offered;
The ancestors also Must fall dishonoured From home in heaven. Such is the crime Of the killers of kinsmen: The ancient, the sacred, Is broken, forgotten. Such is the doom Of the lost, without caste-rites: Darkness and doubting And hell for ever. What is this crime I am planning, O Krishna? Murder most hateful, Murder of brothers! Am I indeed So greedy for greatness? Rather than this Let the evil children Of Dhritarashtra Come with their weapons Against me in battle: I shall not struggle, I shall not strike them. Now let them kill me, That will be better. SANJAYA: Having spoken thus, Arjuna threw aside his arrows and his bow in the midst of the battlefield. He sat down on the seat of the chariot, and his heart was overcome with sorrow. * The accent is on the first syllable. * Arjuna is traditionally supposed to have lived entirely without sleep. We may take this to mean that he had overcome all forms of lazi- ness. * One of the names of Sri Krishna, meaning Giver of Enlightenment.
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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I. The Sorrow of Arjuna* DHRITARASHTRA: Tell me, Sanjaya, what my sons and the sons of Pandu did, when they gathered on the sacred field of Kurukshetra eager for battle? (In the following verses, Sanjaya describes how Duryodhana, seeing the opposing army of Pandavas in array, went to Drona, his teacher, and expressed his fear that their own army was the weaker of the two, although numerically larger. He named the leading war- riors on either side. This is one of the catalogue-passages to be found in nearly all epics. It need not be translated in full. In order to raise Duryodhana’s failing courage, Bhisma, the commander-in-chief, sounded his conch-shell horn. But this was ill- advised—for the enemy chieftains immediately blew their horns in reply, and made much more noise. The trumpeting ‘resounded through heaven and earth,’ we are told. Arjuna now addresses Krishna, his friend and charioteer.) ARJUNA: Krishna the changeless, Halt my chariot There where the warriors, Bold for the battle, Face their foemen. Between the armies There let me see them, The men I must fight with, Gathered together Now at the bidding Of him their leader, Blind Dhritarashtra’s Evil offspring: Such are my foes In the war that is coming. SANJAYA (TO DHRITARASHTRA): Then Krishna, subduer of the senses, thus requested by Arjuna, the conqueror of sloth,* drove that most splendid of chariots into a place between the two armies, confronting Bhisma, Drona and all those other rulers of the earth. And he said: ‘O Prince, behold the assembled Kurus!’ Then the prince looked on the array, and in both armies he recognized fathers and grandfathers, teachers, uncles, sons, brothers, grandsons, fathers-in-law, dear friends, and many other familiar faces. When Kunti’s son saw all those ranks of kinsmen he was filled with deep compassion, and he spoke despairingly, as follows: ARJUNA: Krishna, Krishna, Now as I look on These my kinsmen Arrayed for battle, My limbs are weakened, My mouth is parching, My body trembles, My hair stands upright, My skin seems burning, The bow Gandiva Slips from my hand, My brain is whirling Round and round, I can stand no longer: Krishna, I see such Omens of evil! What can we hope from This killing of kinsmen? What do I want with Victory, empire, Or their enjoyment? O Govinda,* How can I care for Power or pleasure,
My own life, even, When all these others, Teachers, fathers, Grandfathers, uncles, Sons and brothers, Husbands of sisters, Grandsons and cousins, For whose sake only I could enjoy them Stand here ready To risk blood and wealth In war against us? Knower of all things, Though they should slay me How could I harm them? I cannot wish it: Never, never, Not though it won me The throne of the three worlds; How much the less for Earthly lordship! Krishna, hearing The prayers of all men, Tell me how can We hope to be happy Slaying the sons Of Dhritarashtra? Evil they may be, Worst of the wicked, Yet if we kill them Our sin is greater. How could we dare spill The blood that unites us? Where is joy in The killing of kinsmen? Foul their hearts are With greed, and blinded: They see no evil In breaking of blood-bonds, See no sin In treason to comrades. But we, clear-sighted, Scanning the ruin Of families scattered, Should we not shun This crime, O Krishna? We know what fate falls On families broken: The rites are forgotten, Vice rots the remnant Defiling the women, And from their corruption Comes mixing of castes: The curse of confusion Degrades the victims And damns the destroyers. The rice and the water No longer are offered;
The ancestors also Must fall dishonoured From home in heaven. Such is the crime Of the killers of kinsmen: The ancient, the sacred, Is broken, forgotten. Such is the doom Of the lost, without caste-rites: Darkness and doubting And hell for ever. What is this crime I am planning, O Krishna? Murder most hateful, Murder of brothers! Am I indeed So greedy for greatness? Rather than this Let the evil children Of Dhritarashtra Come with their weapons Against me in battle: I shall not struggle, I shall not strike them. Now let them kill me, That will be better. SANJAYA: Having spoken thus, Arjuna threw aside his arrows and his bow in the midst of the battlefield. He sat down on the seat of the chariot, and his heart was overcome with sorrow. * The accent is on the first syllable. * Arjuna is traditionally supposed to have lived entirely without sleep. We may take this to mean that he had overcome all forms of lazi- ness. * One of the names of Sri Krishna, meaning Giver of Enlightenment.
