The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 4/Lectures and Discourses/The Mahabharata
THE MAHABHARATA
(Delivered at the Shakespeare Club, Pasadena, California, February 1, 1900)
The other epic about which I am going to speak to you this evening, is
called the Mahâbhârata. It contains the story of a race descended from King
Bharata, who was the son of Dushyanta and Shakuntalâ. Mahâ means great, and
Bhârata means the descendants of Bharata, from whom India has derived its
name, Bhârata. Mahabharata means Great India, or the story of the great
descendants of Bharata. The scene of this epic is the ancient kingdom of the
Kurus, and the story is based on the great war which took place between the
Kurus and the Panchâlas. So the region of the quarrel is not very big. This
epic is the most popular one in India; and it exercises the same authority
in India as Homer's poems did over the Greeks. As ages went on, more and
more matter was added to it, until it has become a huge book of about a
hundred thousand couplets. All sorts of tales, legends and myths,
philosophical treatises, scraps of history, and various discussions have
been added to it from time to time, until it is a vast, gigantic mass of
literature; and through it all runs the old, original story. The central
story of the Mahabharata is of a war between two families of cousins, one
family, called the Kauravas, the other the Pândavas — for the empire of
India.
The Aryans came into India in small companies. Gradually, these tribes began
to extend, until, at last, they became the undisputed rulers of India and
then arose this fight to gain the mastery, between two branches of the same
family. Those of you who have studied the Gitâ know how the book opens with
a description of the battlefield, with two armies arrayed one against the
other. That is the war of the Mahabharata.
There were two brothers, sons of the emperor. The elder one was called
Dhritarâshtra, and the other was called Pându. Dhritarashtra, the elder one,
was born blind. According to Indian law, no blind, halt, maimed,
consumptive, or any other constitutionally diseased person, can inherit. He
can only get a maintenance. So, Dhritarashtra could not ascend the throne,
though he was the elder son, and Pandu became the emperor.
Dhritarashtra had a hundred sons, and Pandu had only five. After the death
of Pandu at an early age, Dhritarashtra became king of the Kurus and brought
up the sons of Pandu along with his own children. When they grew up they
were placed under the tutorship of the great priestwarrior, Drona, and were
well trained in the various material arts and sciences befitting princes.
The education of the princes being finished, Dhritarashtra put Yudhishthira,
the eldest of the sons of Pandu, on the throne of his father. The sterling
virtues of Yudhishthira and the valour and devotion of his other brothers
aroused jealousies in the hearts of the sons of the blind king, and at the
instigation of Duryodhana, the eldest of them, the five Pandava brothers
were prevailed upon to visit Vâranâvata, on the plea of a religious festival
that was being held there. There they were accommodated in a palace made
under Duryodhana's instructions, of hemp, resin, and lac, and other
inflammable materials, which were subsequently set fire to secretly. But the
good Vidura, the step-brother of Dhritarashtra, having become cognisant of
the evil intentions of Duryodhana and his party, had warned the Pandavas of
the plot, and they managed to escape without anyone's knowledge. When the
Kurus saw the house was reduced to ashes, they heaved a sigh of relief and
thought all obstacles were now removed out of their path. Then the children
of Dhritarashtra got hold of the kingdom. The five Pandava brothers had fled
to the forest with their mother, Kunti. They lived there by begging, and
went about in disguise giving themselves out as Brâhmana students. Many were
the hardships and adventures they encountered in the wild forests, but their
fortitude of mind, and strength, and valour made them conquer all dangers.
So things went on until they came to hear of the approaching marriage of the
princess of a neighbouring country.
I told you last night of the peculiar form of the ancient Indian marriage.
It was called Svayamvara, that is, the choosing of the husband by the
princess. A great gathering of princes and nobles assembled, amongst whom
the princess would choose her husband. Preceded by her trumpeters and
heralds she would approach, carrying a garland of flowers in her hand. At
the throne of each candidate for her hand, the praises of that prince and
all his great deeds in battle would be declared by the heralds. And when the
princess decided which prince she desired to have for a husband, she would
signify the fact by throwing the marriage-garland round his neck. Then the
ceremony would turn into a wedding. King Drupada was a great king, king of
the Panchalas, and his daughter, Draupadi, famed far and wide for her beauty
and accomplishments, was going to choose a hero.
At a Svayamvara there was always a great feat of arms or something of the
kind. On this occasion, a mark in the form of a fish was set up high in the
sky; under that fish was a wheel with a hole in the centre, continually
turning round, and beneath was a tub of water. A man looking at the
reflection of the fish in the tub of water was asked to send an arrow and
hit the eye of the fish through the Chakra or wheel, and he who succeeded
would be married to the princess. Now, there came kings and princes from
different parts of India, all anxious to win the hand of the princess, and
one after another they tried their skill, and every one of them failed to
hit the mark.
You know, there are four castes in India: the highest caste is that of the
hereditary priest, the Brâhmana; next is the caste of the Kshatriya,
composed of kings and fighters; next, the Vaishyas, the traders or
businessmen, and then Shudras, the servants. Now, this princess was, of
course, a Kshatriya, one of the second caste.
When all those princes failed in hitting the mark, then the son of King
Drupada rose up in the midst of the court and said: "The Kshatriya, the king
caste has failed; now the contest is open to the other castes. Let a
Brahmana, even a Shudra, take part in it; whosoever hits the mark, marries
Draupadi."
Among the Brahmanas were seated the five Pandava brothers. Arjuna, the third
brother, was the hero of the bow. He arose and stepped forward. Now,
Brahmanas as a caste are very quiet and rather timid people. According to
the law, they must not touch a warlike weapon, they must not wield a sword,
they must not go into any enterprise that is dangerous. Their life is one of
contemplation, study, and control of the inner nature. Judge, therefore, how
quiet and peaceable a people they are. When the Brahmanas saw this man get
up, they thought this man was going to bring the wrath of the Kshatriyas
upon them, and that they would all be killed. So they tried to dissuade him,
but Arjuna did not listen to them, because he was a soldier. He lifted the
bow in his hand, strung it without any effort, and drawing it, sent the
arrow right through the wheel and hit the eye of the fish.
Then there was great jubilation. Draupadi, the princess, approached Arjuna
and threw the beautiful garland of flowers over his head. But there arose a
great cry among the princes, who could not bear the idea that this beautiful
princess who was a Kshatriya should be won by a poor Brahmana, from among
this huge assembly of kings and princes. So, they wanted to fight Arjuna and
snatch her from him by force. The brothers had a tremendous fight with the
warriors, but held their own, and carried off the bride in triumph.
The five brothers now returned home to Kunti with the princess. Brahmanas
have to live by begging. So they, who lived as Brahmanas, used to go out,
and what they got by begging they brought home and the mother divided it
among them. Thus the five brothers, with the princess, came to the cottage
where the mother lived. They shouted out to her jocosely, "Mother, we have
brought home a most wonderful alms today." The mother replied, "Enjoy it in
common, all of you, my children." Then the mother seeing the princess,
exclaimed, "Oh! what have I said! It is a girl!" But what could be done! The
mother's word was spoken once for all. It must not be disregarded. The
mother's words must be fulfilled. She could not be made to utter an untruth,
as she never had done so. So Draupadi became the common wife of all the five
brothers.
Now, you know, in every society there are stages of development. Behind this
epic there is a wonderful glimpse of the ancient historic times. The author
of the poem mentions the fact of the five brothers marrying the same woman,
but he tries to gloss it over, to find an excuse and a cause for such an
act: it was the mother's command, the mother sanctioned this strange
betrothal, and so on. You know, in every nation there has been a certain
stage in society that allowed polyandry — all the brothers of a family would
marry one wife in common. Now, this was evidently a glimpse of the past
polyandrous stage.
In the meantime, the brother of the princess was perplexed in his mind and
thought: "Who are these people? Who is this man whom my sister is going to
marry? They have not any chariots, horses, or anything. Why, they go on
foot!" So he had followed them at a distance, and at night overheard their
conversation and became fully convinced that they were really Kshatriyas.
Then King Drupada came to know who they were and was greatly delighted.
Though at first much objection was raised, it was declared by Vyâsa that
such a marriage was allowable for these princes, and it was permitted. So
the king Drupada had to yield to this polyandrous marriage, and the princess
was married to the five sons of Pandu.
Then the Pandavas lived in peace and prosperity and became more powerful
every day. Though Duryodhana and his party conceived of fresh plots to
destroy them, King Dhritarashtra was prevailed upon by the wise counsels of
the elders to make peace with the Pandavas; and so he invited them home
amidst the rejoicings of the people and gave them half of the kingdom. Then,
the five brothers built for themselves a beautiful city, called
Indraprastha, and extended their dominions, laying all the people under
tribute to them. Then the eldest, Yudhishthira, in order to declare himself
emperor over all the kings of ancient India, decided to perform a Râjasuya
Yajna or Imperial Sacrifice, in which the conquered kings would have to come
with tribute and swear allegiance, and help the performance of the sacrifice
by personal services. Shri Krishna, who had become their friend and a
relative, came to them and approved of the idea. But there alas one obstacle
to its performance. A king, Jarâsandha by name, who intended to offer a
sacrifice of a hundred kings, had eighty-six of them kept as captives with
him. Shri Krishna counselled an attack on Jarasandha. So he, Bhima, and
Arjuna challenged the king, who accepted the challenge and was finally
conquered by Bhima after fourteen days, continuous wrestling. The captive
kings were then set free.
Then the four younger brothers went out with armies on a conquering
expedition, each in a different direction, and brought all the kings under
subjection to Yudhishthira. Returning, they laid all the vast wealth they
secured at the feet of the eldest brother to meet the expenses of the great
sacrifice.
So, to this Rajasuya sacrifice all the liberated kings came, along with
those conquered by the brothers, and rendered homage to Yudhishthira. King
Dhritarashtra and his sons were also invited to come and take a share in the
performance of the sacrifice. At the conclusion of the sacrifice,
Yudhishthira was crowned emperor, and declared as lord paramount. This was
the sowing of the future feud. Duryodhana came back from the sacrifice
filled with jealousy against Yudhishthira, as their sovereignty and vast
splendour and wealth were more than he could bear; and so he devised plans
to effect their fall by guile, as he knew that to overcome them by force was
beyond his power. This king, Yudhishthira, had the love of gambling, and he
was challenged at an evil hour to play dice with Shakuni, the crafty gambler
and the evil genius of Duryodhana. In ancient India, if a man of the
military caste was challenged to fight, he must at any price accept the
challenge to uphold his honour. And if he was challenged to play dice, it
was a point of honour to play, and dishonourable to decline the challenge.
King Yudhishthira, says the Epic, was the incarnation of all virtues. Even
he, the great sage-king, had to accept the challenge. Shakuni and his party
had made false dice. So Yudhishthira lost game after game, and stung with
his losses, he went on with the fatal game, staking everything he had, and
losing all, until all his possessions, his kingdom and everything, were
lost. The last stage came when, under further challenge, he had no other
resources left but to stake his brothers, and then himself, and last of all,
the fair Draupadi, and lost all. Now they were completely at the mercy of
the Kauravas, who cast all sorts of insults upon them, and subjected
Draupadi to most inhuman treatment. At last through the intervention of the
blind king, they got their liberty, and were asked to return home and rule
their kingdom. But Duryodhana saw the danger and forced his father to allow
one more throw of the dice in which the party which would lose, should
retire to the forests for twelve years, and then live unrecognised in a city
for one year; but if they were found out, the same term of exile should have
to be undergone once again and then only the kingdom was to be restored to
the exiled. This last game also Yudhishthira lost, and the five Pandava
brothers retired to the forests with Draupadi, as homeless exiles. They
lived in the forests and mountains for twelve years. There they performed
many deeds of virtue and valour, and would go out now and then on a long
round of pilgrimages, visiting many holy places. That part of the poem is
very interesting and instructive, and various are the incidents, tales, and
legends with which this part of the book is replete. There are in it
beautiful and sublime stories of ancient India, religious and philosophical.
Great sages came to see the brothers in their exile and narrated to them
many telling stories of ancient India, so as to make them bear lightly the
burden of their exile. One only I will relate to you here.
There was a king called Ashvapati. The king had a daughter, who was so good
and beautiful that she was called Sâvitri, which is the name of a sacred
prayer of the Hindus. When Savitri grew old enough, her father asked her to
choose a husband for herself. These ancient Indian princesses were very
independent, you see, and chose their own princely suitors.
Savitri consented and travelled in distant regions, mounted in a golden
chariot, with her guards and aged courtiers to whom her father entrusted
her, stopping at different courts, and seeing different princes, but not one
of them could win the heart of Savitri. They came at last to a holy
hermitage in one of those forests that in ancient India were reserved for
animals, and where no animals were allowed to be killed. The animals lost
the fear of man — even the fish in the lakes came and took food out of the
hand. For thousands of years no one had killed anything therein. The sages
and the aged went there to live among the deer and the birds. Even criminals
were safe there. When a man got tired of life, he would go to the forest;
and in the company of sages, talking of religion and meditating thereon, he
passed the remainder of his life.
Now it happened that there was a king, Dyumatsena, who was defeated by his
enemies and was deprived of his kingdom when he was struck with age and had
lost his sight. This poor, old, blind king, with his queen and his son, took
refuge in the forest and passed his life in rigid penance. His boy's name
was Satyavân.
It came to pass that after having visited all the different royal courts,
Savitri at last came to this hermitage, or holy place. Not even the greatest
king could pass by the hermitages, or Âshramas as they were called, without
going to pay homage to the sages, for such honour and respect was felt for
these holy men. The greatest emperor of India would be only too glad to
trace his descent to some sage who lived in a forest, subsisting on roots
and fruits, and clad in rags. We are all children of sages. That is the
respect that is paid to religion. So, even kings, when they pass by the
hermitages, feel honoured to go in and pay their respects to the sages. If
they approach on horseback, they descend and walk as they advance towards
them. If they arrive in a chariot, chariot and armour must be left outside
when they enter. No fighting man can enter unless he comes in the manner of
a religious man, quiet and gentle.
So Savitri came to this hermitage and saw there Satyavan, the hermit's son,
and her heart was conquered. She had escaped all the princes of the palaces
and the courts, but here in the forest-refuge of King Dyumatsena, his son,
Satyavan, stole her heart.
When Savitri returned to her father's house, he asked her, "Savitri, dear
daughter, speak. Did you see anybody whom you would like to marry " Then
softly with blushes, said Savitri, "Yes, father." "What is the name of the
prince?" "He is no prince, but the son of King Dyumatsena who has lost his
kingdom — a prince without a patrimony, who lives a monastic life, the life
of a Sannyasin in a forest, collecting roots and herbs, helping and feeding
his old father and mother, who live in a cottage."
On hearing this the father consulted the Sage Nârada, who happened to be
then present there, and he declared it was the most ill-omened choice that
was ever made. The king then asked him to explain why it was so. And Narada
said, "Within twelve months from this time the young man will die." Then the
king started with terror, and spoke, "Savitri, this young man is going to
die in twelve months, and you will become a widow: think of that! Desist
from your choice, my child, you shall never be married to a short-lived and
fated bridegroom." "Never mind, father; do not ask me to marry another
person and sacrifice the chastity of mind, for I love and have accepted in
my mind that good and brave Satyavan only as my husband. A maiden chooses
only once, and she never departs from her troth." When the king found that
Savitri was resolute in mind and heart, he complied. Then Savitri married
prince Satyavan, and she quietly went from the palace of her father into the
forest, to live with her chosen husband and help her husband's parents. Now,
though Savitri knew the exact date when Satyavan was to die, she kept it
hidden from him. Daily he went into the depths of the forest, collected
fruits and flowers, gathered faggots, and then came back to the cottage, and
she cooked the meals and helped the old people. Thus their lives went on
until the fatal day came near, and three short days remained only. She took
a severe vow of three nights' penance and holy fasts, and kept her hard
vigils. Savitri spent sorrowful and sleepless nights with fervent prayers
and unseen tears, till the dreaded morning dawned. That day Savitri could
not bear him out of her sight, even for a moment. She begged permission from
his parents to accompany her husband, when he went to gather the usual herbs
and fuel, and gaining their consent she went. Suddenly, in faltering
accents, he complained to his wife of feeling faint, "My head is dizzy, and
my senses reel, dear Savitri, I feel sleep stealing over me; let me rest
beside thee for a while." In fear and trembling she replied, "Come, lay your
head upon my lap, my dearest lord." And he laid his burning head in the lap
of his wife, and ere long sighed and expired. Clasping him to her, her eyes
flowing with tears, there she sat in the lonesome forest, until the
emissaries of Death approached to take away the soul of Satyavan. But they
could not come near to the place where Savitri sat with the dead body of her
husband, his head resting in her lap. There was a zone of fire surrounding
her, and not one of the emissaries of Death could come within it. They all
fled back from it, returned to King Yama, the God of Death, and told him why
they could not obtain the soul of this man.
Then came Yama, the God of Death, the Judge of the dead. He was the first
man that died — the first man that died on earth — and he had become the
presiding deity over all those that die. He judges whether, after a man has
died, he is to be punished or rewarded. So he came himself. Of course, he
could go inside that charmed circle as he was a god. When he came to
Savitri, he said, "Daughter, give up this dead body, for know, death is the
fate of mortals, and I am the first of mortals who died. Since then,
everyone has had to die. Death is the fate of man." Thus told, Savitri
walked off, and Yama drew the soul out. Yama having possessed himself of the
soul of the young man proceeded on his way. Before he had gone far, he heard
footfalls upon the dry leaves. He turned back. "Savitri, daughter, why are
you following me? This is the fate of all mortals." "I am not following
thee, Father," replied Savitri, "but this is, also, the fate of woman, she
follows where her love takes her, and the Eternal Law separates not loving
man and faithful wife." Then said the God of Death, "Ask for any boon,
except the life of your husband." "If thou art pleased to grant a boon, O
Lord of Death, I ask that my father-in-law may be cured of his blindness and
made happy." "Let thy pious wish be granted, duteous daughter." And then the
King of Death travelled on with the soul of Satyavan. Again the same
footfall was heard from behind. He looked round. "Savitri, my daughter, you
are still following me?" "Yes my Father; I cannot help doing so; I am trying
all the time to go back, but the mind goes after my husband and the body
follows. The soul has already gone, for in that soul is also mine; and when
you take the soul, the body follows, does it not?" "Pleased am I with your
words, fair Savitri. Ask yet another boon of me, but it must not be the life
of your husband." "Let my father-in-law regain his lost wealth and kingdom,
Father, if thou art pleased to grant another supplication." "Loving
daughter," Yama answered, "this boon I now bestow; but return home, for
living mortal cannot go with King Yama." And then Yama pursued his way. But
Savitri, meek and faithful still followed her departed husband. Yama again
turned back. "Noble Savitri, follow not in hopeless woe." "I cannot choose
but follow where thou takest my beloved one." "Then suppose, Savitri, that
your husband was a sinner and has to go to hell. In that case goes Savitri
with the one she loves?" "Glad am I to follow where he goes be it life or
death, heaven or hell," said the loving wife. "Blessed are your words, my
child, pleased am I with you, ask yet another boon, but the dead come not to
life again." "Since you so permit me, then, let the imperial line of my
father-in-law be not destroyed; let his kingdom descend to Satyavan's sons."
And then the God of Death smiled. "My daughter, thou shalt have thy desire
now: here is the soul of thy husband, he shall live again. He shall live to
be a father and thy children also shall reign in due course. Return home.
Love has conquered Death! Woman never loved like thee, and thou art the
proof that even I, the God of Death, am powerless against the power of the
true love that abideth!"
This is the story of Savitri, and every girl in India must aspire to be like
Savitri, whose love could not be conquered by death, and who through this
tremendous love snatched back from even Yama, the soul of her husband.
The book is full of hundreds of beautiful episodes like this. I began by
telling you that the Mahabharata is one of the greatest books in the world
and consists of about a hundred thousand verses in eighteen Parvans, or
volumes.
To return to our main story. We left the Pandava brothers in exile. Even
there they were not allowed to remain unmolested from the evil plots of
Duryodhana; but all of them were futile.
A story of their forest life, I shall tell you here. One day the brothers
became thirsty in the forest. Yudhishthira bade his brother, Nakula, go and
fetch water. He quickly proceeded towards the place where there was water
and soon came to a crystal lake, and was about to drink of it, when he heard
a voice utter these words: "Stop, O child. First answer my questions and
then drink of this water." But Nakula, who was exceedingly thirsty,
disregarded these words, drank of the water, and having drunk of it, dropped
down dead. As Nakula did not return, King Yudhishthira told Sahadeva to seek
his brother and bring back water with him. So Sahadeva proceeded to the lake
and beheld his brother lying dead. Afflicted at the death of his brother and
suffering severely from thirst, he went towards the water, when the same
words were heard by him: "O child, first answer my questions and then drink
of the water." He also disregarded these words, and having satisfied his
thirst, dropped down dead. Subsequently, Arjuna and Bhima were sent, one
after the other, on a similar quest; but neither returned, having drunk of
the lake and dropped down dead. Then Yudhishthira rose up to go in search of
his brothers. At length, he came to the beautiful lake and saw his brothers
lying dead. His heart was full of grief at the sight, and he began to
lament. Suddenly he heard the same voice saying, "Do not, O child, act
rashly. I am a Yaksha living as a crane on tiny fish. It is by me that thy
younger brothers have been brought under the sway of the Lord of departed
spirits. If thou, O Prince, answer not the questions put by me even thou
shalt number the fifth corpse. Having answered my questions first, do thou,
O Kunti's son, drink and carry away as much as thou requires"." Yudhishthira
replied, "I shall answer thy questions according to my intelligence. Do thou
ask met" The Yaksha then asked him several questions, all of which
Yudhishthira answered satisfactorily. One of the questions asked was: "What
is the most wonderful fact in this world?" "We see our fellow-beings every
moment falling off around us; but those that are left behind think that they
will never die. This is the most curious fact: in face of death, none
believes that he will die! " Another question asked was: "What is the path
of knowing the secret of religion?" And Yudhishthira answered, "By argument
nothing can be settled; doctrines there are many; various are the
scriptures, one part contradicting the other. There are not two sages who do
not differ in their opinions. The secret of religion is buried deep, as it
were, in dark caves. So the path to be followed is that which the great ones
have trodden." Then the Yaksha said, "I am pleased. I am Dharma, he God of
Justice in the form of the crane. I came to test you. Now, your brothers,
see, not one of them is dead. It is all my magic. Since abstention from
injury is regarded by thee as higher than both profit and pleasure,
therefore, let all thy brothers live, O Bull of the Bharata race." And at
these words of the Yaksha, the Pandavas rose up.
Here is a glimpse of the nature of King Yudhishthira. We find by his answers
that he was more of a philosopher, more of a Yogi, than a king.
Now, as the thirteenth year of the exile was drawing nigh, the Yaksha bade
them go to Virâta's kingdom and live there in such disguises as they would
think best.
So, after the term of the twelve years' exile had expired, they went to the
kingdom of Virata in different disguises to spend the remaining one year in
concealment, and entered into menial service in the king's household. Thus
Yudhishthira became a Brâhmana courtier of the king, as one skilled in dice;
Bhima was appointed a cook; Arjuna, dressed as a eunuch, was made a teacher
of dancing and music to Uttarâ, the princess, and remained in the inner
apartments of the king; Nakula became the keeper of the king's horses; and
Sahadeva got the charge of the cows; and Draupadi, disguised as a
waiting-woman, was also admitted into the queen's household. Thus concealing
their identity the Pandava brothers safely spent a year, and the search of
Duryodhana to find them out was of no avail. They were only discovered just
when the year was out.
Then Yudhishthira sent an ambassador to Dhritarashtra and demanded that half
of the kingdom should, as their share, be restored to them. But Duryodhana
hated his cousins and would not consent to their legitimate demands. They
were even willing to accept a single province, nay, even five villages. But
the headstrong Duryodhana declared that he would not yield without fight
even as much land as a needle's point would hold. Dhritarashtra pleaded
again and again for peace, but all in vain. Krishna also went and tried to
avert the impending war and death of kinsmen, so did the wise elders of the
royal court; but all negotiations for a peaceful partition of the kingdom
were futile. So, at last, preparations were made on both sides for war, and
all the warlike nations took part in it.
The old Indian customs of the Kshatriyas were observed in it. Duryodhana
took one side, Yudhishthira the other. From Yudhishthira messengers were at
once sent to all the surrounding kings, entreating their alliance, since
honourable men would grant the request that first reached them. So, warriors
from all parts assembled to espouse the cause of either the Pandavas or the
Kurus according to the precedence of their requests; and thus one brother
joined this side, and the other that side, the father on one side, and the
son on the other. The most curious thing was the code of war of those days;
as soon as the battle for the day ceased and evening came, the opposing
parties were good friends, even going to each other's tents; however, when
the morning came, again they proceeded to fight each other. That was the
strange trait that the Hindus carried down to the time of the Mohammedan
invasion. Then again, a man on horseback must not strike one on foot; must
not poison the weapon; must not vanquish the enemy in any unequal fight, or
by dishonesty; and must never take undue advantage of another, and so on. If
any deviated from these rules he would be covered with dishonour and
shunned. The Kshatriyas were trained in that way. And when the foreign
invasion came from Central Asia, the Hindus treated the invaders in the
selfsame way. They defeated them several times, and on as many occasions
sent them back to their homes with presents etc. The code laid down was that
they must not usurp anybody's country; and when a man was beaten, he must be
sent back to his country with due regard to his position. The Mohammedan
conquerors treated the Hindu kings differently, and when they got them once,
they destroyed them without remorse.
Mind you, in those days — in the times of our story, the poem says — the
science of arms was not the mere use of bows and arrows at all; it was magic
archery in which the use of Mantras, concentration, etc., played a prominent
part. One man could fight millions of men and burn them at will. He could
send one arrow, and it would rain thousands of arrows and thunder; he could
make anything burn, and so on — it was all divine magic. One fact is most
curious in both these poems — the Ramayana and the Mahabharata — along with
these magic arrows and all these things going on, you see the cannon already
in use. The cannon is an old, old thing, used by the Chinese and the Hindus.
Upon the walls of the cities were hundreds of curious weapons made of hollow
iron tubes, which filled with powder and ball would kill hundreds of men.
The people believed that the Chinese, by magic, put the devil inside a
hollow iron tube, and when they applied a little fire to a hole, the devil
came out with a terrific noise and killed many people.
So in those old days, they used to fight with magic arrows. One man would be
able to fight millions of others. They had their military arrangements and
tactics: there were the foot soldiers, termed the Pâda; then the cavalry,
Turaga; and two other divisions which the moderns have lost and given up —
there was the elephant corps — hundreds and hundreds of elephants, with men
on their backs, formed into regiments and protected with huge sheets of iron
mail; and these elephants would bear down upon a mass of the enemy — then,
there were the chariots, of course (you have all seen pictures of those old
chariots, they were used in every country). These were the four divisions of
the army in those old days.
Now, both parties alike wished to secure the alliance of Krishna. But he
declined to take an active part and fight in this war, but offered himself
as charioteer to Arjuna, and as the friend and counsellor of the Pandavas
while to Duryodhana he gave his army of mighty soldiers.
Then was fought on the vast plain of Kurukshetra the great battle in which
Bhisma, Drona, Karna, and the brothers of Duryodhana with the kinsmen on
both sides and thousands of other heroes fell. The war lasted eighteen days.
Indeed, out of the eighteen Akshauhinis of soldiers very few men were left.
The death of Duryodhana ended the war in favour of the Pandavas. It was
followed by the lament of Gândhâri, the queen and the widowed women, and the
funerals of the deceased warriors.
The greatest incident of the war was the marvellous and immortal poem of the
Gitâ, the Song Celestial. It is the popular scripture of India and the
loftiest of all teachings. It consists of a dialogue held by Arjuna with
Krishna, just before the commencement of the fight on the battle-field of
Kurukshetra. I would advise those of you who have not read that book to read
it. If you only knew how much it has influenced your own country even! If
you want to know the source of Emerson's inspiration, it is this book, the
Gita. He went to see Carlyle, and Carlyle made him a present of the Gita;
and that little book is responsible for the Concord Movement. All the broad
movements in America, in one way or other, are indebted to the Concord
party.
The central figure of the Gita is Krishna. As you worship Jesus of Nazareth
as God come down as man so the Hindus worship many Incarnations of God. They
believe in not one or two only, but in many, who have come down from time to
time, according to the needs of the world, for the preservation of Dharma
and destruction of wickedness. Each sect has one, and Krishna is one of
them. Krishna, perhaps, has a larger number of followers in India than any
other Incarnation of God. His followers hold that he was the most perfect of
those Incarnations. Why? "Because," they say, "look at Buddha and other
Incarnations: they were only monks, and they had no sympathy for married
people. How could they have? But look at Krishna: he was great as a son, as
a king, as a father, and all through his life he practiced the marvellous
teachings which he preached." "He who in the midst of the greatest activity
finds the sweetest peace, and in the midst of the greatest calmness is most
active, he has known the secret of life." Krishna shows the way how to do
this — by being non-attached: do everything but do not get identified with
anything. You are the soul, the pure, the free, all the time; you are the
Witness. Our misery comes, not from work, but by our getting attached to
something. Take for instance, money: money is a great thing to have, earn
it, says Krishna; struggle hard to get money, but don't get attached to it.
So with children, with wife, husband, relatives, fame, everything; you have
no need to shun them, only don't get attached. There is only one attachment
and that belongs to the Lord, and to none other. Work for them, love them,
do good to them, sacrifice a hundred lives, if need be, for them, but never
be attached. His own life was the exact exemplification of that.
Remember that the book which delineates the life of Krishna is several
thousand years old, and some parts of his life are very similar to those of
Jesus of Nazareth. Krishna was of royal birth; there was a tyrant king,
called Kamsa, and there was a prophecy that one would be born of such and
such a family, who would be king. So Kamsa ordered all the male children to
be massacred. The father and mother of Krishna were cast by King Kamsa into
prison, where the child was born. A light suddenly shone in the prison and
the child spoke saying, "I am the Light of the world, born for the good of
the world." You find Krishna again symbolically represented with cows — "The
Great Cowherd," as he is called. Sages affirmed that God Himself was born,
and they went to pay him homage. In other parts of the story, the similarity
between the two does not continue.
Shri Krishna conquered this tyrant Kamsa, but he never thought of accepting
or occupying the throne himself. He had nothing to do with that. He had done
his duty and there it ended.
After the conclusion of the Kurukshetra War, the great warrior and venerable
grandsire, Bhishma, who fought ten days out of the eighteen days' battle,
still lay on his deathbed and gave instructions to Yudhishthira on various
subjects, such as the duties of the king, the duties of the four castes, the
four stages of life, the laws of marriage, the bestowing of gifts, etc.,
basing them on the teachings of the ancient sages. He explained Sânkhya
philosophy and Yoga philosophy and narrated numerous tales and traditions
about saints and gods and kings. These teachings occupy nearly one-fourth of
the entire work and form an invaluable storehouse of Hindu laws and moral
codes. Yudhishthira had in the meantime been crowned king. But the awful
bloodshed and extinction of superiors and relatives weighed heavily on his
mind; and then, under the advice of Vyasa, he performed the Ashvamedha
sacrifice.
After the war, for fifteen years Dhritarashtra dwelt in peace and honour,
obeyed by Yudhishthira and his brothers. Then the aged monarch leaving
Yudhishthira on the throne, retired to the forest with his devoted wife and
Kunti, the mother of the Pandava brothers, to pass his last days in
asceticism.
Thirty-six years had now passed since Yudhishthira regained his empire. Then
came to him the news that Krishna had left his mortal body. Krishna, the
sage, his friend, his prophet, his counsellor, had departed. Arjuna hastened
to Dwârâka and came back only to confirm the sad news that Krishna and the
Yâdavas were all dead. Then the king and the other brothers, overcome with
sorrow, declared that the time for them to go, too, had arrived. So they
cast off the burden of royalty, placed Parikshit, the grandson of Arjuna, on
the throne, and retired to the Himalayas, on the Great Journey, the
Mahâprasthâna. This was a peculiar form of Sannyâsa. It was a custom for old
kings to become Sannyasins. In ancient India, when men became very old, they
would give up everything. So did the kings. When a man did not want to live
any more, then he went towards the Himalayas, without eating or drinking and
walked on and on till the body failed. All the time thinking of God, be just
marched on till the body gave way.
Then came the gods, the sages, and they told King Yudhishthira that he
should go and reach heaven. To go to heaven one has to cross the highest
peaks of the Himalayas. Beyond the Himalayas is Mount Meru. On the top of
Mount Meru is heaven. None ever went there in this body. There the gods
reside. And Yudhishthira was called upon by the gods to go
there.
So the five brothers and their wife clad themselves in robes of bark, and
set out on their journey. On the way, they were followed by a dog. On and on
they went, and they turned their weary feet northward to where the Himalayas
lifts his lofty peaks, and they saw the mighty Mount Meru in front of them.
Silently they walked on in the snow, until suddenly the queen fell, to rise
no more. To Yudhishthira who was leading the way, Bhima, one of the
brothers, said, "Behold, O King, the queen has fallen." The king shed tears,
but he did not look back. "We are going to meet Krishna," he says. "No time
to look back. March on." After a while, again Bhima said, "Behold, our
brother, Sahadeva has fallen." The king shed tears; but paused not. "March
on," he cried.
One after the other, in the cold and snow, all the four brothers dropped
down, but unshaken, though alone, the king advanced onward. Looking behind,
he saw the faithful dog was still following him. And so the king and the dog
went on, through snow and ice, over hill and dale, climbing higher and
higher, till they reached Mount Meru; and there they began to hear the
chimes of heaven, and celestial flowers were showered upon the virtuous king
by the gods. Then descended the chariot of the gods, and Indra prayed him,
"Ascend in this chariot, greatest of mortals: thou that alone art given to
enter heaven without changing the mortal body." But no, that Yudhishthira
would not do without his devoted brothers and his queen; then Indra
explained to him that the brothers had already gone thither before him.
And Yudhishthira looked around and said to his dog, "Get into the chariot,
child." The god stood aghast. "What! the dog?" he cried. "Do thou cast off
this dog! The dog goeth not to heaven I Great King, what dost thou mean? Art
thou mad? Thou, the most virtuous of the human race, thou only canst go to
heaven in thy body." "But he has been my devoted companion through snow and
ice. When all my brothers were dead, my queen dead, he alone never left me.
How can I leave him now?" "There is no place in heaven for men with dogs. He
has to be left behind. There is nothing unrighteous in this." "I do not go
to heaven," replied the king, "without the dog. I shall never give up such a
one who has taken refuge with me, until my own life is at an end. I shall
never swerve from righteousness, nay, not even for the joys of heaven or the
urging of a god." "Then," said Indra, "on one condition the dog goes to
heaven. You have been the most virtuous of mortals and he has been a dog,
killing and eating animals; he is sinful, hunting, and taking other lives.
You can exchange heaven with him. "Agreed," says the king. "Let the dog go
to heaven."
At once, the scene changed. Hearing these noble words of Yudhishthira, the
dog revealed himself as Dharma; the dog was no other than Yama, the Lord of
Death and Justice. And Dharma exclaimed, "Behold, O King, no man was ever so
unselfish as thou, willing to exchange heaven with a little dog, and for his
sake disclaiming all his virtues and ready to go to hell even for him. Thou
art well born, O King of kings. Thou hast compassion for all creatures, O
Bhârata, of which this is a bright example. Hence, regions of undying
felicity are thine! Thou hast won them, O King, and shine is a celestial and
high goal."
Then Yudhishthira, with Indra, Dharma, and other gods, proceeds to heaven in
a celestial car. He undergoes some trials, bathes in the celestial Ganga,
and assumes a celestial body. He meets his brothers who are now immortals,
and all at last is bliss.
Thus ends the story of the Mahabharata, setting forth in a sublime poem the
triumph of virtue and defeat of vice.
In speaking of the Mahabharata to you, it is simply impossible for me to
present the unending array of the grand and majestic characters of the
mighty heroes depicted by the genius and master-mind of Vyasa. The internal
conflicts between righteousness and filial affection in the mind of the
god-fearing, yet feeble, old, blind King Dhritarashtra; the majestic
character of the grandsire Bhishma; the noble and virtuous nature of the
royal Yudhishthira, and of the other four brothers, as mighty in valour as
in devotion and loyalty; the peerless character of Krishna, unsurpassed in
human wisdom; and not less brilliant, the characters of the women — the
stately queen Gandhari, the loving mother Kunti, the ever-devoted and
all-suffering Draupadi — these and hundreds of other characters of this Epic
and those of the Ramayana have been the cherished heritage of the whole
Hindu world for the last several thousands of years and form the basis of
their thoughts and of their moral and ethical ideas. In fact, the Ramayana
and the Mahabharata are the two encyclopaedias of the ancient Aryan life and
wisdom, portraying an ideal civilisation which humanity has yet to aspire
after.