and envious, and Karna spurs him on
with his streak of bitterness, and fixed hatred
for Arjuna. Yet they are both deluded
if they think that they can win this war—
against Arjuna, with his divine weapons,
against Krishna, ruler of the three worlds,
and Bhima, stronger than forty elephants!
That son of mine is dreaming! And yet . . . and yet
I want him to be great. Above all,
I want him to cast off this yoke of envy
he wears continually.
“Sanjaya,
go to the Pandavas, ask after their health,
say we want peace, say . . . whatever comes
into your mind that you think suitable,
anything likely to avert a war.”
After elaborate formalities,
inquiries after everybody’s health,
down to kitchen-women and household slaves,
Yudhishthira asked Sanjaya to tell him
the state of affairs at Hastinapura—
what was Dhritarashtra’s thinking now?
“The old king is grieving,” said Sanjaya.
“He has no appetite for war, and fears
the dire consequences. The brahmins tell him
that to seek to do harm to the harmless,
as his son is doing, is a dreadful sin.
You have assembled seven mighty armies
in your support. But Duryodhana
and his allies are also powerful—
there are eleven armies on his side.
In my view—that is to say, the king thinks—
if it comes to war, neither side could win
without enormous bloodshed.
Furthermore,
it is unlawful to kill one’s kith and kin
and you, Yudhishthira, and your brothers here,
are known to uphold the law in all respects.
For this reason, a sinful act of yours
would be like a dark stain on a pure white cloth.
Victory and defeat would be the same.”
And Sanjaya went on in the same vein.
There was a silence. “Friend,” said Yudhishthira,
“I know you mean well, but you miss the point.
Not even a fool could wish for war
if peace were to be had by any means.
Tell me—when have you ever heard me utter
warmongering words, in any circumstances?
Even when I was least myself, caught up
in gambling fever, even then, I prayed
that the Kauravas would not destroy themselves.
I knew then, and nothing has changed my view,
that Duryodhana is insatiable.
He wants for nothing, lives in great luxury,
all the pleasures of the earth are his,
yet only the complete elimination
of the Pandavas will satisfy him.
“Dhritarashtra knows all this. His brother,
Vidura, has given him wise advice.
So long as the king listened to Vidura
the Kauravas kept some check on wrongdoing.
But now that good man has been pushed aside,
and Dhritarashtra listens to no voice
except that of his son’s rapaciousness
which burns untamed, like a fire fed with butter.
“I honor Dhritarashtra; since Pandu’s death
I have venerated him as a father.
But, for him, the wishes of his wayward son
are always paramount. Three times at least
we Pandavas have been the blameless objects
of Duryodhana’s boundless enmity,
and have not answered back. He tried to kill us
in the lacquer house. Then, though as first-born prince
I was heir apparent, we were fobbed off
with half the kingdom, desolate scrubland
from which we made a paradise on earth.
“Now we have borne thirteen years of exile—
and, yes, my foolishness played a part in that.
But now they should return our kingdom to us
according to the covenant they made.
“Dhritarashtra and his greedy son
want us gone, and they to rule alone.
The two of them have dreams of a great realm,
unchallenged domination of the earth—
a superpower. That way lies misery.
Such a dream can only be sustained
if they don’t hear the thrum of Gandiva,
if they can forget the unrivaled strength
of Bhima and the heroic sons of Madri.
“Monstrous ambition breeds unreasoning fear.
I wish them well—but please give them this message:
I must have my kingdom of Indraprastha.
On this point, I am immovable.”
“Our earthly life is transient,” said Sanjaya.
“If the Kauravas refuse to return
your former kingdom, then it would be better
to beg in the streets than to incur the sin
of killing your kinsfolk. And why did you
spend years in exile, if you meant to fight?
Scrupulously you followed the law, yet now
you propose to commit appalling wrong.
Even if you were ruler of the world
you would grow old and die, like everyone.
“Your every action follows you in death.
You are known for your devotion to dharma.
Why change now, to wage unlawful war?
What happiness could you enjoy, knowing
that you have killed your kinsmen and your teachers?
What happiness, as you approach old age,
in contemplating miserable rebirth?”
“You should tell that to my cousin, Sanjaya!
You judge me prematurely. What is dutiful
and what is sinful is not so straightforward.
In a time of grave emergency,
the ordinary rules may not apply.
If virtue is a victim, then the task
is to restore the world to harmony.
Krishna—advise me; be my guide in this.”
“Sanjaya,” said Krishna, “both the Kauravas
and the Pandavas are dear to me.
Yet clearly Dhritarashtra and his son
have stolen the kingdom of the Pandavas
by refusing to return it, as agreed.
Stealing is wrong no matter how it’s done.
Why should they escape responsibility?
“You speak of the sinfulness of war,
but in a land where everybody prospers
each group has its dharma, its proper duty
to society; and a king should govern
and protect his people. If someone seizes
the land of another out of avarice,
then a king’s duty is to go to war
to set things right. Action is the duty
of a kshatriya. You know this, Sanjaya.
Why do you, then, against your better judgment,
speak in favor of the Kauravas?
“You were present in the gambling hall
when Shakuni befuddled Yudhishthira,
when Karna jeered and insulted Draupadi,
when Duhshasana tried to strip her naked.
How, then, can you think that the right course
is simply to do nothing? Mere inertia
in the face of such flagrant wrongdoing
is not virtue. The whole cosmos turns
on action. Just as the sun rises daily,
the moon goes through its cycle, the wind blows,
so action is the law for gods and men—
for brahmins, kshatriyas and commoners.
Kshatriya dharma is to protect what’s right.
If Yudhishthira c
ould regain his kingdom
by peaceful means, then he would certainly
make Bhima be as gentle as a brahmin!
But the fact is, Duryodhana thinks himself
above the law. And law must be defended.
I will go myself to Hastinapura
and try to broker a peaceful resolution.”
Sanjaya gave way. “O Dharma King,
in my loyalty to Dhritarashtra
I hope I did not offend you.”
“Sanjaya,”
said Yudhishthira, “there is no offense.
I know you speak as the king’s emissary.
Convey my heartfelt greetings to all who live
at Hastinapura, and wish them good health.
Say to Duryodhana that we Pandavas,
in the interests of peace, will overlook
our grievances. Instead of Indraprastha,
we will settle for five villages,
one for each of us.” Yudhishthira
named the settlements he had in mind.
“In this way we can live in peace. Our allies
can take their soldiers home to their own kingdoms,
back to the arms of their thankful wives.”
Sanjaya rode back to Hastinapura.
He thought deeply about all he had heard
and, on arriving, sought an audience
with Dhritarashtra. “Pandu’s sons are well.
Yudhishthira greets you fondly, and inquires
after your health. As he always has,
he pursues the law in all particulars.
He is renowned and honored everywhere
and desires nothing that is not rightly his.
They say a man reaps as he sows, but I say
the Pandavas have suffered more, far more
than they deserve. You, my king, have treated
your brother’s sons cruelly and unjustly.
Your reputation is soiled throughout the land,
your name a byword for unlawfulness
and greed. If Yudhishthira returned evil
for evil, the Kauravas would be destroyed
and you, as king, would bear the blame for it.
You have trusted your untrustworthy son
and cast off your nephew, rich in wisdom,
so now you are too enfeebled, foolish king,
to protect your vast and wealthy lands
from utter ruin.
“But that is enough for now.
The chariot has shaken up my bones
and I must rest. Tomorrow, in the council,
I will lay out Yudhishthira’s words in full.”
28.
DIPLOMACY CONTINUES
Sanjaya left Dhritarashtra chastened
and appalled, but understanding nothing
he did not know already. He asked himself,
not for the first time, how he could have fallen
into this predicament, this nightmare.
As always, when sleep was impossible,
he sent for Vidura, his wise half-brother,
to keep the watches of the night with him.
“Sanjaya has returned; until I hear
the message he has brought from Yudhishthira,
I cannot sleep. My mind is in a tumult.
Tell me something that will bring me peace.”
“Many people are sleepless,” said Vidura:
“the anxious lover, one who is destitute,
thieves who fear discovery, householders
nervous of thieves—but none of these, I think,
is your condition. Are you, perhaps, burning
because you covet another’s property?”
As if he had not heard, Dhritarashtra
asked Vidura to tell him soothing stories.
The night was black outside, and very quiet.
Only an occasional owl’s hooting
disturbed the silence. Hour after wakeful hour,
Vidura discoursed on many topics.
He spoke of wisdom and of foolishness;
the virtues of a good ruler; mastery
of the senses; the value of honesty;
the importance of family; austerity;
moderation; the nature of karma—how
people’s actions follow them after death.
All this was leavened by engaging tales
and, here and there, as if to test whether
his brother was still awake, and listening still,
Vidura inserted his own thoughts
on the king’s obligations to his nephews.
“What am I supposed to do? Tell me
the best way forward for the Kauravas,”
moaned Dhritarashtra, as if he did not know.
“Try to cultivate clear-sightedness,
think of consequences—not like a fish
which gulps at a fat morsel, oblivious
of the hidden hook. Rather, reflect
on what it is that leads you to act wrongly
and avoid that thing—as a drunkard
must avoid strong liquor. Your doting love
for Duryodhana has made you mad
and you don’t realize it—you know, they say
that when the gods wish to destroy a person
they make him see the world the wrong way up.
And those they intend to prosper, they endow
with wisdom. Well, Yudhishthira is wise.
How can you hope to flourish when you listen
to Duryodhana and his deluded friends?
The Pandavas regard you as a father;
do the right thing—treat them as your sons.
“Think of the story of the seer Atreya,
wandering the world in the guise of a swan.
Being accosted by the Sadhya gods
and asked for good advice, he said to them:
‘This is our task: be serene at all times,
do not be vengeful, nor scorn your enemy;
speak truthfully, befriend the virtuous,
be equable in the face of disaster.
Be aware that everything must pass,
just as clouds arise, drift, and disperse,
so do not seek to cling to anything.’
“The seer was right,” said Vidura, “attachment
is the curse of humankind. It leads to grief,
and grief is the enemy of good sense.
You are too attached to Duryodhana,
not realizing that all that lives will pass.
Happiness and misery arise
for all of us. Neither exult nor grieve
but let it be.
Time after time, people die and are born,
Time after time, people rise and decline,
Time after time, people give and are given,
Time after time, people mourn and are mourned.”
In this vein, thoughtful Vidura talked on,
knowing that his words evaporated
into the night air, knowing Dhritarashtra
was no more willing to accept advice
than is a glutton or a drug addict
but, rather, claimed that he was powerless:
“Man is not master of his destiny
but a mere puppet, swinging from a thread.
I cannot abandon Duryodhana.”
“Then, O king, you are set on a course
you’ll bitterly regret. Can you imagine
the searing grief of hearing that your sons,
one by one, are killed?”
“O Vidura,”
sighed Dhritarashtra, “when I listen to you
my mind inclines toward the Pandavas.
But when I hear Duryodhana, well then
it veers away again. It’s time that governs
our human affairs; effort is futile.
But I like to listen to you—are there things
that you have left unsaid? If so, then speak.”
“There is teaching more profound than I can
give,
being shudra-born. But Sanatsujata,
the divine ancient and eternal youth,
can tell you more, concerning death and non-death.”
And by thought alone, Vidura summoned him.
“Sanatsujata,” said Dhritarashtra,
“I am told you teach that there is no death,
and yet the world’s wise men devote their lives
to avoiding it. How can this be explained?”
“Both are true,” answered Sanatsujata.
“There is a part of the eternal Self
in each of us, that is indestructible.
Yet men die constantly through their own folly.
Anger, greed, delusion, envy, lust—
each of these waits to entrap a person
as a hunter stalks a witless antelope,
and each of them is death. Through being attached
to ‘I’ and ‘mine’ in every misleading form
we invite death to take up residence,
to seize us in its sharp, tenacious claws;
we die repeatedly to our true nature.
Repeatedly, we undergo rebirth.
“But one who practices simplicity,
who banishes desire and lives in truth,
who does not crave the fruit of their own actions
who is humble and who controls the senses—
that person can cross over death, and live.”
As Sanatsujata talked, Dhritarashtra
listened. But he lacked the concentration
that could have made the ancient youth’s wise words
a door into a different understanding
of what was right, what he should say and do.
As it was, he noticed the palace stirring,
heard birds begin to sing outside the window,
and knew that the long night must soon be over.
The council gathered in the assembly hall,
a splendid space, plastered white and gold,
sprinkled with fragrant water of sandalwood;
the seats, inlaid with ivory and jewels,
covered with silk cushions. Courtiers, princes,
ministers and marshals were on edge,
waiting to hear what Sanjaya would say,
no one more eagerly than Dhritarashtra.
“My lords! I bring greetings from Yudhishthira.
He asked me to convey his earnest wishes
for the good health of everyone in turn,
forgetting no one.
“Now, to the real business.
These words were delivered by Arjuna,
in front of Yudhishthira and Krishna,
speaking for all the Pandavas. ‘Tell the king
our cause is just, and we are more than ready
to fight for it. My bow, mighty Gandiva,
vibrates with longing to fulfill its purpose.
We have many seasoned warriors, brave,