or one intending to surrender. No one
who was unprepared should be attacked.
Words should be fought with words. An assault
should not be made without giving due notice.
Charioteers, those engaged in transport,
those blowing conches or clashing cymbals
should not be targeted. Nor should animals
drawing chariots or carrying men.
Principle is one thing, practice another.
Soon, battle frenzy would wipe these agreements
from men’s memories, but, for the present,
all were clear how to conduct themselves.
“Tell me in detail how the war developed,”
requested the king. So Vaishampayana
embarked on his narration of the conflict,
the internecine strife that shook the earth.
Blind Dhritarashtra paced through his apartments
full of dread, unable to still his mind.
Now that he could not console himself
with self-deceiving hopes that his stubborn son
might yet see reason, even on the brink,
the full force of the coming calamity
was bearing down on him.
He sought Vyasa
and sobbed to him about his son’s wickedness.
“Wringing your hands is useless,” said the sage.
“Time has run out for your sons and their friends.
While the fighting lasts, I can at least grant you
the gift of sight, so you can see events
as they happen.”
“Ah, no!” cried Dhritarashtra,
“I could not bear to see the gushing blood,
the mutilated bodies of my loved ones.
But I want to know how things unfold
moment by moment.” So Vyasa granted
Sanjaya, the king’s aide and companion,
the gift of divine vision. He would witness
all that took place on the battleground
whether by day or night, whether openly
or in men’s secret hearts—there would be nothing
hidden from him. Invulnerable,
he would be present on the field of war,
everywhere at once, silent recorder
of all the joys and agonies of men,
their courage, rage, despair. And in this way,
at second hand, the king would learn everything.
“Nature is out of joint,” said Vyasa.
“As witness to the coming massacre,
pigs are giving birth to foals, the trees
are weighted down with strange, unseasonal fruits.
Monsters are being born, some with two heads,
some with one leg, or none, or bloated breasts.
The very planets are engorged with blood
and fly amok, out of their natural paths.”
“Without doubt,” said Dhritarashtra, “fate
has designed a terrible disaster.
I have one consolation—kshatriyas
who fall with honor on the field of battle,
not dying in their beds with wasted limbs,
journey to that place reserved for heroes
where they enjoy the heavenly bliss of gods.”
After Vyasa had spoken and departed,
Dhritarashtra sat with Sanjaya
far into the blackest part of night
while, to calm him, Sanjaya described
the hills, plains, rivers of Bharatavarsha
and the diverse peoples of the country.
“All this belongs to the Bharatas!”
exclaimed the king. “But my misguided son
is bringing devastation to our land—
children left fatherless, wives sick with grief,
girls shorn of all hope of finding husbands!”
“You try to shift responsibility,”
said Sanjaya, “but you, too, are to blame.
You know how this will end—the Pandavas
will win for sure. Krishna is on their side,
and where Krishna is, there is victory.’
Sanjaya departed for Kurukshetra.
All Dhritarashtra could do now was wait.
And wait. For ten long days and nights he waited,
lost in thought, all normal life suspended.
Then Sanjaya arrived at last, distraught.
“O king, the news is dreadful. The great Bhishma,
mightiest of warriors, has fallen,
defeated by Shikhandin. Now he lies
on a bed of arrows, awaiting death.”
At this shock, Dhritarashtra fainted.
When he had revived, he cried aloud,
“Oh, Sanjaya! My heart must be made of stone
How can it have happened? Who was beside him?
Who protected him? How could he fall
when Drona was alive to stand with him?
Bhishma was like a god in strength and skill.
If he is crushed, then what hope for my sons?
Tell me who else was slain, who was victorious—
tell me all the details of the battle,
this conflict caused by my wrong-headed son.”
Sanjaya said, “You should not heap all blame
on Duryodhana. But listen, O king,
and I will tell you what I have seen and heard.”
And Sanjaya gave the following account,
the events leading to the fall of Bhishma.
As morning broke on the opening day of war,
the rising sun streaked the sky with scarlet.
The heat slowly burned off the mist that hung
above the plain. The opposing armies,
division upon division, stretched away
as far as the eye followed the curving earth.
All was brilliant. The chariots of the princes
and of their royal allies were resplendent
with noble banners, each with its own emblem.
One king’s standard carried a scarlet bull,
another, a boar on a cloth of silver,
others, bright flowers, stars, eagles, comets . . .
the sight too dazzling to be taken in.
Some kings were riding in their chariots,
others sat erect on the necks of elephants
or on spirited horses, proudly wheeling.
So much armor, on men, elephants, horses!
The brilliant gold and bronze rivaled the sun.
The mass of men and beasts, constantly moving,
was beautiful as a river thick with fish,
glittering, thousands upon thousands
all confident in prearranged formations.
With forces smaller than the Kauravas’,
Yudhishthira knew a less numerous army
must mass more tightly, not be spread out wide
where men could be picked off more easily.
Arjuna said the thunderbolt formation
would serve them best, with Bhima in the vanguard
whirling his mace to dismay the enemy.
Arjuna had planned the precise position
of each Pandava and of their allies,
and placed Yudhishthira right at the center
surrounded by well-trained and furious
elephants like a range of moving hills.
Yudhishthira stood, beneath a parasol,
on his gold chariot with the golden traces,
and dozens of priests intoned prayers around him.
Dhrishtadyumna protected him from the rear.
Both forces were terrible, both beautiful.
In both, men’s hearts were filled with joy and pride
at being part of it—this grand display,
this glorious event, this sacrifice,
this, the well-trained warrior’s highest calling.
Fear, suffering and grief would foll
ow later.
To see this greatest war ever fought on earth
there had gathered from all the three worlds
crowds of spectators—ordinary people,
holy men, divine beings—all assembled
to witness the spectacular clash of kin.
On rising ground that overlooked the plain,
or hovering in the sparkling air above,
they waited, jostling for the best positions.
With the two sides facing one another,
one east, one west, with ten thousand conches
blaring out in challenge, the din of cymbals
and the deep, heart-stopping throb of war drums,
Arjuna said to Krishna, his charioteer,
“Drive the chariot into no-man’s-land
so I can see, before the battle starts,
the faces of the enemy I must kill.”
Krishna did what Arjuna asked of him.
And there, with every soldier tense and ready,
with every horse straining at its harness;
there in the moment before hell’s unleashing,
with each blade whetted, each weapon at hand;
there, in the moment when the frenzy
of preparation was over, and the din
of death not yet begun—there, at that point
in the relentless passage of events . . .
time freezes
Sanjaya continues:
Arjuna sinks down in his chariot.
His warrior’s heart has failed him.
His eyes stream with tears,
his limbs tremble,
the great bow Gandiva drops from his hand.
Time itself holds its breath.
For Karna, Kunti, for his brothers,
for Krishna—for each differently—Arjuna
is the point, the mainspring of the action.
He is the hero on whom all the hopes
of the Pandavas are pinned; the obstacle,
above all others, Dhritarashtra’s son
sees as blocking his path to victory.
Arjuna has fought scores of bloody battles,
exulting in the slaughter of enemies,
cutting them down like standing fields of grain
without regret, never looking back.
He is the supreme kshatriya;
the whole effort of his life is geared
to heroism and glorious victory.
But now he is unraveled by distress.
He gazes at the rank on rank of kinsmen.
They are so familiar—human, as he is.
How can they be stranger to him than strangers?
Death takes on new weight, sharper meaning.
Whether this war brings victory or defeat
there will be no occasion for rejoicing.
Striking his brow, he cries aloud to Krishna,
“I will not fight! A kshatriya enters battle
to preserve dharma, but how can it be right
to strike our kinsmen, coldly to kill those
who have nurtured, taught and grown with us?
Look at all our cousins standing there,
and Drona, our revered guru—and Bhishma,
Bhishma, beloved grandfather to us all!
He looks so serene, full of resolve—
has he not imagined how it will be
to aim his arrows at the hearts of those
joined to him by blood—who once were children
gathered round, enraptured by his stories?
“There are Duryodhana and his brothers,
sick with greed and anger—but should we kill them?
Oh, Krishna, even though they are geared for war,
even though they are blind to their own evil
and are themselves prepared to kill us—still,
how can we, who know well what is sinful,
do the same? When family is broken,
the spiritual bedrock is destroyed
leading to every kind of social wrong
and vile disorder. Chaos surely follows.
“Their force is much greater than our own—
eleven well-trained armies to our seven.
But even if we are victorious
how could we be happy at such a cost?
It would be better to let them kill us,
or to wander the world as mendicants;
better to give up the kingdom now
than gain it at the cost of so much grief.
No! I will not fight!”
Krishna says, “Friend, this is unworthy of you.
You’re speaking like a feeble-hearted weakling,
not like the noble warrior you are.
Get to your feet, scourge of your enemies!”
“But how can I take aim against my elders
who deserve from me my love and reverence?
I sense already the familiar heft
of Gandiva, flexing to unleash death
on those I should be protecting—how can I
cut them down as though they were rank weeds?
Tell me, how, Krishna! My thoughts are scattered.
My mind is seething like a nest of hornets.
You are my guide, my greatest, wisest friend.
Help me to understand where my duty lies.”
Krishna smiles, as at a foolish child.
“Son of Kunti, your doubts sound honorable
but they spring from deep misunderstanding.
You speak as if this life were all there is.
But it is just one brief embodiment
of the indestructible, eternal soul.
Bodies are born, they flourish, age, and die.
But the soul, part of that greater spirit
that infuses everything that exists,
was never born, and cannot be killed.
That soul, the witness of our every thought
and action, persists from one life to the next;
it sloughs off its old and outworn body
as one discards old clothes and puts on new.
Wise people know this, and do not lament.
“You need to refine your understanding.
In this life, nothing is permanent,
nothing can be held, or truly owned.
The individual ‘I’ a person clings to—
the ego with a sense of past and future,
furnished with memories and with intentions—
is illusory. Time is the present,
an infinite parade of present moments
to be experienced, to be endured,
misery and pleasure equally.
Beings have mysterious origins.
They emerge into the light, then disappear
into shadow. Why should this cause grief?
“Within the framework of a single life
each person has their proper course, their dharma—
the path of righteous action they should follow,
depending on the station they occupy.
Your dharma is to fight. That is your purpose.
That is what you were born for, and for that
praise-singers will extol your memory
long after you are dead. Think. To refuse
would lead to deep disgrace—people would say,
When it came to it, he was a coward.
What could be more miserable than that
for a kshatriya? Fight as a warrior should
and you cannot lose—either you are killed,
and go to heaven, or win, and enjoy the kingdom.
So gather your strength, Arjuna, stand up!
“The wise mind is as clear as pure water.
The unwise wallow in complexity;
they cast about, pursuing this practice,
that ritual, craving some benefit,
their senses agitated, minds distracted.
Often such behavior is applauded,
What a devout person, people say.
“But
right understanding far outweighs
such action. Follow duty for duty’s sake,
without straining after its rewards.
Do not get caught up in pairs of opposites—
pain and pleasure, failure and success—
but, rather, be strong-minded, equable.
Let your action be informed by discipline.
Practice contemplation, undiverted
by those who claim to understand the Vedas,
or by those addicted to results.
Cultivate a calm and stable mind,
your own right understanding, Arjuna.
Only then will you escape delusion.”
Arjuna is still perplexed. “Tell me,
what are the qualities of a stable mind?”
“A person who possesses such a mind
is not agitated by calamity;
is free of craving and aversion, both;
is not unbalanced by the restless senses
but takes them for what they are, and is unchanged,
as the ocean receives the rippling waters
of the rivers that flow into it
and yet maintains its level. A stable mind
is free from anger; constantly serene,
filled with knowledge of the eternal Self.”
“But in that case,” protests Arjuna,
“why are you urging me to fling myself
into this terrible war? Why should I not
go to a forest ashram and meditate?”
“My friend, there are two paths through this world:
the path of knowledge and the path of action.
You will not attain enlightenment
by renouncing action—and indeed
you would find that is impossible.
To live out this material existence
we have to act, just to keep ourselves alive.
The question is, how to act rightly?
Right action is that which is performed
without selfish attachment to the outcome—
sacrifice offered to sustain the gods
and to maintain order in the world
is right action; not when it greedily
grasps after rewards. Through right action
gods and mortals nourish one another
and the world is held together. Remember—
action carried out in a true spirit
is the most perfect possible achievement.
It is based upon renunciation.
The divine Self informs every selfless act.
“People who are caught up in delusion
think they are sole authors of their actions
and of the consequences. So they are proud
of their success, and suffer shame or guilt
when their efforts fail. But the workings
of cause and effect are infinitely complex,
beyond the scope of human understanding,