(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 Mahābhārata. It contains the story of a race descended from King Bharata, who was the son of Dushyanta and Śakuntalā. Mahā means great, and Bhārata means the descendants of Bharata, from whom India has derived its name, Bhārata. Mahābhārata means the 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 Pāndavas. So the area covered by the epic is not 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 became a huge book of about a hundred thousand couplets. All sorts of tales, legends, and myths, philosophical treatises, scraps of history, and various discussions were added to it from time to time, until it became a gigantic mass of literature; and through it all runs the old, original story.
The central story of the Mahābhārata is about a war between two families of cousins—one family called the Kauravas, the other, the Pāndavas—for empire over India.
The Āryans came into India in small tribes. Gradually these tribes began to spread, until at last they became the undisputed rulers of India; and then arose this fight to gain mastery, between two branches of the same family. Those of you that have studied the Gitā 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 Mahābhārata.
There were two brothers, sons of an emperor. The elder one was called Dhritarāshtra, and the other was called Pāndu. Dhritarāshtra was born blind. According to Indian law, no blind, halt, maimed, consumptive, or any other constitutionally diseased person can inherit a kingdom. He can only get a maintenance. So Dhritarāshtra could not ascend the throne, though he was the elder son, and Pāndu became the emperor.
Dhritarāshtra had a hundred sons, and Pāndu had only five. After the death of Pāndu at an early age, Dhritarāshtra took charge of the princes and brought up the sons of Pāndu along with his own children. When they grew up they were placed under the tutorship of the great priest-warrior Drona and were well trained in the various martial arts and sciences befitting princes. The education of the princes being finished, Dhritarāshtra put Yudhishthira, the eldest of the sons of Pāndu, on the throne of his father. The sterling virtues of Yudhishthira and the valour and devotion of his other brothers aroused jealousy in the hearts of the sons of the blind king, and at the instigation of Duryodhana, the eldest of them, the five Pāndava brothers were prevailed upon to visit Vāranāvata on the pretext of a religious festival that was being held there. They were accommodated in a palace made, under Duryodhana’s instructions, of hemp, resin, lac, and other inflammable materials, which were subsequently set fire to secretly. But the good Vidura, the step-brother of Dhritarāshtra, having become cognizant of the evil intentions of Duryodhana and his party, had warned the Pāndavas of the plot, and they managed to escape without anyone’s knowledge. When the Kurus saw the house reduced to ashes, they heaved a sigh of relief and thought all obstacles were now removed from their path. Then the children of Dhritarāshtra got hold of the kingdom. The five Pāndava brothers had fled to the forest with their mother, Kunti. They lived there by begging and went about in disguise, giving themselves out as brāhmin students. Many were the hardships and adventures they encountered in the wild forests, but their fortitude of mind and their strength and valour enabled them to 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 a peculiar form of the ancient Indian marriage. It was called svayamvara, that is, the choosing of a husband by a princess. A great gathering of princes and noblemen assembled, from among whom she 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 her 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, the king of the Pānchālas, and his daughter, Draupadi, famed far and wide for her beauty and accomplishments, was going to choose a husband. 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, continuously turning round, and on the earth below was a tub of water. A man, looking at the reflection of the fish in the water, was 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 priests, the brāhmins; next is the caste of the kshattriyas, composed of kings and fighters; next come the vaiśyas, the traders or business men; and then, the śudras, the servants. This princess was, of course, a kshattriya, one of the second caste.
When all those princes failed in hitting the mark, the son of King Drupada rose up in the midst of the court and said: “The kshattriya, the kingly caste, has failed; now the contest is open to the other castes. Let a brāhmin, even a śudra, take part in it. Whosoever hits the mark marries Draupadi.”
Among the brāhmins were seated the five Pāndava brothers. Arjuna, the third brother, was the hero of the bow. He arose and stepped forward. Now, brāhmins as a caste are very quiet and rather gentle 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 brāhmins saw this man get up, they thought he was going to bring the wrath of the kshattriyas upon them and 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 kshattriya, should be won by a poor brāhmin 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 their mother Kunti with the princess. Brāhmins had to live by begging. So since they were living as brāhmins, they used to go out begging, and what they got they brought home and the mother divided it among them. Thus the five brothers, with the princess, came to the cottage where their mother lived. They shouted out to her jocosely, “Mother, we have brought home the 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 word must be fulfilled. She could not be made to utter an untruth, for 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 from history that every race has passed through a stage of development which allowed polyandry; all the brothers of a family would marry one wife in common. Now, this is 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 followed them at a distance and at night overheard their conversation and became fully convinced that they were really kshattriyas. Then King Drupada came to know who they were and was greatly delighted.
Though at first many objections were raised, it was declared by Vyāsa that such a marriage was allowable for these princes, and it was permitted. So King Drupada had to yield to this polyandrous marriage, and the princess was married to the five sons of Pāndu.
Then the Pāndavas lived in peace and prosperity and became more powerful every day. Though Duryodhana and his party conceived fresh plots to destroy them, King Dhritarāshtra was prevailed upon by the wise counsels of the elders to make peace with the Pāndavas; and so he invited them home amidst the rejoicings of the people and gave them half of the kingdom. 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 Rājasuya Yajna, or Imperial Sacrifice, in which the conquered kings would have to come with tribute and swear allegiance, and help in the performance of the sacrifice by personal service. Śri Krishna, who had become their friend and relative, came to them and approved of the idea. But there was one obstacle to its performance. A king, Jarāsandha by name, who intended to offer a sacrifice of a hundred kings, had eighty-six of them kept as captives with him. Śri Krishna counselled an attack on Jarāsandha; 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 had secured at the feet of the eldest brother, to meet the expenses of the great sacrifice.
So to this Rājasuya Sacrifice all the liberated kings came, along with those conquered by the brothers, and rendered homage to Yudhishthira. King Dhritarāshtra and his sons were also invited to come and have a share in the performance of the sacrifice. At the conclusion of the sacrifice, Yudhishthira was crowned emperor and declared lord paramount.
This was the sowing of the future feud. Duryodhana came back from the sacrifice filled with jealousy against Yudhishthira and his brothers; for their sovereignty and vast splendour and wealth were more than he could bear; and so he devised plans to effect their fall by guile, since he knew that to overcome them by force was beyond his power. King Yudhishthira loved gambling, and he was challenged in an evil hour to play dice with Śakuni, the crafty gambler and 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 also 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.
Śakuni and his party played with loaded dice. So Yudhishthira lost game after game, and stung with his losses, he went on with the fatal play, staking everything he had, and losing all, until all his possessions—his kingdom and everything—were lost. The last stage came when, under a further challenge, he had no other resource 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, the condition being that the party which would lose must retire to the forests for twelve years and then live unrecognized in a city for one year; but if they were found out, the same term of exile would have to be undergone once again, and then only would the kingdom be restored to the exiles.
This last game Yudhishthira lost also, and the five Pāndava 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 it 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 Aśvapati. The king had a daughter who was so good and beautiful that she was called Sāvitri, which is the name of a sacred prayer of the Hindus. When Sāvitri grew old enough, her father asked her to choose a husband for herself. These ancient Indian princesses were very independent, as you have already seen, and chose their own princely suitors.
Sāvitri consented and travelled in distant regions, mounted in a golden chariot, with her guards and aged courtiers, to whom her father had entrusted her, stopping at different courts and seeing different princes; but not one of them could win the heart of Sāvitri. 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 their 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 had been defeated by his enemies and deprived of his kingdom when he was stricken with old 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 Satyavān.
It came to pass that after having visited all the different royal courts, Sāvitri at last came to this hermitage, or holy place. Not even the greatest king could pass by the hermitages, or āśramas as they were called, without paying his homage to the sages, such were the honour and respect shown to 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.
So Sāvitri came to this hermitage and saw there Satyavān, 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 Satyavān stole her heart.
When Sāvitri returned to her father’s house, he asked her: “Sāvitri, dear daughter, speak. Did you see anybody whom you would like to marry?” Then softly, with blushes, said Sāvitri, “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 sannyāsin, 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 Nārada, who then happened to be 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 Nārada said, “Within twelve months from this time the young man will die.” Then the king started with terror and spoke: “Sāvitri, 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 shortlived and fated bridegroom.” “Never mind, father; do not ask me to marry another person and sacrifice my chastity of mind, for I love and have accepted in my mind the good and brave Satyavān only as my husband. A maiden chooses only once, and she never departs from her troth.” When the king found that Sāvitri was resolute in mind and heart, he complied. Then Sāvitri married Prince Satyavān, 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 Sāvitri knew the exact date when Satyavān 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 only three short days remained. She took a severe vow of three nights’ penance and holy fasts, and kept her hard vigils. Sāvitri spent sorrowful and sleepless nights with fervent prayers and unseen tears, till the dreaded morning dawned. That day Sāvitri 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 Sāvitri. 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 Satyavān. But they could not come near to the place where Sāvitri 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 had 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, for he was a god. When he came to Sāvitri he said: “Daughter, give up this dead body; for know that 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, Sāvitri 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. “Sāvitri, daughter, why are you following me? This is the fate of all mortals.” “I am not following thee, Father,” replied Sāvitri; “but this is also the fate of woman, that she goes 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 Satyavān. Again the same footfalls were heard from behind. He looked round. “Sāvitri, 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 Sāvitri. 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 Sāvitri, meek and faithful, still followed her departed husband. Yama again turned back. “Noble Sāvitri, follow not in hopeless woe.” “I cannot choose but follow where thou takest my loved one.” “Then suppose, Sāvitri, that your husband was a sinner and has to go to hell. In that case goes Sāvitri 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 remember that the dead come not to life again.” “Since you so permit me, let the line of my father-in-law not be destroyed; let his kingdom descend to Satyavān’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 are 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 Sāvitri, and every girl in India must aspire to be like Sāvitri, whose love could not be conquered by death, and who through this tremendous love snatched back even from Yama the soul of her husband.
The book is full of hundreds of beautiful episodes like this. I began by telling you that the Mahābhārata is one of the greatest books in the world. It consists of about a hundred thousand verses, in eighteen parvas, or volumes.
To return to our main story. We left the Pāndava brothers in exile. Even there they were not allowed to remain unmolested from the evil plots of Duryodhana; but all of these were futile.
I shall tell you here a story of their forest life. One day the brothers became thirsty in the forest. Yudhishthira bade his brother Nakula go and fetch water. He quickly proceeded in search of a place where there was water and soon came to a lake. He was about to drink of the water, when he heard a voice utter these words: “Stop, my 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 immediately after 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: “My child, first answer my questions, and then drink of the water.” He too 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 water 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, my 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, answerest not the questions put by me, even thou shalt become the fifth corpse. Having answered my questions first, do thou, O Kunti’s son, drink and carry away as much as thou requirest.” Yudhishthira replied: “I shall answer thy questions according to my intelligence. Do thou ask me.” 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?” Yudhishthira answered: “We see our fellow beings every moment dying around us, but those who are left think that they will never die. This is the most wonderful fact.” Another question was: “How can one know the secret of religion?” And Yudhishthira answered: “By argument nothing can be settled. Doctrines there are many; various are the scriptures, one part contradicting another. There are no two thinkers 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, the god of justice, in the form of the crane. I came to test thee. Now, thy 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 Bhārata race.” And at these words of the Yaksha, the Pāndavas rose up.
Here is a glimpse of the nature of King Yudhishthira. We can see from 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 Virāt’s kingdom and live there in such disguises as they thought best. So after the term of the twelve years’ exile had expired, they went to the kingdom of Virāt in different disguises to spend the remaining year in concealment, and entered into menial service in the king’s household. Thus Yudhishthira became a brāhmin 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 Uttarā, the princess, and remained in the inner apartments of the king; Nakula became the keeper of the king’s horses; Sahadeva got the charge of the cows; and Draupadi, disguised as a lady-in-waiting, was also admitted into the queen’s household. Thus concealing their identity, the Pāndava 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 Dhritarāshtra 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 a fight even as much land as a needle’s point would hold. Dhritarāshtra pleaded again and again for peace, but all in vain. Krishna also went and tried to avert the impending war and death of kinsmen, as 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.
In this war the old Indian customs of the kshattriyas were observed. Duryodhana took command of one side; Yudhishthira, of 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 Pāndavas or the Kurus, according to the precedence of their requests; and thus one brother joined this side, and the other that side, the father was 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; they visited each other’s tents; but 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 his weapon, must not vanquish the enemy in any unequal fight or by dishonesty, 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 kshattriyas were trained in that way. And when the foreign invasion came from Central Asia, the Hindus treated the invaders in the self-same way. They defeated them several times, and on as many occasions sent them back to their homes with presents, and so on. 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 beat 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 plain bows and arrows; it was magic archery in which the use of mantras, incantations, and so on, 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 sheer magic. One fact is most curious in both these poems—the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata: 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 pada; then the cavalry, the 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, of course, the chariots. 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, and offered himself as charioteer to Arjuna and as friend and counsellor of the Pāndavas, while to Duryodhana he gave his army of mighty soldiers.
Then was fought on the vast plain of Kurukshetra the great battle in which Bhishma, 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 akshauhinis1 of soldiers very few men were left. The death of Duryodhana ended the war in favor of the Pāndavas. It was followed by the lament of Gāndhāri, the queen, and the widowed women, and by the funerals of the deceased warriors.
The greatest episode of the war was the marvellous and immortal poem of the Gitā, 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 battlefield of Kurukshetra. I would advise those of you who have not read this book to read it. If you only knew how much it has influenced even your own country! If you want to know the source of Emerson’s inspiration, you will find it in the Gitā. He went to see Carlyle, and Carlyle made him a present of the Gitā, 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 group.
The central figure of the Gitā 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 the 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 these 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 practised 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 work.’” Krishna shows the way to do this: by being non-attached—doing everything but not being 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 from 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 thing that you should be attached to, and that is the Lord. Work for all, love all, do good to all, sacrifice a hundred lives, if need be, for them, but never be attached. Krishna’s own life was the exact exemplification of that.
The book which delineates the life and exploits of Krishna is several thousand years old, and some parts of his life are very similar to that of Jesus of Nazareth. Krishna was of royal birth. There was a tyrant king, called Kamśa, who came to hear of a prophecy that one born of a certain family would occupy his throne. So Kamśa ordered all the male children to be massacred. The father and mother of Krishna were cast by King Kamśa into prison, where the child was born. A light suddenly shone in the prison and the child said, “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.
Śri Krishna conquered the tyrant Kamśa, 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 death-bed 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, and so on, basing them on the teachings of the ancient sages. He explained the Sāmkhya philosophy and the 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, and so on. 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 Vyāsa, he performed the Aśvamedha sacrifice.
After the war, for fifteen years Dhritarāshtra 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 Pāndava brothers, to pass his last days in asceticism.
Thirty-six years had now passed since Yudhishthira had 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 Dwārakā and came back only to confirm the sad news that Krishna and the Yādavas 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 Himālayas on the Great Journey, the Mahāprasthāna. This was a peculiar form of sannyāsa. It was a custom for old kings to become sannyāsins. In ancient India, when men became very old, they would give up everything; and so did the kings. When a man did not want to live any more, he then went towards the Himālayas, without eating or drinking, and walked on and on till the body failed. All the time thinking of God, he just marched on till the body gave way.
Then came the gods and the sages, and they told King Yudhishthira that he should go to heaven. To go to heaven one has to cross the highest peaks of the Himālayas. Beyond the Himālayas is Mount Meru. On the top of Mount Meru is heaven. None ever went there in the physical 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 Himālayas lift their 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 said. “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 four of his brothers dropped down; but unshaken, though alone, the king moved onward. Looking behind, he saw the faithful dog 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 said to him, “Ascend in this chariot, greatest of mortals, thou who alone art permitted 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 they had already gone thither before him.
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. Great King, what dost thou mean? Art thou mad? Thou, the most virtuous of men, thou only canst go to heaven in thy physical 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 dogs. This dog 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; he hunted and took other lives. You can exchange heaven with him.” “Agreed,” said 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. Dharma is none 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, 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 Bhārata, of which this is a bright example. Hence regions of undying felicity are thine. Thou hast won them, O King, and thine is a celestial and high reward.”
Then Yudhishthira, with Indra, Dharma, and other gods proceeds to heaven in a celestial car. He undergoes some trials, bathes in the celestial Ganges, and assumes a celestial body. He meets his brothers and his wife, who are now immortals, and all at last is bliss.
Thus ends the story of the Mahābhārata, setting forth in a sublime poem the triumph of virtue and defeat of vice.
In speaking of the Mahābhārata 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 Vyāsa. The internal conflicts between righteousness and filial affection in the mind of the god-fearing yet feeble old blind King Dhritarāshtra; 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 Gāndhāri, the loving mother Kunti, the ever devoted and all-suffering Draupadi—these and hundreds of other characters of this epic, and those of the Rāmāyana, have been the cherished heritage of the whole Hindu world for the last several thousands of years and form the basis of its thoughts and of its moral and ethical ideas. In fact, the Rāmāyana and the Mahābhārata are the two encyclopaedias of the ancient Āryan life and wisdom, portraying an ideal civilization which modern society has yet to aspire after.
1 An akshauhini is an army division consisting of 21,870 chariots, as many elephants, 65,610 horses, and 109,350 foot-soldiers.