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Om. Bow first to Nara and Narayana, the highest of beings, and to the goddess Sarasvati, and only then speak the word Jaya, victory. In the forest of Naimisha, a grove given over to austerity, the master of the hermitage, the sage Saunaka, was conducting a sacrifice that would run twelve years, and great seers of unbending vows sat there at their ease. One day a man came humbly among them: Ugrasrava, son of Lomaharshana, known by the title Sauti, a bard of the suta line who carried the whole of the ancient lore in his memory. The ascetics had long wanted to hear his wonderful stories, and so, when he arrived at that secluded refuge of the forest dwellers, they drew him into talk. Received with the honor due to him, Sauti folded his palms, saluted every one of the sages, and asked after the progress of their austerities. When the ascetics had settled again in their places, the son of Lomaharshana took the seat set aside for him. Once he was comfortable and his fatigue had lifted, one of the seers opened the conversation. ‘Where have you come from, lotus-eyed Sauti, and where have you spent your days? Tell us in full, since we ask.’
Sauti’s Answer, and the Memory of the Snake Sacrifice
Skilled in speech, Sauti gave that great gathering of contemplative sages a full and fitting answer, in words suited to the life they lived. ‘I have heard,’ he said, ‘the many sacred and marvelous stories that Krishna-Dwaipayana, whom you call Vyasa, composed in his Mahabharata. Vaishampayana recited them in full at the snake sacrifice of the royal sage Janamejaya, the son of Parikshit, and in that king’s own hearing. Since then I have wandered from one holy water to another, from shrine to shrine, and at last I came to the land the twice-born hold sacred, the place called Samantapanchaka, where in an earlier age the sons of Kuru and the sons of Pandu fought their war and every king of the land took one side or the other. From there I have come here, eager to see you. You are all as Brahma to me. You shine in this place of sacrifice with the brightness of the sun’s own fire. Your silent meditations are complete, your offerings poured into the holy flame, and now you sit at ease. So tell me: what shall I recite? The sacred stories gathered in the Puranas, with their teachings on duty and on worldly gain, or the deeds of famous saints and of the kings who have ruled mankind?’
A key to reading this (the lineage and the sources of the tale): Vyasa composed the Mahabharata. His pupil Vaishampayana recited it at King Janamejaya’s snake sacrifice. Sauti heard it there, and now repeats it in Saunaka’s assembly in the Naimisha forest. So the story reaches us in three layers: from Vyasa to Vaishampayana, from Vaishampayana to Sauti, and from Sauti to Saunaka.
The Sages’ Request
A seer answered him. ‘The Purana that the great sage Dwaipayana first gave to the world, which the gods and the brahmin-seers heard and held in the highest honor, stands as the finest narrative there is. It is varied in its language and its arrangement, its subtle meanings joined by reason, gleaned from the Vedas, a sacred work. Composed in graceful speech, it gathers into itself the matter of all other books. Other scriptures throw light on it, and it holds within it the sense of the four Vedas. We wish to hear the history called the Bharata, Vyasa’s own wondrous work, the telling that drives away the fear of evil, exactly as the sage Vaishampayana recited it, gladly and at Dwaipayana’s own direction, at the snake sacrifice of King Janamejaya.’
Then Sauti said, ‘I bow first to the primordial being Isana, to whom the multitudes bring their offerings and whom the many adore. He is the true and imperishable one, Brahma, seen and unseen, eternal. He is the nonexistent and the existent-nonexistent at once. He is this universe, and he is also apart from all that exists and does not exist. He is the maker of the high and the low, ancient, exalted, and never spent. He is Vishnu, the source of all good and the good itself, worthy above every choice, pure and unstained. He is Hari, master of the senses, the guide of everything that moves and everything that stays still. Bowing to him, I will speak the sacred thoughts of the glorious sage Vyasa, whose deeds are wonderful and whom everyone here honors. Some bards have already given this history to the world, some are teaching it now, and others in their turn will spread it across the earth in the years to come. It is a great wellspring of knowledge, set firm throughout the three regions of the world. The twice-born keep it in both its full and its shortened forms. With its sweet phrasing, its conversations of men and of gods, and its many measures of verse, it is the delight of the learned.
The Egg of Creation, and the Birth of the Prajapatis
In the beginning this world had no brightness and no light, and darkness lay over everything. Then, as the first cause of all creation, a mighty egg came into being, the single unfailing seed of every living thing. It is called Mahadivya, the great and divine, and it took form at the opening of the age. Within it, they say, was the true light, Brahma, the eternal, wonderful, and unthinkable being, present alike in every place, the unseen and subtle cause whose nature holds both being and nonbeing. From that egg came forth the grandfather of all, Brahma, the one Prajapati, lord of creatures, together with Suraguru and Sthanu. Then appeared the twenty-one Prajapatis: Manu, Vasishtha, and Parameshthi; the ten Prachetas; Daksha, and the seven sons of Daksha. Then came the being of unthinkable nature whom all the seers know, and with him the Vishvedevas, the Adityas, the Vasus, and the two Ashvins; the Yakshas, the Sadhyas, the Pishachas, the Guhyakas, and the Pitris, the fathers. After them were born the wise and holy brahmin-seers, and the many royal seers, each marked by every noble virtue. So too came the water, the heavens, the earth, the air, the sky, the quarters of the heavens, the years, the seasons, the months, the fortnights that are called pakshas, and day and night in their turn. And so came into being everything that mankind knows.
Whatever stands in the universe, living or lifeless, will be gathered back into confusion when the world ends and the age runs out. And at the start of each new age all things will be made fresh again, and like the many fruits of the earth they will follow one another in the settled order of their seasons. So this wheel, which brings about the ruin of all things, turns on and on in the world, with no beginning and no end.
The generations of the gods came, in brief, to thirty-three thousand, thirty-three hundred, and thirty-three. The sons of Div were Brihadbhanu, Chakshus, Atma, Vibhavasu, Savita, Richika, Arka, Bhanu, Asavaha, and Ravi. Of these ancient Vivasvans the youngest was Mahya, whose son was Deva-vrata. His son in turn was Su-vrata, who, we are told, had three sons: Dasa-jyoti, Sata-jyoti, and Sahasra-jyoti, and each of them fathered a countless line. The renowned Dasa-jyoti had ten thousand descendants, Sata-jyoti ten times as many, and Sahasra-jyoti ten times the number of Sata-jyoti’s. From these are descended the houses of the Kurus, of the Yadus, and of Bharata; the houses of Yayati and of Ikshvaku; and the lines of all the royal seers.
The gist: Sauti comes to Saunaka’s twelve-year sacrifice in the Naimisha forest. The sages ask him to recite Vyasa’s tale, the one Vaishampayana told at Janamejaya’s snake sacrifice. Sauti begins with a bow to Isana, Vishnu, and Hari, and describes how the great egg of creation gave rise to Brahma, the Prajapatis, the gods, and the royal houses. In this way the door to the story of the Mahabharata opens.
Vyasa’s Composition, and Ganesha the Scribe
The son of Satyavati, by austerity and deep meditation, took apart the eternal Veda and then composed this holy history. When Dwaipayana Vyasa, that brahmin-seer of strict vows, the son of Parashara, had finished this greatest of tellings, he began to wonder how he might teach it to his students. And Brahma, the world’s teacher, who holds all six attributes, knew the sage’s worry and came in person to the place where Vyasa sat, both to please the saint and to help the world. When Vyasa, ringed by every tribe of sages, saw him, he was astonished. He rose with folded palms, bowed, and called for a seat to be brought. Vyasa walked in reverence around the one they call Hiranyagarbha, now seated on that place of honor, and stood beside it, and only at Brahma’s command did he sit down near the seat, full of affection and smiling with joy. Then the glorious Vyasa spoke to Brahma. ‘O divine one, I have composed a poem that is already much honored. In it I have set down the mystery of the Veda and much else I have made clear: the rituals of the Upanishads with their limbs; the gathering of the Puranas and of history that I have named after the three divisions of time, past, present, and future; the nature of decay and fear, of sickness, of being and of not being; a description of creeds and of the many ways of life; the rules for the four castes and the meaning of all the Puranas; an account of austerity and of the duties of a religious student; the measures of the sun and the moon, the planets, the constellations, and the stars, and the length of the four ages; the Rig, the Sama, and the Yajur Veda; the Adhyatma; the sciences of logic, of right pronunciation, and of the treatment of disease; charity and the Pashupata vow; births celestial and human, undertaken for a purpose; a description of places of pilgrimage and other holy sites, of rivers, mountains, forests, and the ocean, of the cities of heaven and the great cycles of time; the art of war; the different kinds of peoples and their languages; the ways and manners of men; and the spirit that fills all things. I have set it all down. And yet nowhere on earth can a scribe be found to write it.’
Brahma said, ‘For your knowledge of divine mysteries I honor you, here before this whole company of famous sages known for the holiness of their lives. I know that you have revealed the divine word in the language of truth, from its very first utterance. You have called your work a poem, and so a poem it shall be. No poet’s work will ever match the descriptions in this poem. For the writing of it, sage, call Ganesha to mind.’
Sauti went on. ‘Having said this to Vyasa, Brahma returned to his own abode. Then Vyasa began to call Ganesha to mind. And Ganesha, remover of obstacles, always ready to grant what his devotees desire, came the moment he was thought of to the place where Vyasa sat. When he had been greeted and seated, Vyasa said to him, “Lord of the ganas, be the writer of the Bharata that I have shaped in my mind and am now about to recite.”‘
Hearing this, Ganesha answered, ‘I will write your work, but only on one condition: that my pen not stop moving for even a moment.’ And Vyasa said to the god, ‘Wherever you meet something you do not understand, stop writing there.’ Ganesha agreed with a single Om and began to write. Vyasa began to recite, and for his own amusement he tied the knots of his composition very tight, and in this way, keeping his word, he dictated the whole work.
A sub-tale: Sauti says that he himself knows eight thousand eight hundred verses, and so does Suka, and perhaps Sanjaya. To this day, sage, no one has been able to break open those tightly knotted, difficult verses, so hidden is their meaning. Even the all-knowing Ganesha needed a moment to think them through, while Vyasa went on composing many more in the meantime. This was Vyasa’s device: by weaving in a hard verse he could halt Ganesha’s swift pen for an instant, and in that pause he thought out what would come next.
The Bharata as a Tree
The wisdom of this work opens the eyes of a curious world that ignorance has blinded, the way a slender rod applies healing collyrium to the eye. As the sun clears away darkness, the Bharata clears away the ignorance of men by its discourses on duty, gain, pleasure, and final release. As the full moon with its soft light opens the buds of the water lily, this Purana, holding up the light of the Sruti, opens out the human mind. By the lamp of history, which destroys the darkness of ignorance, the whole house of nature is lit fully and well.
This work is a tree. Its chapter of contents is the seed. The parts called Pauloma and Astika are the root. The part called Sambhava is the trunk. The books called Sabha and Aranya are the perches where birds roost. The book called Arani is the tying of the knots. The books called Virata and Udyoga are the pith. The book named Bhishma is the main branch. The book called Drona is the leaves. The book called Karna is the fair flowers. The book named Salya is their sweet scent. The books called Stri and Aishika are the cool shade. The book called Santi is the great fruit. The book called Ashvamedha is the deathless sap. The book called Ashramavasika is the ground where the tree grows. And the book called Mausala is the essence of the Vedas, held in deep respect by virtuous brahmins. Endless to mankind as the rain clouds, this tree of the Bharata will be a source of livelihood to every gifted poet.
The Founding of the Kuru Line
Sauti went on. ‘Now I will speak of the living flowers and fruit of this tree, pure and sweet to the taste, beyond the reach even of the immortals to destroy. Long ago, at the urging of Bhishma, the wise son of Ganga, and of his own mother Satyavati, the ardent and upright Krishna-Dwaipayana fathered three sons, like three fires, by the two wives of Vichitravirya. Having raised up Dhritarashtra, Pandu, and Vidura, he went back to his hermitage to take up his austerities again.
Only after these sons were born, grown, and gone on the final journey did the great sage Vyasa give the Bharata to this world of men. Asked by Janamejaya and by thousands of brahmins, he taught it to his student Vaishampayana, who sat beside him, and Vaishampayana, seated among the members of the assembly, recited the Bharata in the pauses between the rites of the sacrifice, urged again and again to go on.
Vyasa laid out in full the greatness of the house of Kuru, the goodness of Gandhari, the wisdom of Vidura, and the steadfastness of Kunti. He also told of the divinity of Vasudeva, the uprightness of the sons of Pandu, and the wicked ways of Dhritarashtra’s sons and their followers. Leaving aside the episodes, Vyasa first made the Bharata a work of twenty-four thousand verses, and this much alone the learned call the Bharata proper. After that he composed a summary of one hundred and fifty verses, made up of the introduction and the table of contents. This he taught first to his son Suka, and then gave it to other disciples who were equal to the task.
A key to reading this (the numbers in modern terms): Vyasa shaped a single work in several sizes. The core Bharata ran to twenty-four thousand verses, without the side tales. Then came a summary of one hundred and fifty verses, in today’s terms a kind of preface and table of contents. And then a full recension of some six million verses (sixty lakh), of which one hundred thousand circulate in the world of men. Narada recited it to the gods, Devala to the ancestors, and Suka carried it to the gandharvas, yakshas, and rakshasas.
After that he made another compilation, of six million verses. Of these, three million are known in the world of the gods, one and a half million in the world of the ancestors, one million four hundred thousand among the gandharvas, and one hundred thousand in the world of mankind. Narada recited them to the gods, Devala to the ancestors, and Suka made them known to the gandharvas, the yakshas, and the rakshasas. In this world they were recited by Vaishampayana, one of Vyasa’s disciples, a man of just principles and the foremost of those who know the Vedas. And know that I, Sauti, have also repeated one hundred thousand verses. Yudhishthira is a vast tree grown of duty and virtue; Arjuna is its trunk; Bhimasena its branches; the two sons of Madri its ripe fruit and flowers; and its roots are Krishna, Brahma, and the brahmins.
Pandu’s Curse and the Coming of the Pandavas
Pandu, after conquering many lands by his wisdom and his strength, went to live in a certain forest among the sages as a hunter. There he brought a terrible ruin on himself by killing a stag as it coupled with its mate, and the curse that followed served as a warning to the princes of his house for as long as they lived. So that the ordinances of the law might still be fulfilled, his wives took the gods Dharma, Vayu, Sakra, and the twin Ashvins to father their children in his place. When these sons had grown up, under the care of their two mothers, among ascetics, in sacred groves and the lonely hermitages of holy men, seers led them into the presence of Dhritarashtra and his sons. They came as students, in the dress of brahmacharis, their hair tied in knots on their heads. ‘These pupils of ours,’ the seers said, ‘are as your sons, your brothers, and your friends. They are the Pandavas.’ And with that the sages vanished.
When the Kauravas saw them come forward as the sons of Pandu, the leading citizens raised a great shout of joy. Some said these were not Pandu’s sons; others said they were; a few asked how they could be his children at all, since he had been dead so long. Still the cry went up on every side: ‘They are welcome in every way. By the grace of heaven we behold the house of Pandu. Let their welcome be proclaimed.’ As the shouting died down, the applause of unseen spirits broke out, thundering until it filled every quarter of the sky. Sweet-scented flowers fell in showers, and there was the sound of conches and kettledrums. Such were the wonders at the coming of the young princes. Having studied the whole of the Vedas and many other sciences, the Pandavas lived on there, respected by all and afraid of no one.
The foremost men were pleased with the purity of Yudhishthira, the courage of Arjuna, Kunti’s devoted care for her elders, and the modesty of the twins Nakula and Sahadeva, and everyone took delight in their heroic qualities. In time Arjuna won the maiden Krishna, Draupadi, at her swayamvara, in the midst of a crowd of kings, by performing a very hard feat of archery. From then on he was honored above all bowmen in the world, and on the field of battle, like the sun, his enemies found him hard to look upon. Having beaten every neighboring prince and every people of note, he brought about all that his eldest brother needed for the great sacrifice called the Rajasuya.
A key to reading this (a custom): the practice of niyoga. Because the curse kept Pandu from fathering children, Kunti and Madri, following the ordinance of dharma, called upon the gods and received their sons: Yudhishthira from Dharma, Bhima from Vayu, Arjuna from Indra, and Nakula and Sahadeva from the Ashvins. This was a provision the law of that age allowed.
The Rajasuya, the Dice, and the Road to War
Through the wise counsel of Vasudeva and the valor of Bhimasena and Arjuna, Yudhishthira killed Jarasandha, the king of Magadha, and the proud Chaidya, Shishupala, and so won the right to hold the grand Rajasuya, a sacrifice rich in provisions and offerings and full of surpassing merit. Duryodhana came to it. When he saw the vast wealth of the Pandavas scattered on every side, the offerings, the precious stones, the gold and jewels, the wealth in cows and elephants and horses, the rare fabrics, garments, and mantles, the costly shawls and furs and carpets of Ranku deerskin, envy filled him and he grew deeply unhappy. And when he saw the hall of assembly that Maya, the Asura architect, had built in the style of a court of the gods, rage burned in him. Stumbling in confusion at certain tricks of the building’s design, he was laughed at by Bhimasena in front of Vasudeva, as though he were a man of low birth.
Word reached Dhritarashtra that his son, for all the many pleasures and precious things around him, was growing thin, wan, and pale. And after a time, out of love for his son, Dhritarashtra gave his consent to a game of dice with the Pandavas. When Vasudeva learned of it, he was filled with anger. Displeased as he was, he did nothing to stop the quarrels. He let the gambling pass, and the many other hateful and unjust acts that grew out of it, and in spite of Vidura, Bhishma, Drona, and Kripa the son of Saradwan, he brought it about that the Kshatriyas killed one another in the terrible war that followed.
A key to reading this (a moral complexity): the text here refuses to make Krishna simple. Vasudeva was displeased with the dice game and the wrongs that came from it, yet he did not stop them, and in the end he became the occasion for the Kshatriyas to destroy one another. The Mahabharata declines to flatten even its heroes into plain good and evil, and that is the source of its depth.
Dhritarashtra’s Lament: ‘I Had No Hope of Victory’
And Dhritarashtra, hearing the grim news of the Pandavas’ success and recalling the schemes of Duryodhana, Karna, and Shakuni, thought a while and then said this to Sanjaya. ‘Listen, Sanjaya, to all I am about to say, and do not treat me with contempt. You are learned in the scriptures, clear-sighted, and wise. War was never my wish, and I took no pleasure in the ruin of my line. I made no difference between my own children and the children of Pandu. My sons were headstrong and looked down on me because I am old. Blind as I am, in my helpless state and out of a father’s love, I bore it all. As the thoughtless Duryodhana grew ever more foolish, I grew foolish along with him.’
‘Hear now, Sanjaya, all that happened after, all that came to my knowledge, and when you have heard it and remember how each thing fell out, you will know me for a man who saw the end from the start. When I heard that Arjuna had bent the bow, pierced the difficult mark, and brought it to the ground, and carried off the maiden Krishna in triumph before the assembled kings, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that Subhadra of the race of Madhu had been seized and married by Arjuna in the city of Dwaraka, and that the two heroes of the Vrishni line, Krishna and Balarama, without resenting it came to Indraprastha as friends, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that Arjuna, with a celestial arrow, had held off the downpour of Indra, king of the gods, and satisfied Agni by giving him the Khandava forest, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that the five Pandavas and their mother Kunti had escaped the house of lac, and that Vidura was at work to carry out their plans, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory.’
‘When I heard that Jarasandha, foremost of the royal line of Magadha and blazing among the Kshatriyas, had been killed by Bhima with his bare arms alone, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that the sons of Pandu had conquered the lords of the earth and performed the grand Rajasuya, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that Draupadi, her voice choked with tears and her heart full of anguish, in her time of impurity and wearing a single garment, had been dragged into the hall, and that though she had protectors she was treated as though she had none, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that the wicked Duhsasana, trying to strip her of that one garment, only drew from her body a great heap of cloth without ever reaching its end, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that Yudhishthira, beaten at dice by Shakuni and stripped of his kingdom, was still attended by his brothers of matchless strength, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that the virtuous Pandavas, weeping in their grief, had followed their eldest brother into the wilderness and worked in every way to ease his hardships, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory.’
A key to reading this (a device): this repeated refrain, ‘I had no hope of victory,’ is one of the famous passages of the Mahabharata. Blind Dhritarashtra, before the war has even begun, admits event by event that every piece of good news belonged to the Pandavas, and that with each one his hope thinned away. The whole lament is a compressed foreshadowing of the war to come.
‘When I heard that Arjuna, in the guise of a hunter, had pleased the god of gods, three-eyed Tryambaka, in combat and won from him the great weapon Pashupata, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that Arjuna had gone to the realms of heaven and received celestial weapons from Indra himself, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that Arjuna had beaten the Kalakeyas and the Paulomas, proud of a boon that had made them invulnerable even to the gods, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that my sons, following Karna’s counsel on their Ghoshayatra, had been taken prisoner by the Gandharvas and were set free by Arjuna, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that Dharma, the god of justice, coming in the form of a Yaksha, had put certain questions to Yudhishthira, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that my sons, while the Pandavas lived among them in disguise with Draupadi in the land of Virata, had failed to recognize them, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory.’
‘When I heard that Narada had declared Krishna and Arjuna to be Nara and Narayana, and that he had seen them together in the world of Brahma, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that Krishna, longing to bring about peace for the good of mankind, had come to the Kurus and gone away without accomplishing his purpose, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When Karna said to Bhishma, “While you are fighting I will not fight,” and left the army and went off, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that Arjuna, seized by anguish on his chariot and ready to sink under it, had been shown all the worlds within Krishna’s body, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory.’
‘When I heard that Bhishma, cutting down ten thousand charioteers each day in the field, had not killed a single one of the Pandavas, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that Bhishma, the righteous son of Ganga, had himself pointed out the means of his own defeat, and that the Pandavas had carried it out with gladness, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that Arjuna, setting Sikhandin before him in his chariot, had wounded Bhishma, who was of boundless courage and unbeaten in battle, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that the aged hero Bhishma, worn down by many wounds, lay on a bed of arrows, and that when he thirsted for water Arjuna pierced the ground and slaked his thirst, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory.’
‘When the wonderful warrior Drona, for all his many modes of fighting, did not kill any of the great Pandavas, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that the Sansaptakas of our army, sworn to bring down Arjuna, were all killed by Arjuna himself, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that our battle formation, impenetrable to others and guarded by Bharadwaja’s son Drona in full armor, had been forced and entered single-handed by the brave son of Subhadra, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that our Maharathas, unable to overcome Arjuna, had ringed the boy Abhimanyu together and killed him, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that the blind Kauravas were shouting for joy at Abhimanyu’s death, and that Arjuna in his anger then made his famous vow about Saindhava and fulfilled it in the sight of his enemies, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory.’
‘When I heard that Karna had hurled the celestial spear upon Ghatotkacha, the same weapon that would surely have killed Arjuna in battle, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that Dhristadyumna, breaking the laws of battle, had killed Drona as he sat alone in his chariot resolved on death, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When, upon Drona’s death, his son loosed the weapon called Narayana and still failed to destroy the Pandavas, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that Bhimasena had drunk the blood of his brother Duhsasana on the field with no one able to stop him, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that the infinitely brave Karna, unbeaten in battle, had been killed by Arjuna in that war of brothers that even the gods found beyond them, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory.’
‘When I heard that Dharmaraja Yudhishthira had killed Shalya, the king of Madra, and that the crafty Shakuni, son of Suvala, the very root of the gambling and the feud, had been killed in battle by Sahadeva, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that the weary Duryodhana had gone down into a lake and made a refuge for himself within its waters, and lay there alone, his strength gone and without a chariot, and that the Pandavas came there with Vasudeva and stood on the bank and taunted him, and that in the fight with clubs, following Krishna’s counsel, he was struck down by an unfair blow, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory.’
A key to reading this (a moral complexity): Dhritarashtra himself admits that Drona was killed by a breach of the rules, and that Duryodhana was struck down in the mace fight by an unfair blow, on Krishna’s advice. The text hides none of this. Even the victory here carries a stain, and that is the hard honesty of the Mahabharata.
‘When I heard that the son of Drona and the others had killed the Panchalas and the sons of Draupadi in their sleep, a horrible and infamous deed, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that Aswatthaman, pursued by Bhimasena, had loosed the first weapon called Aishika, and that the embryo in Uttara’s womb was wounded by it, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory. When I heard that the weapon Brahmashira loosed by Aswatthaman was turned back by Arjuna with another weapon, and that Aswatthaman had to surrender the jewel that grew on his head, and that for wounding the embryo in the womb of Virata’s daughter both Dwaipayana and Krishna laid their curse on him, then, Sanjaya, I had no hope of victory.’
‘Gandhari, stripped of her children, her grandchildren, her parents, her brothers, and her kin, is a woman to be pitied. Hard is the thing the Pandavas have done: they have won back a kingdom with no rival left to hold it. And this I have heard, that only ten came out of the war alive, three on our side and seven of the Pandavas, and that in that dreadful conflict eighteen akshauhinis of Kshatriyas were killed. Darkness closes around me on every side, and a faintness comes over me. My senses are leaving me, Suta, and my mind will not hold still.’
A key to reading this (the numbers in modern terms): eighteen akshauhinis of troops gathered for the war and were almost entirely wiped out. A single akshauhini holds 21,870 chariots, the same number of elephants, 65,610 horses, and 109,350 foot soldiers. Eighteen of them together come to roughly four million fighters, the whole battle-ready generation of a civilization erased.
Sanjaya’s Consolation, and the Teaching on Time
Sauti said, ‘Bewailing his fate in these words, Dhritarashtra was overcome with anguish and for a time lost all sense. When he came to himself, he said to Sanjaya, “After all that has come to pass, Sanjaya, I want to end my life at once. I see not the least good in holding on to it any longer.”‘
Sauti said, ‘Then the wise son of Gavalgana, Sanjaya, spoke words of deep meaning to the grieving king as he lamented and drew long breaths like a serpent. “You have heard, Raja, of the men of great power and vast effort spoken of by Vyasa and the wise Narada: men born of great royal houses, shining with worthy qualities, masters of the science of celestial arms, and in glory the very emblems of Indra, men who conquered the world by justice and offered sacrifices with fitting gifts, who won renown in this world and in the end bowed to the sway of time.” And Sanjaya named the twenty-four kings that the celestial seer Narada had once counted over to Saibya when he was sunk in grief for his children, and he said that before these there had been kings mightier still, and that all alike had bowed to time.’
‘Your sons were malevolent, burning with passion, greedy, and of thoroughly evil nature. You, descendant of Bharata, are skilled in the scriptures, intelligent and discerning, and those whose understanding is guided by the scriptures do not sink under misfortune. You know, prince, the gentleness and the harshness of fate, and so this anxiety over your children does not become you. It is not right to grieve for what must happen. Who can turn aside, by his own wisdom, the decrees of fate? No one can step off the road that Providence has marked out for him. Being and nonbeing, pleasure and pain, all have time for their root. Time makes all things and time destroys all creatures. Time burns the creatures, and time puts out the fire. All conditions in the three worlds, the good and the evil alike, are caused by time. Time cuts short all things and makes them anew. When all things are asleep, time alone stays awake. Time truly cannot be overcome.’
A sub-tale: the twenty-four kings Sanjaya counted over were the ones the celestial seer Narada had described to King Saibya when Saibya was distraught at the loss of his sons. Among the names were Saibya, Srinjaya, Suhotra, Rantideva, Kakshivanta, Yayati, Vishvamitra, Marutta, Manu, Ikshvaku, Bharata, Rama the son of Dasaratha, and Bhagiratha, each the foremost man of his age, and each in the grip of time. Narada’s roll call is a warning that no greatness turns death aside.
Sauti said, ‘Having comforted the royal Dhritarashtra, overcome with grief for his sons, the son of Gavalgana brought his mind back to peace. Taking these matters for his theme, Dwaipayana composed a holy Upanishad, which learned and sacred bards have given to the world in the Puranas they made.’
The Glory of the Bharata
To study the Bharata is an act of piety. Whoever reads even a single line of it with faith has his sins washed wholly away. Here the Devas are spoken of, and the Devarshis, and the pure brahmin-seers of good deeds, and likewise the Yakshas and the great Uragas, the serpents. Here too is told of the eternal Vasudeva, who holds the six attributes. He is the true and the just, the pure and the holy, the eternal Brahma, the supreme soul, the true and steady light, whose divine deeds the wise and the learned recount, and from whom the nonexistent and the existent-nonexistent universe has come forth, with its principles of generation and progression, of birth, death, and rebirth.
The man of faith, given to piety and steady in virtue, is freed from sin by reading this section. The believer who listens from the beginning to this section of the Bharata, the one called the Introduction, does not fall into trouble. This section, the body of the Bharata, is truth and nectar. As butter is the best of curd, the brahmin the best among men, the Aranyaka the best of the Vedas, and nectar the best of medicines; as the sea is the greatest of waters and the cow the first among four-footed creatures, so among histories stands the Bharata.
Long ago the gods gathered and set the four Vedas on one side of a balance and the Bharata on the other, and weighed them. And when the Bharata, with all its mysteries, came out heavier than the four Vedas, from that time it has been known in the world as the Mahabharata, the great Bharata. For its weight in substance and in gravity of meaning it is called the Mahabharata, and whoever knows its meaning is saved from every sin. Austerity is blameless, study is blameless, the ordinance the Vedas lay down for all the castes is blameless, and the winning of wealth by honest effort is blameless. Only when they are misused do these become sources of evil.
The gist: at the end of the war, blind Dhritarashtra recites the whole conflict in advance, repeating event by event, ‘I had no hope of victory,’ and then faints in grief. Sanjaya consoles him with a teaching on the unconquerable power of time. From this material of sorrow Vyasa composed his Upanishad. Then the glory of the Bharata is declared: it outweighed even the four Vedas, and so it is the Mahabharata.
Samantapanchaka and Parashurama’s Lakes of Blood
The sages said, ‘Son of Suta, we wish to hear a full and detailed account of the place you called Samantapanchaka.’ Sauti said, ‘Listen, brahmins, to the sacred descriptions I give. In the interval between the Treta and the Dwapara ages, Rama the son of Jamadagni, greatest of all who have borne arms, driven by his rage at wrongs, struck the noble race of the Kshatriyas again and again. And when that fiery meteor of a man had wiped out the entire tribe of the Kshatriyas by his own strength, he made five lakes of blood at Samantapanchaka. His reason overpowered by anger, they say, he stood in the midst of those red waters and offered oblations of blood to the fathers of his line. It was then that his forefathers, of whom Richika was the first, came there and spoke to him. “Rama, blessed Rama, offspring of Bhrigu, we are pleased with the reverence you have shown your ancestors and with your valor, mighty one. Blessings upon you. Ask the boon you desire.”‘
Rama said, “Fathers, if you are pleased with me, the boon I ask is this: that I be freed from the sins born of killing the Kshatriyas in my anger, and that the lakes I have made become famous in the world as holy shrines.” The fathers said, “So it shall be. But be at peace.” And Rama grew calm. From that time the region near those lakes of gory water has been celebrated as Samantapanchaka the holy. In the interval between the Dwapara and the Kali ages, at this same Samantapanchaka, the armies of the Kauravas and the Pandavas met. On that sacred, level ground eighteen akshauhinis of soldiers gathered, eager for battle. And there, brahmins, having come to that very place, they were all slain.
The Reckoning of the Akshauhini
The sages said, ‘Son of Suta, we wish to know what you mean by the term akshauhini. Tell us in full how many horse and foot, chariots and elephants make up an akshauhini, for you know it well.’ Sauti said, ‘One chariot, one elephant, five foot soldiers, and three horses make one patti. Three pattis make one senamukha; three senamukhas a gulma; three gulmas a gana; three ganas a vahini; three vahinis a pritana; three pritanas a chamu; three chamus an anikini; and ten anikinis, as those who know it style it, make one akshauhini. Arithmeticians have reckoned that the number of chariots in an akshauhini is twenty-one thousand eight hundred and seventy. The elephants come to the same number. The foot soldiers are one hundred and nine thousand three hundred and fifty, and the horses sixty-five thousand six hundred and ten. By this reckoning were made up the eighteen akshauhinis of the Kaurava and Pandava armies. Time, whose deeds are wonderful, gathered them on that spot, and making the Kauravas its cause, destroyed them all.’
‘Bhishma, skilled in the choice of weapons, fought for ten days. Drona guarded the Kaurava divisions for five. Karna, destroyer of hostile armies, fought for two days, and Shalya for half a day. After that the mace duel between Duryodhana and Bhima lasted half a day. And at the close of that day, Aswatthaman and Kripa fell in the night upon Yudhishthira’s army as it slept without suspicion of danger, and destroyed it. Saunaka, this finest of narratives called the Bharata, which has begun to be recited at your sacrifice, was recited long ago at the sacrifice of Janamejaya by a wise disciple of Vyasa.’
A key to reading this (the place): Samantapanchaka is the same ground called Kurukshetra. Parashurama made it a holy place by forming his five lakes of blood there, and ages later the army of eighteen akshauhinis gathered on that same ground and was destroyed. One field was soaked in blood twice, first by Parashurama’s slaughter of the Kshatriyas and then by the war of the Mahabharata.
The gist: when the sages ask, Sauti tells the origin of Samantapanchaka (Kurukshetra): Parashurama’s lakes of blood and the boon of his ancestors. Then he gives the full reckoning of the akshauhini, and tells how Bhishma led for ten days, Drona for five, Karna for two, and Shalya for half a day, and how at the end Aswatthaman and Kripa destroyed the sleeping army. This same tale was first told at Janamejaya’s snake sacrifice, from which it has now reached the Naimisha forest.
Source: the Mahabharata of Krishna-Dwaipayana Vyasa, Adi Parva; in the Gita Press, Gorakhpur tradition.
Based on: the Mahabharata of Vedavyasa (Gita Press, Gorakhpur)