Mahabharata · The Moment of the Gita

About 28 min read · 4,701 words

The sun had only just climbed over the ground of Kurukshetra, and the two armies faced each other like two seas that had broken their shores and come rolling toward one another. On one side the vast host of Dhritarashtra’s sons stood facing west, and at its head was Bhishma, the son of Shantanu, with his white umbrella, white headgear, white banner, and white horses, bright as a snow peak. On the other side the Pandava army faced east, and in its very middle was the chariot whose reins were in Keshava’s hands, on which Arjuna himself stood with the Gandiva, his divine bow, in his grip. The wind blew from behind the Pandavas into the faces of Dhritarashtra’s men, and the beasts of the field were crying in ill-omened voices toward the Kaurava ranks. This was the moment inside which a teaching lay waiting, the teaching that would later be called the Bhagavad Gita.

A key to reading this (the scope of this chapter): This chapter is the story of that moment, not the full text of the Bhagavad Gita. Vyasa set within the Bhishma Parva seven hundred verses of the dialogue between Krishna and Arjuna. Here we are telling only that living scene, together with the essence of Krishna’s teaching. The whole Gita, chapter by chapter, you can read in the Lulla family’s separate Bhagavad Gita section.

Two Armies, Two Seas

Dhritarashtra asked Sanjaya which army, when the sun rose, first moved gladly toward the other, whose faces carried light and whose minds carried gloom. Sanjaya answered that at the start both armies were joyful in equal measure, both equally beautiful, like woods in full blossom, both crowded with elephants, chariots, and horses. But the set of the wind and the cries of the animals were already telling whose side the omens favored.

Duryodhana rode a lotus-hued elephant, a white umbrella with the sheen of the moon held over his head, and Shakuni, the king of Gandhara, followed with his mountain warriors close around him. At the head of the whole army, as its commander, stood Bhishma. He carried a bow and a sword, and his splendor was that of a white mountain that had risen up and taken its place. In his division were all the sons of Dhritarashtra, and Sala of the Bahlika country, and the Ambashthas, the Sindhus, the Sauviras, and the brave kshatriyas of the land of the five rivers. On a golden car drawn by red steeds, Drona, that teacher of never-failing heart, stayed behind the whole army and guarded it, like Indra. Saradwat’s son Kripa, who is also called Gautama, took the northern edge of the army with the Shakas, the Kiratas, the Yavanas, and the Pahlavas. Kritavarma moved toward the south with the Vrishni and Bhoja heroes. And the Samshaptakas, ten thousand chariots strong, men born for one of two ends alone, the death of Arjuna or their own fame, went out with the Trigartas.

A sub-tale: Each day Bhishma set the army in a different formation, sometimes the human array, sometimes the celestial, sometimes the Gandharva, sometimes the Asura. His host was beyond counting and terrible to look at. The Pandava army was smaller in number, and yet to Sanjaya it seemed vast and impossible to conquer, because its leaders were Keshava and Arjuna.

Seeing that the array could not be broken, even Yudhishthira himself sank for a moment into grief. His face went pale, and he said to Arjuna that he could not see how they would win against this impenetrable formation Bhishma had built. Arjuna steadied him. A few, he said, can conquer many who are full of good qualities, if with the few stand truth, compassion, and dharma. He repeated the word of Narada, that where dharma is, there is victory, and where Krishna is, there is victory. At that assurance Yudhishthira’s sorrow lifted.

The gist: Before the war has even begun, both armies stand there in their splendor and their terror. The omens lean toward the Pandavas, and Arjuna’s word, that where dharma and Krishna are, there is victory, lays the ground for the teaching that is about to come.

Take the Chariot Between the Two Armies

The conches sounded. Hrishikesha, a name for Krishna that means the master of the senses, blew Panchajanya; Arjuna blew Devadatta; Bhima of terrible deeds blew the great conch Paundra; Yudhishthira blew Anantavijaya; and Nakula and Sahadeva blew Sughosha and Manipushpaka. The king of Kashi, and Shikhandin, Dhrishtadyumna, Virata, Satyaki, Drupada, the sons of Draupadi, and the son of Subhadra, each blew his own conch. That blast rang through sky and earth and began to tear at the hearts of Dhritarashtra’s sons.

Then Arjuna, whose chariot flew the banner of the ape, raised his bow and said to Hrishikesha, “Achyuta, take my chariot into the middle of the two armies, so that I may look at those who stand here for battle and know with whom I must contend in this struggle. I want to see those who are ready to fight here to please the wicked-minded son of Dhritarashtra.” Hearing this, Keshava drove that fine chariot to the exact center of the two armies, before Bhishma and Drona and all the kings of the earth, brought it to a halt, and said, “Partha, behold these Kurus gathered here.”

A sub-tale: On the eve of the battle, Vasudeva had told Arjuna to praise Durga. Arjuna stepped down from the chariot, joined his hands, and worshiped that goddess who leads the yogins, who is one with Brahman, who is Kala and Kashtha, who is Savitri, the mother of the Vedas. The goddess appeared in the sky and said, “Pandava, you will conquer your foes before long, for Narayana himself is here to help you.” Having received this boon, Arjuna counted himself already successful and climbed back onto his chariot.

And there, in the very middle of the two armies, the son of Kunti saw standing before him his elders and his grandsons, his friends, his fathers-in-law, and his well-wishers, in both armies alike. Every one of them was his own kin.

The gist: This moment of the Gita happens on the battlefield itself, with both armies looking on. Arjuna is the one who asks that the chariot be driven between the two hosts, and there he sees the very thing for which he stopped it, his own people, standing on both sides.

The Gandiva Slips from His Hand

Seeing his own people arrayed for battle, Arjuna filled with pity, and, sunk in grief, he said, “Krishna, at the sight of these kinsmen gathered here and hungry for the fight, my limbs go slack and my mouth turns dry. My body shakes and my hair stands on end. The Gandiva is slipping from my hand and my skin is on fire. I can no longer stand; my mind seems to wander. Keshava, I see the signs of evil ahead. I want no victory, no kingdom, no pleasures. Govinda, what use to us is a kingdom, or enjoyments, or even life, when the very ones for whose sake a kingdom and enjoyments and pleasures are desired stand here ready to give up their lives and their wealth, our teachers, fathers, sons, grandfathers, uncles, fathers-in-law, grandsons, and kinsmen?

“Madhusudana, though they should kill me, I would not want to kill them, not for the sovereignty of the three worlds, let alone for this earth. Janardana, what pleasure would be ours in killing the sons of Dhritarashtra? Even if we count them as enemies, only sin would follow from killing them. How can we be happy after slaughtering our own family? When a family is destroyed, the eternal customs of that family are lost, and when its dharma is lost, lawlessness overtakes the whole family. When lawlessness grows, the women of the family are corrupted, and when the women are corrupted, a confusion of castes is born. That confusion drags both the destroyers of the family and the family itself down toward hell, and the ancestors too fall, cut off from their rites of pinda and water. In our greed for the sweetness of a kingdom we have set our minds on the great sin of killing our own kin. It would be better for me if the sons of Dhritarashtra, weapons in hand, were to kill me on the battlefield while I stood unarmed and offered no resistance.”

Having said this, there on the field of battle, Arjuna, his mind torn by grief, set his bow and arrows aside and sank down on his chariot.

The gist: This is the heart of the Gita. The greatest archer the world holds, one who has no equal on earth and never will, breaks apart at the sight of his own kin. The Gandiva slides from his hand and he sits down on the chariot. Arjuna’s crisis here runs deeper than fear. It is a crisis of dharma, a question of what is right and what is wrong when a family is to be destroyed and one’s own people are to be killed.

I Will Not Fight

To Arjuna, full of pity, wet with tears, drowning in gloom, Madhusudana said, “Arjuna, at a moment like this, where has this despair come upon you from, this thing unworthy of a man of noble birth, that shuts the door of heaven against you and brings you disgrace? Son of Kunti, cowardice does not suit you. Throw off this mean weakness of heart and rise, scorcher of foes.”

Arjuna answered, “Madhusudana, how am I to fight with arrows against Bhishma and Drona, who deserve my worship? Better to live in this world even on alms than to kill these great teachers. If I kill them, greedy for wealth though they may be, the pleasures I taste will be smeared with their blood. Living on after killing them is no life I want. My nature is stained by the fault of pity, and my mind is confused about my duty. I ask you: tell me plainly the one thing that is surely good for me. I am your disciple; I take refuge in you; instruct me.” And then, saying only “I will not fight,” he fell silent.

Then, on that chariot halted between the two armies, Hrishikesha, as if with a smile, began to say to the grieving Arjuna the words that would later be called the Bhagavad Gita.

The gist: Arjuna does more than mourn. He goes to Krishna as a disciple goes to a teacher. “I am your disciple; instruct me,” that one sentence opens the door of the dialogue. And the chariot is still standing between the two armies.

The Self Neither Dies Nor Is Slain

Krishna struck first at the root of the grief that had closed around Arjuna. You grieve, he said, for those who deserve no grief, and you speak words that sound like wisdom; but those who are truly wise grieve neither for the dead nor for the living. There was never a time when I was not, nor you, nor these kings, and there will never be a time hereafter when we cease to be. As the embodied self passes through childhood, youth, and old age in this body, so it comes to another body. The steady of mind is not deceived by this.

The touch of the senses on their objects brings cold and heat, pleasure and pain; these come and go, and they do not last. Bear them, Bharata. Know that by which this whole world is pervaded to be imperishable; no one can destroy that which does not decay. The self is never born and never dies; nor, having once been, does it ever cease to be. It is unborn, everlasting, eternal, and ancient, and it is not killed when the body is killed. The one who thinks it a slayer and the one who thinks it slain, neither of them knows, for it neither slays nor is slain.

As a man throws off worn-out clothes and puts on new ones, so the embodied self throws off worn-out bodies and enters new ones. Weapons cannot cut this self, fire cannot burn it, water cannot wet it, and wind cannot dry it. It cannot be cut or burned or wetted or dried; it is eternal, present everywhere, unmoving, firm, and without beginning. It is called unmanifest, beyond thought, and beyond change. Knowing it so, you should not grieve. And even if you take it to be forever born and forever dying, still you should not grieve, for the death of what is born is certain, and the birth of what has died is certain; why grieve over what cannot be escaped? All beings are unmanifest before birth, manifest in the middle, and unmanifest again at death. What is there in this to grieve about?

The gist: The first foundation of Krishna’s teaching is the deathlessness of the self. The one who fears the killing is treating as mortal the very thing that never dies. The body is a garment, and the embodied self keeps changing it. So the grief for the destruction of his kin that grips Arjuna comes out of incomplete knowledge.

Your Own Dharma, Even If Imperfect

After the self, Krishna turned Arjuna toward his own dharma, the svadharma, the duty that comes with a man’s birth and his nature. Even when you look at the duty of your own order, he said, you have no cause to waver, for nothing is better for a kshatriya than a righteous war. Such a war, arriving of itself, is an open gate of heaven, and fortunate are the kshatriyas who are offered such a fight.

But if you do not fight this righteous war, then, having thrown away the duty of your order and your good name, you will take on sin. People will speak of your disgrace forever, and for a man who is honored, disgrace weighs heavier than death. The great car-warriors will believe that you left the battle out of fear, and those who once held you high will hold you cheap. Your enemies will run down your courage and say things that ought never to be said; what pain could be greater than that? Killed, you will win heaven; victorious, you will enjoy the earth. Therefore, son of Kunti, rise, resolved on battle.

Further on, Krishna drove this same thread deeper: one’s own dharma, though it lack every merit, is better than another man’s dharma well performed. Doing the work born of his own nature, a man takes on no sin. One should not abandon the work that comes naturally to one, even if it seems marked with fault, for every undertaking is wrapped in some fault, the way fire is wrapped in smoke.

A sub-tale: Krishna made it clear that the duties of the four orders rise out of their own natures. The dharma of the Brahmana is calm, self-restraint, austerity, purity, forgiveness, uprightness, and knowledge; the dharma of the kshatriya is bravery, energy, firmness, skill, not fleeing the field, giving, and the bearing of a ruler; the dharma of the vaishya is farming, the keeping of cattle, and trade; and the dharma of the shudra is service. Every man, holding to his own work, comes to his fulfillment. This ordering of the four orders is an ancient frame of Vyasa’s story, and we tell it here as it stands in the source.

The gist: The principle of svadharma says that a man’s own natural duty, even carried out imperfectly, stands higher than another’s fine duty done well. Arjuna is a kshatriya, and a just war is his dharma. To turn away from it is to call down both disgrace and sin.

A Right to the Work, Not to Its Fruit

Then Krishna gave the teaching that is called the heart of the Gita, action without craving for its fruit, nishkama karma. Your right, he said, is to the work alone, and never to its fruit. Do not let the desire for fruit be the motive of your work, and do not let yourself cling to inaction either. Settled in yoga, in evenness of mind, letting go of attachment, the same in success and in failure, do the work. This evenness is what is called the yoga of equanimity.

Work done out of craving for its fruit is far lower than work done with an even mind; so take refuge in that evenness of understanding. Those who labor only for the fruit are wretched. A man with an even mind casts off, in this very life, both good deeds and bad; so give yourself to yoga. Yoga is skill in action. The wise, settled in equanimity, let go of the fruit born of action, and, freed from the bondage of birth after birth, reach that highest place where there is no sorrow.

Asked what the man of steady wisdom is like, Krishna said that when a man throws off all the desires of his heart and rests content within himself, in his own self, he is called a man of steady wisdom, a sthitaprajna. As a tortoise draws in its limbs from every side, so the man who draws his senses in from their objects has steady wisdom. Dwelling on the objects of sense breeds attachment; from attachment comes anger, from anger comes the loss of judgment, from the loss of judgment the loss of memory, from the loss of memory the ruin of the understanding, and when the understanding is ruined the man himself is destroyed. The one into whom all desires flow as rivers flow into the sea, he is the one who finds peace, and not the man who runs after his desires.

The gist: Action without craving for the fruit is the practical answer to Arjuna’s crisis. The problem is his grip on the fruit, not the fighting. If the work is done with that grip released, settled in evenness of mind, it forges no bondage. Fleeing the work solves nothing. The answer is to do the work without attachment.

And Then a Glimpse of the Universal Form

The dialogue went on, and a moment came when Arjuna asked to see Krishna’s form of majesty. “Lord, if you think me fit to behold that form, then show me your eternal Self.” Krishna said, “Partha, behold my forms by the hundreds and the thousands, in many colors and shapes. Behold the Adityas, the Vasus, the Rudras, the Ashvins, and the Maruts. Behold this whole world of moving and unmoving things gathered together in this body of mine. But you cannot see this with the eye you have, so I give you a divine eye.”

Then that lord of yoga showed Arjuna his supreme form of majesty, with many mouths and eyes, many wondrous aspects, many divine ornaments, and many raised divine weapons, its faces turned in every direction. If the light of a thousand suns were to burst at once in the sky, it would be like the light of that great form. In the body of that god of gods Arjuna saw the whole world, split into many parts and gathered again into one. With his hair standing on end, he bowed his head, joined his hands, and praised that form.

He saw the sons of Dhritarashtra, the crowds of kings, Bhishma, Drona, and Karna the charioteer’s son, all rushing swiftly into those terrible mouths. As the currents of many rivers run headlong toward the sea, so these heroes of the world of men were entering those flaming mouths; and as moths rush into a blazing fire to their own destruction, so these men were pouring in at ever-quickening speed. Trembling, hands joined, Arjuna asked, “Who are you, of so fierce a form? Have mercy on me.” Then that Supreme One answered, “I am Time, the destroyer of the worlds, grown to my full. I am at work now, destroying this race of men. Even without you, all these warriors drawn up in their divisions will cease to be. So rise, win glory, defeat your foes, and enjoy a flourishing kingdom. By me they have already been slain. Be only the instrument, you who can draw the bow with either hand.”

The gist: The universal form is the glimpse in which Arjuna’s charioteer and friend suddenly stands revealed as the whole cosmos. Here Krishna names himself Kala, destroying Time, and tells Arjuna that whatever must happen has already happened; Arjuna is only the instrument. This vision dissolves Arjuna’s private grief into one vast seeing.

My Delusion Is Gone

At the last, as the dialogue drew to its close, Krishna spoke to Arjuna the deepest secret of all: give up all dharmas and come to me alone for refuge; I will free you from every sin, so do not grieve. This teaching, he said, is not to be given to one who does no austerity, who is no devotee, who does no service, or who speaks ill of me. Then he asked, “Partha, have you heard this with your mind fixed on it alone? Has the delusion born of ignorance been destroyed in you?”

Arjuna answered, “Achyuta, by your grace my delusion is gone, and I have come back to the memory of what I am. I stand firm now, my doubts have lifted, and I will do as you bid.”

Sanjaya told Dhritarashtra that he had heard this wonderful and thrilling dialogue of Vasudeva and the son of Pritha by the grace of Vyasa, and that, remembering it again and again, he rejoiced again and again. And he repeated that same ancient word: where Krishna, the lord of yoga, is, and where Partha, the bowman, is, there is fortune, there is victory, there is prosperity, and there is unshaken justice.

The gist: The teaching ends on surrender, on giving up all dharmas and taking refuge in the Supreme. Arjuna’s delusion falls away, and with “I will do as you bid” he is ready once more for action. The chariot is about to move forward.

The Gandiva Back in Hand

Sanjaya went on. Seeing Dhananjaya take up his arrows and the Gandiva once more, the great car-warriors of the Pandava side raised a fierce lion’s roar and, full of joy, blew their sea-born conches. Drums, tabors, cow-horns, and cymbals sounded all at once, and the din was enormous. Then the gods, the Gandharvas, the ancestors, and the hosts of Siddhas and Charanas came there to witness the sight, and with Indra of the hundred sacrifices came the most venerable rishis, gathering to behold that great slaughter.

Then, seeing the two armies like two seas in ceaseless motion and ready for battle, the righteous king Yudhishthira did a strange thing. He took off his armor, laid aside his fine weapon, stepped down from his chariot, and, hands joined, with his speech under restraint, facing east, walked on foot toward the enemy host, his eyes fixed on the grandsire. Seeing him go, Arjuna, Bhima, Nakula, and Sahadeva came down from their chariots and followed him, and the lord Vasudeva followed too. Alarmed, Arjuna asked, “Sire, what is this you are doing, leaving your brothers and walking toward the enemy on foot?” Bhima, Nakula, and Sahadeva also tried anxiously to stop him, but Yudhishthira walked on in silence.

Then Vasudeva, with a smile, told them all that he knew Yudhishthira’s purpose: he would salute Bhishma, Drona, Kripa, and Shalya, his elders, and only after that would he make war. It is heard in the old stories that a man who fights his superiors after paying them due respect, as the rule lays down, is sure of victory.

Seeing Yudhishthira come on foot, the Kaurava side said all kinds of things, that here was a king coming in fear to take shelter with Bhishma. But Yudhishthira cut straight through the arrow-thick enemy host, went up to Bhishma, took hold of his feet with both hands, and said, “Invincible one, I bow to you. We will make war on you. Grant us your leave for it, and your blessing.” Pleased, Bhishma said that had Yudhishthira not come to him in this way, he would have cursed him to defeat; now, he said, fight, and win. And he spoke a hard truth as well: “A man is the slave of wealth, but wealth is no one’s slave. I am bound by the wealth of the Kauravas, and so, like a eunuch, I say these words, that you should ask for anything but battle. For the Kauravas is how I will fight.” Yudhishthira asked of him only this boon, that Bhishma keep thinking, day after day, of his good.

In the same way Yudhishthira went to Drona, to Kripa, and to Shalya, bowed to each, and asked leave to fight without incurring sin. Each gave the same answer, that they were bound to the Kauravas by wealth and would fight for their sake, but would pray for Yudhishthira’s victory. Drona added, “Where dharma is, there is Krishna, and where Krishna is, there is victory; so go, son of Kunti, and fight.” Yudhishthira also asked each of them how he might be brought down in battle. Bhishma had already said his hour was not yet come; Drona now told him plainly the one circumstance in which he could be killed, that he would lay down his arms on hearing something grievous from a truthful mouth; and of Shalya, Yudhishthira asked instead that he blunt the fire of Karna when the fighting came. This is the moral tangle Vyasa keeps alive, where teachers mark out for their own pupils the road to killing them.

A sub-tale: Meanwhile Vasudeva went to Karna and told him that as long as Bhishma lived he might cross over to the Pandavas’ side, and after Bhishma was slain return to Duryodhana’s side if he chose. Karna refused, saying he would do nothing to displease Duryodhana, for he had already given his very life for him. Then Dhritarashtra’s son Yuyutsu, in front of everyone, left his brothers and came over to the Pandavas, and Yudhishthira received him gladly. It was this Yuyutsu who would in time carry the thread of Dhritarashtra’s line and become the one to perform his funeral rites.

After these honors, Yudhishthira came back out of the enemy army and, filled with joy, put his golden armor on again. All the heroes mounted their chariots and set their forces once more in array as before. And the kings, and the Mlechchhas and the Aryas, who saw or heard how the Pandavas had given their elders their due respect, wept with full throats and praised them.

The gist: The fruit of the teaching shows itself in action: Arjuna takes up the Gandiva again. But Vyasa does not leap straight into the flames of war. First Yudhishthira goes on foot to take the blessing of his elders, Bhishma, Drona, Kripa, and Shalya, and those same teachers, standing in the enemy camp, tell him the way they can be brought down. Bhishma’s admission that a man is the slave of wealth, and this hard exchange with the teachers, keep alive the moral tangle of the Mahabharata, the place where no side is wholly bright or wholly dark.

A key to reading this (why this chapter is short): This chapter has been kept short on purpose, because it is the moment of the Gita, not the whole Gita. The threads of Krishna’s teaching touched here, the deathlessness of the self, svadharma, action without craving for fruit, and the universal form, you can read in their full extent, with all seven hundred verses, in the Lulla family’s separate Bhagavad Gita section.

Source: the Mahabharata (Krishna-Dwaipayana Vyasa), Bhishma Parva; in the Gita Press Gorakhpur tradition.