Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling (75 page)

did not exist, social cooperation,

and all it means, would not be possible.

Without the fear of punishment, the strong

would terrorize and kill the weak, and slaughter

each other.

“The rod of force does not depend

on the whims and preferences of the king.

It is greater than any king, impersonal,

which is why it is held in such high regard.

It is an overarching principle

which protects us all.”

“Tell me, Grandfather,”

said Yudhishthira, “merit, wealth, enjoyment,

or the lack of them, are critical

in all we do. What is the origin

of these important elements of dharma?

And how are they connected?”

Bhishma answered,

“When people can be cheerful faced with death,

that is because these vital elements

dwell in them harmoniously, in proportion.

A person’s body derives from the degree

of merit earned in past and current lives.

So, too, does wealth—riches follow virtue—

and pleasure is said to be the fruit of wealth.

All of them are grounded in desire

based on the senses. Wealth is desirable

for the sake of doing meritorious deeds

which will lead to a fortunate rebirth.

A virtuous life consists in the right balance

between these three, and each should be pursued

with thoughtfulness, and in moderation.

Absolute freedom, permanent release

from the painful cycle of birth and death,

comes from going further than these three:

withdrawal from attachment to the senses.”

Yudhishthira asked how one can acquire

habitual inclination toward dharma,

and Bhishma told him of a conversation

between Duryodhana and Dhritarashtra

when the envious Duryodhana

had just returned home from Indraprastha

after Yudhishthira’s great consecration.

“Duryodhana was wracked by misery,

and his anxious father questioned him:

Why was he so distraught, when he enjoyed

the best of everything—friends and relatives

who obeyed him, fine clothes, spirited horses—

what could he wish for, more than he possessed?

“The prince told him about your assembly hall,

the beauty of which surpassed any other.

He told him about your enormous treasure

which he had seen with his own eyes. ‘Oh, Father,

ten thousand brahmins eating from golden plates!

Exquisite jewels, gorgeous palaces,

coffers full of gold! My enemies

enjoy greater wealth than Indra himself!’

‘My son,’ said Dhritarashtra, ‘if you want

wealth on the scale of Yudhishthira’s, then

you must become habitually virtuous,

as he is. You must not indulge in anger.

You must restrain your passions and your senses

and cultivate wisdom. You must look kindly

on all beings, in thought, word and deed

and never desire something for yourself

that does not bring some benefit to others.

Wealth comes to the virtuous. If people

get rich while living contrary to dharma,

then they will not enjoy those riches long;

very soon, their actions will destroy them.’

That is what Dhritarashtra told his son.

We all know how he paid attention to it!”

“It still grieves me,” said Yudhishthira,

“that Duryodhana could not be brought round.

Right up to the brink of war, I hoped

he would draw back, do what he knew was right.

I was foolish, but optimism is boundless.

It seems we all, at times, harbor great hope

despite the evidence. Why do we, Grandfather?”

Yudhishthira wept as though his shoulders carried

the weight of the world.

Bhishma told him this:

“
O
NCE THERE WAS
a wise king called Sumitra. Hunting one day, he shot a deer, but not fatally, and the deer ran off, jinking and feinting and occasionally stopping to look back, as if playing with the king. He shot arrow after arrow, and some of them pierced the deer’s hide, but still it ran, and still the king hoped to kill it.

“Eventually it entered a thick forest. The king pursued it, but lost it among the trees. Frustrated and disappointed, he came to a clearing where a number of seers were assembled. He told them who he was, and how his hopes had been dashed. ‘Tell me, blessed ones,’ he said, ‘which is greater: the great bowl of the sky, or boundless hope? I have lived on this earth for many years, and I have never come to the end of hope.’

“One of the seers, Rishaba, spoke up. ‘I will tell you of something I witnessed for myself when I was visiting Nara and Narayana. Walking near their retreat, I came across an ascetic so skinny that his body was the width of my little finger. I bowed before him and, as we were talking, a king came by with a large retinue, searching for his only son, whom he had lost in the forest. The king had been rushing here and there, always thinking that any moment he would find the boy, but he had got to the point where hope was a torment, for he knew it was likely that the child had been killed by wild beasts.

“‘It so happened that, sometime in the past, the skinny ascetic had asked this king for a golden jug, and some strips of bark for clothing, and had been insulted. He had vowed there and then to undertake extreme austerities to shrink his hopes, and this he had done. The king did not recognize him, and asked, in his anguish, “Can hope be made to shrink? Is there anything in this world more difficult to achieve?”

“‘The ascetic reminded him of their previous encounter, and told him of his austerities. The king was amazed. “Can anything in this world be more shrunken than you?”

“‘When a father with just one son searches and searches and cannot find him—his hope is slimmer than I am,” answered the ascetic.

“‘The penitent king prostrated himself, asked for forgiveness and begged the ascetic to bring his son back to him. This he did, through the great power of his spiritual accomplishment, and the king was overjoyed. The ascetic scolded the king for his past meanness, and then revealed himself as Lord Dharma himself.’

“When Sumitra heard this story, he immediately let go of his very slim hope of catching the deer.

“Yudhishthira, you should learn from this,

and be immovable as the Himalaya,

not allowing hope to bring you grief.”

One day, Yudhishthira remarked to Bhishma,

“It seems to me that it is hard enough

for a king to live a life of righteousness

when times are good. How much more difficult

if his allies have turned their backs on him,

his treasury is exhausted, his army

is in disarray. Suppose his ministers

are corrupt, disorder plagues the land

and enemies are massing at the borders.

He would be too hard pressed to conduct himself

as you advised. What should the king do then?”

Bhishma looked grave. “This question goes beyond

what I agreed to talk to you about.

Dharma is subtle; what is right and wrong

is hard to speak about in general.

In such a case, a king who has been virtuous

will find within himself the moral judgment

to make the best decisions. He should be

pragmatic, and do what seems necessary

as a temporary expedient,

even if it does not lead to merit.

Only afterward will it be clear

whether that was the wisest course of action.

“This advice should not be heard as meaning

that anyone can bend the rules of dharma

when they like, to make life easier.

But a kshatriya, still less a king,

should never sink into ruin. If his wealth

is spent, the king must do what it may take

to replenish his empty treasury.

That is his duty since, lacking riches,

he can accomplish nothing. If ruthlessness

is needed, he must not hesitate. Later,

he can again become compassionate.

There is one law for normal times, and one

for times of crisis. He may have to take

riches even from brahmins, though normally

that would be a vile abomination.

But brahmins, too, if they are in dire straits,

must survive in whatever way they can,

trading, for example, or working the land—

reprehensible in normal times.

“The people should rally to the king’s support.

If, in times of famine, he has given

his wealth to keep his subjects from starvation,

they should help him now—if they do not,

he is justified in using force.

For this is clear: a poverty-stricken king

is weak, and cannot benefit his subjects.

The king needs wealth not only for his army,

not only to maintain the royal household,

but to finance the sacrificial rites

that bring good fortune to the entire kingdom.

The sacrifices he makes possible

have cosmic consequences—as I have said,

the king creates the times, not the reverse.

Much depends upon the king’s intentions.

To acquire wealth is his crucial duty,

but for general good, not for private greed.”

“Meanwhile,” asked Yudhishthira, “how should the king

deal with the enemy states that threaten him?”

“If the enemy is reasonable

and honest,” said Bhishma, “then the king should seek

to conclude a treaty with them, even if

that involves restrictions on himself.

There may be circumstances where he must

flee the kingdom to avoid capture,

in the hope that, later, he will return.

“On the other hand, he may decide to fight

even if the odds are piled up against him.

It may be that he will be victorious

with even a small force of fighting men

who are passionately devoted to him.

But even in defeat he will win glory

from death in battle, and go to Indra’s realm.”

“In the worst of times,” said Yudhishthira,

“when the rules that make a kingdom stable

are disregarded, and families are broken;

when wrong becomes right; when laws are despised;

when the religious principles of life

are treated with contempt—what should one do?

And worthy brahmins? How can they survive

when dharma is disintegrating, when

the land is scorched by evil?”

Bhishma answered,

“In such a case, the king has to rely

on his best judgment, and on that of brahmins.

In this world, brahmins provide the standard

for what is right. Whatever they may do,

if they are pure-minded, counts as dharma.

We all rely on their discrimination,

though we may not always agree with them.

Listen to this story of Vishvamitra:

“
M
ANY YEARS AGO
, there was a terrible drought that lasted twelve years. Rivers and lakes dried up, and crops failed. People starved, and the normal social activities of buying and selling, singing, worshiping stopped completely. People were so desperate that they roamed the countryside eating each other, stronger adults eating old people and children. Everyone feared everyone else.

“The wise seer Vishvamitra, with nothing to sustain him, wandered through the forest in search of food, and came across a run-down village where chandalas lived. He begged for food, but no one had anything to give him. In his extreme weakness, he lay down on the ground. Then he noticed, inside one hut, a rope on which a haunch of butchered dog-meat was hanging. He decided to wait until night, and then steal it.

“When it was dark, and all was quiet, Vishvamitra crept into the hut and was about to seize the meat when the chandala leapt from his bed crying out, ‘Who is pulling at my rope and stealing my meat? I will kill you for this!’ The seer replied, ‘I am Vishvamitra.’

“The chandala knew him, and folded his hands in respect. ‘What in heaven’s name were you trying to do?’ he exclaimed.

“‘I am starving,’ said Vishvamitra. ‘I have found no food anywhere, and I am near to death. I know it is stealing, and I am well aware of the dietary rules, but I have decided to eat the haunch of the dog that is hanging there.’

“The chandala was horrified. ‘Great seer—the dog is the lowest of all animals, and its backside is the lowest part of all. And how can a brahmin steal from a chandala—it’s grotesque! Rather than doing this, you would be better off going away and dying quietly.’

“‘My friend,’ said Vishvamitra, ‘life is better than death. Only by living can I engage in virtuous behavior. My body is a brahmin body, and I am devoted to it. I should do anything necessary to preserve its life. Besides, a dog is pretty similar to a deer, so I am justified in eating its rear end, which I am sure will taste delicious.’

“‘Well,’ said the chandala, ‘do as you see fit, of course. But if everyone broke the rules when it suited them, where would we be?’

“‘The body is different from the mind,’ said Vishvamitra. ‘My mind is pure, so even if I eat the dog’s rear end, I won’t turn into someone like you.’

“But the chandala had another thought, and kept a firm hold on the dog meat. ‘No—I cannot collude in your behaving so unlawfully. If I allow you to steal from me, I shall be tainted by your sin as well.’

“‘Of course, there is wrong on both counts,’ agreed Vishvamitra. ‘But wrong can be permitted
in extremis
, and I can atone for it afterward.’

“The chandala handed over the meat, and the seer ate it. Soon afterward, the rains came and the land became fertile again. Vishvamitra expunged his sin through extreme asceticism, and achieved spiritual perfection.

“This story teaches us that, in a crisis,

one may lawfully depart from dharma

just to keep going, to preserve one’s life.”

“That is horrible!” cried Yudhishthira.

“I am appalled. I don’t agree with you

that Vishvamitra acted properly.”

“Remember Vishvamitra’s state of mind,”

said Bhishma. “If he had been driven solely

by lust for food, then you would have a point.

But he had weighed up the precise nature

of the wrong he was committing, and he knew

that he was doing wrong for the right reason

and could atone for it in the long run.

“In hard times, the king, too, must be pragmatic,

rather than sticking mindlessly to dharma.

He must gather wisdom from here and there,

and use his own best judgment. Yudhishthira—

be practical! You were made for fierce deeds.”

“Is there any rule one should not violate?”

asked Yudhishthira, almost despairing.

“Respect and nurture brahmins, and attend

to what they say. Your strength will come from that.

Their wisdom nourishes; they are the guardians

of our sacred heritage, our social wealth.

Brahmins are like nectar when well treated,

but if you anger them, they are like poison.”

“I am perplexed,” said Yudhishthira.

“A kingdom is surrounded by other kingdoms.

How can the king decide which are his friends,

and which his enemies?”

“Here too,” said Bhishma,

“you should be pragmatic. Alliances

cannot be expected to last for ever,

but should be made according to strategy.

Your allies will be those whose vital interests

coincide with yours—for the moment.

There is a story which illustrates the point.

“
A
T THE FOOT
of a beautiful banyan tree, there lived a mouse. Higher up in the branches lived a cat and, higher still, flocks of birds and other creatures made their home. The mouse was a survivor, and had built a burrow with a hundred exits, to avoid being caught by any of his upstairs neighbors, especially the cat, who was always on the lookout for a juicy mouse.

“A lowborn hunter who lived in the nearby town came every night to the banyan tree and set a snare. Every morning, after a good night’s sleep, he would return and collect any animals or birds which had become caught in his net.

“One night, through carelessness, the cat became caught in the snare, held fast by the cleverly woven strings. The mouse saw this and rejoiced. He sauntered around at his ease, feeling much safer than he normally did. He climbed up on top of the snare to eat the piece of meat that the hunter had put there as bait. Gleefully, he pranced about on the net while he ate the meat but, as he chewed, he happened to look down, and he saw that another of his mortal enemies was waiting on the ground, licking his lips: a mongoose with eyes so red that it looked like the god of war himself.

“The mouse looked up, and saw that someone else was looking at him—an owl with a cruelly sharp beak, who lived in a high hollow of the tree. The mouse started to panic. It seemed that whichever way he moved, some creature would make a meal of him. But then he thought to himself, ‘Surely there is a way out of this spot of trouble.’

“‘Cat,’ called the mouse, ‘I am speaking to you as a friend. I’m sorry to see the predicament you’re in, but I see a way to free you; and it so happens that what is best for you is best for me too on this occasion, all things considered. That mongoose and that owl are out to get me, and they’re making me nervous. Suppose I climb down to you, and you agree to protect me from the mongoose and the owl. I’ll undertake to bite through the bonds that tie you, if you agree not to kill me. I save you, and you save me—how about it?’

“The cat looked at the mouse, his green eyes shining. ‘What a clever mouse you are,’ he purred. ‘I agree to your excellent suggestion, and put myself entirely at your disposal.’

“So the mouse climbed down and snuggled comfortably on the bosom of the cat, whereupon the mongoose and the owl got bored and started to look around for faster food. Then the mouse started to gnaw through the strings of the snare, very, very slowly. The cat became more and more impatient. ‘Why are you being so slow? Get on with it, before that cat-eating barbarian turns up!’

“‘What’s your hurry?’ said the mouse. “We both know how time operates. If I free you before the hunter arrives, then why would you not eat me there and then? I plan to gnaw through the last cord at the precise moment when I see him approaching—the moment when the danger is identical for both of us, and when your main concern will be to scramble up the tree out of his reach.’

“‘Why don’t you trust me?’ said the cat reproachfully. ‘I know I hunted you before, but now we are friends for life. I will always honor and respect you, and so will all my relatives.’

“‘Listen to me,’ said the mouse. ‘Between the weak and the strong there can be no real friendship, let alone for life. There are only linked interests. Friendship and enmity are the product of the situation. Unlike the bond between brothers, neither trust nor sentiment comes into it.’

“At dawn, they heard the hunter’s footsteps approaching, and the mouse quickly cut the last cord. The cat rushed up the tree, and the hunter went home disappointed.

“In this way, Yudhishthira, through the use

of his intelligence, a beleaguered king

can make use of a much more powerful ally

and outmaneuver him.”

“But surely, Bhishma,

without trust, a king cannot operate.

How can he feel at ease with anyone?”

said Yudhishthira unhappily.