VI
32.
“How did they fight, those ancestors of mine?”
asked Janamejaya. Vaishampayana,
with the blessing of Vyasa, told the king
how, on the eve of battle, the two sides
agreed a covenant, a code of conduct,
rules of engagement properly laid down.
Warriors should fight their counterparts—
horsemen against horsemen, infantry
against opposing infantry. Stragglers
should not be killed, nor should anyone
in retreat, or who had lost his weapon,
or one intending to surrender. No one
who was unprepared should be attacked.
Words should be fought with words. An assault
should not be made without giving due notice.
Charioteers, those engaged in transport,
those blowing conches or clashing cymbals
should not be targeted. Nor should animals
drawing chariots or carrying men.
Principle is one thing, practice another.
Soon, battle frenzy would wipe these agreements
from men’s memories, but, for the present,
all were clear how to conduct themselves.
“Tell me in detail how the war developed,”
requested the king. So Vaishampayana
embarked on his narration of the conflict,
the internecine strife that shook the earth.
Blind Dhritarashtra paced through his apartments
full of dread, unable to still his mind.
Now that he could not console himself
with self-deceiving hopes that his stubborn son
might yet see reason, even on the brink,
the full force of the coming calamity
was bearing down on him.
He sought Vyasa
and sobbed to him about his son’s wickedness.
“Wringing your hands is useless,” said the sage.
“Time has run out for your sons and their friends.
While the fighting lasts, I can at least grant you
the gift of sight, so you can see events
as they happen.”
“Ah, no!” cried Dhritarashtra,
“I could not bear to see the gushing blood,
the mutilated bodies of my loved ones.
But I want to know how things unfold
moment by moment.” So Vyasa granted
Sanjaya, the king’s aide and companion,
the gift of divine vision. He would witness
all that took place on the battleground
whether by day or night, whether openly
or in men’s secret hearts—there would be nothing
hidden from him. Invulnerable,
he would be present on the field of war,
everywhere at once, silent recorder
of all the joys and agonies of men,
their courage, rage, despair. And in this way,
at second hand, the king would learn everything.
“Nature is out of joint,” said Vyasa.
“As witness to the coming massacre,
pigs are giving birth to foals, the trees
are weighted down with strange, unseasonal fruits.
Monsters are being born, some with two heads,
some with one leg, or none, or bloated breasts.
The very planets are engorged with blood
and fly amok, out of their natural paths.”
“Without doubt,” said Dhritarashtra, “fate
has designed a terrible disaster.
I have one consolation—kshatriyas
who fall with honor on the field of battle,
not dying in their beds with wasted limbs,
journey to that place reserved for heroes
where they enjoy the heavenly bliss of gods.”
After Vyasa had spoken and departed,
Dhritarashtra sat with Sanjaya
far into the blackest part of night
while, to calm him, Sanjaya described
the hills, plains, rivers of Bharatavarsha
and the diverse peoples of the country.
“All this belongs to the Bharatas!”
exclaimed the king. “But my misguided son
is bringing devastation to our land—
children left fatherless, wives sick with grief,
girls shorn of all hope of finding husbands!”
“You try to shift responsibility,”
said Sanjaya, “but you, too, are to blame.
You know how this will end—the Pandavas
will win for sure. Krishna is on their side,
and where Krishna is, there is victory.’
Sanjaya departed for Kurukshetra.
All Dhritarashtra could do now was wait.
And wait. For ten long days and nights he waited,
lost in thought, all normal life suspended.
Then Sanjaya arrived at last, distraught.
“O king, the news is dreadful. The great Bhishma,
mightiest of warriors, has fallen,
defeated by Shikhandin. Now he lies
on a bed of arrows, awaiting death.”
At this shock, Dhritarashtra fainted.
When he had revived, he cried aloud,
“Oh, Sanjaya! My heart must be made of stone
that it hasn’t shattered at this dreadful news.
How can it have happened? Who was beside him?
Who protected him? How could he fall
when Drona was alive to stand with him?
Bhishma was like a god in strength and skill.
If he is crushed, then what hope for my sons?
Tell me who else was slain, who was victorious—
tell me all the details of the battle,
this conflict caused by my wrong-headed son.”
Sanjaya said, “You should not heap all blame
on Duryodhana. But listen, O king,
and I will tell you what I have seen and heard.”
And Sanjaya gave the following account,
the events leading to the fall of Bhishma.
As morning broke on the opening day of war,
the rising sun streaked the sky with scarlet.
The heat slowly burned off the mist that hung
above the plain. The opposing armies,
division upon division, stretched away
as far as the eye followed the curving earth.
All was brilliant. The chariots of the princes
and of their royal allies were resplendent
with noble banners, each with its own emblem.
One king’s standard carried a scarlet bull,
another, a boar on a cloth of silver,
others, bright flowers, stars, eagles, comets . . .
the sight too dazzling to be taken in.
Some kings were riding in their chariots,
others sat erect on the necks of elephants
or on spirited horses, proudly wheeling.
So much armor, on men, elephants, horses!
The brilliant gold and bronze rivaled the sun.
The mass of men and beasts, constantly moving,
was beautiful as a river thick with fish,
glittering, thousands upon thousands
all confident in prearranged formations.
With forces smaller than the Kauravas’,
Yudhishthira knew a less numerous army
must mass more tightly, not be spread out wide
where men could be picked off more easily.
Arjuna said the thunderbolt formation
would serve them best, with Bhima in the vanguard
whirling his mace to dismay the enemy.
Arjuna had planned the precise position
of each Pandava and of their allies,
and placed Yudhishthira right at the center
surrounded by well-trained and furious
elephants like a range of moving hills.
Yudhishthira stood, beneath a parasol,
on his gold chariot with the golden traces,
and dozens of priests intoned prayers around him.
Dhrishtadyumna protected him from the rear.
Both forces were terrible, both beautiful.
In both, men’s hearts were filled with joy and pride
at being part of it—this grand display,
this glorious event, this sacrifice,
this, the well-trained warrior’s highest calling.
Fear, suffering and grief would follow later.
To see this greatest war ever fought on earth
there had gathered from all the three worlds
crowds of spectators—ordinary people,
holy men, divine beings—all assembled
to witness the spectacular clash of kin.
On rising ground that overlooked the plain,
or hovering in the sparkling air above,
they waited, jostling for the best positions.
With the two sides facing one another,
one east, one west, with ten thousand conches
blaring out in challenge, the din of cymbals
and the deep, heart-stopping throb of war drums,
Arjuna said to Krishna, his charioteer,
“Drive the chariot into no-man’s-land
so I can see, before the battle starts,
the faces of the enemy I must kill.”
Krishna did what Arjuna asked of him.
And there, with every soldier tense and ready,
with every horse straining at its harness;
there in the moment before hell’s unleashing,
with each blade whetted, each weapon at hand;
there, in the moment when the frenzy
of preparation was over, and the din
of death not yet begun—there, at that point
in the relentless passage of events . . .
time freezes
Sanjaya continues:
Arjuna sinks down in his chariot.
His warrior’s heart has failed him.
His eyes stream with tears,
his limbs tremble,
the great bow Gandiva drops from his hand.
Time itself holds its breath.
For Karna, Kunti, for his brothers,
for Krishna—for each differently—Arjuna
is the point, the mainspring of the action.
He is the hero on whom all the hopes
of the Pandavas are pinned; the obstacle,
above all others, Dhritarashtra’s son
sees as blocking his path to victory.
Arjuna has fought scores of bloody battles,
exulting in the slaughter of enemies,
cutting them down like standing fields of grain
without regret, never looking back.
He is the supreme kshatriya;
the whole effort of his life is geared
to heroism and glorious victory.
But now he is unraveled by distress.
He gazes at the rank on rank of kinsmen.
They are so familiar—human, as he is.
How can they be stranger to him than strangers?
Death takes on new weight, sharper meaning.
Whether this war brings victory or defeat
there will be no occasion for rejoicing.
Striking his brow, he cries aloud to Krishna,
“I will not fight! A kshatriya enters battle
to preserve dharma, but how can it be right
to strike our kinsmen, coldly to kill those
who have nurtured, taught and grown with us?
Look at all our cousins standing there,
and Drona, our revered guru—and Bhishma,
Bhishma, beloved grandfather to us all!
He looks so serene, full of resolve—
has he not imagined how it will be
to aim his arrows at the hearts of those
joined to him by blood—who once were children
gathered round, enraptured by his stories?
“There are Duryodhana and his brothers,
sick with greed and anger—but should we kill them?
Oh, Krishna, even though they are geared for war,
even though they are blind to their own evil
and are themselves prepared to kill us—still,
how can we, who know well what is sinful,
do the same? When family is broken,
the spiritual bedrock is destroyed
leading to every kind of social wrong
and vile disorder. Chaos surely follows.
“Their force is much greater than our own—
eleven well-trained armies to our seven.
But even if we are victorious
how could we be happy at such a cost?
It would be better to let them kill us,
or to wander the world as mendicants;
better to give up the kingdom now
than gain it at the cost of so much grief.
No! I will not fight!”
Krishna says, “Friend, this is unworthy of you.
You’re speaking like a feeble-hearted weakling,
not like the noble warrior you are.
Get to your feet, scourge of your enemies!”
“But how can I take aim against my elders
who deserve from me my love and reverence?
I sense already the familiar heft
of Gandiva, flexing to unleash death
on those I should be protecting—how can I
cut them down as though they were rank weeds?
Tell me, how, Krishna! My thoughts are scattered.
My mind is seething like a nest of hornets.
You are my guide, my greatest, wisest friend.
Help me to understand where my duty lies.”
Krishna smiles, as at a foolish child.
“Son of Kunti, your doubts sound honorable
but they spring from deep misunderstanding.
You speak as if this life were all there is.
But it is just one brief embodiment
of the indestructible, eternal soul.
Bodies are born, they flourish, age, and die.
But the soul, part of that greater spirit
that infuses everything that exists,
was never born, and cannot be killed.
That soul, the witness of our every thought
and action, persists from one life to the next;
it sloughs off its old and outworn body
as one discards old clothes and puts on new.
Wise people know this, and do not lament.
“You need to refine your understanding.
In this life, nothing is permanent,
nothing can be held, or truly owned.
The individual ‘I’ a person clings to—
the ego with a sense of past and future,
furnished with memories and with intentions—
is illusory. Time is the present,
an infinite parade of present moments
to be experienced, to be endured,
misery and pleasure equally.
Beings have mysterious origins.
They emerge into the light, then disappear
into shadow. Why should this cause grief?
“Within the framework of a single life
each person has their proper course, their dharma—
the path of righteous action they should follow,
depending on the station they occupy.
Your dharma is to fight. That is your purpose.
That is what you were born for, and for that
praise-singers will extol your memory
long after you are dead. Think. To refuse
would lead to deep disgrace—people would say,
When it came to it, he was a coward.
What could be more miserable than that
for a kshatriya? Fight as a warrior should
and you cannot lose—either you are killed,
and go to heaven, or win, and enjoy the kingdom.
So gather your strength, Arjuna, stand up!
“The wise mind is as clear as pure water.
The unwise wallow in complexity;
they cast about, pursuing this practice,
that ritual, craving some benefit,
their senses agitated, minds distracted.
Often such behavior is applauded,
What a devout person, people say.
“But right understanding far outweighs
such action. Follow duty for duty’s sake,
without straining after its rewards.
Do not get caught up in pairs of opposites—
pain and pleasure, failure and success—
but, rather, be strong-minded, equable.
Let your action be informed by discipline.
Practice contemplation, undiverted
by those who claim to understand the Vedas,
or by those addicted to results.
Cultivate a calm and stable mind,
your own right understanding, Arjuna.
Only then will you escape delusion.”
Arjuna is still perplexed. “Tell me,
what are the qualities of a stable mind?”
“A person who possesses such a mind
is not agitated by calamity;
is free of craving and aversion, both;
is not unbalanced by the restless senses
but takes them for what they are, and is unchanged,
as the ocean receives the rippling waters
of the rivers that flow into it
and yet maintains its level. A stable mind
is free from anger; constantly serene,
filled with knowledge of the eternal Self.”
“But in that case,” protests Arjuna,
“why are you urging me to fling myself
into this terrible war? Why should I not
go to a forest ashram and meditate?”
“My friend, there are two paths through this world:
the path of knowledge and the path of action.
You will not attain enlightenment
by renouncing action—and indeed
you would find that is impossible.
To live out this material existence
we have to act, just to keep ourselves alive.
The question is, how to act rightly?
Right action is that which is performed
without selfish attachment to the outcome—
sacrifice offered to sustain the gods
and to maintain order in the world
is right action; not when it greedily
grasps after rewards. Through right action
gods and mortals nourish one another
and the world is held together. Remember—
action carried out in a true spirit
is the most perfect possible achievement.
It is based upon renunciation.
The divine Self informs every selfless act.
“People who are caught up in delusion
think they are sole authors of their actions
and of the consequences. So they are proud
of their success, and suffer shame or guilt
when their efforts fail. But the workings
of cause and effect are infinitely complex,
beyond the scope of human understanding,
part of the eternal cosmic dance
in which each atom mirrors every other;
unknowable and inexpressible.”
Arjuna can hardly concentrate
on Krishna’s words. He is preoccupied
by the enemy drawn up in front of him.
“Krishna, what impels a man to do evil
even when he receives the best advice,
even though he understands what is right—
as if some hidden force is pushing him?”
“It is desire and anger—those attachments
that cast a screen of smoke over the world.
Desire is the root, giving rise to anger.
These are the age-old enemies of wisdom.
The clamorous senses must be grappled with,
the mind must be brought under one’s control.
Beyond the workings of the mind is wisdom
grounded in awareness of the infinite.
This is my yoga, the eternal way
I have taught since the human race began.”
Arjuna is surprised, and mystified.
“But, Krishna, I know when you were born—
what do you mean by since the human race . . . ?”
“I have passed through many lives, as you have;
but I remember them, and you do not.
I am the changeless and eternal Self,
sufficient, never born, never dying.
Yet I take on a material form
whenever the world is in need of me,
to protect the good and destroy evil.
I have no personal need to act—and yet
I act, to set the world the right example,
a bulwark against ruin and anarchy.
“The spirit, the ultimate reality
that pervades the cosmos is impersonal.
You should know, I am its embodiment.
Act, and dedicate your actions to me.
Those who truly devote themselves to me,
in whatever way, will be released
from the relentless wheel of birth and death.
“You need to understand what is action
and what is non-action. It is not obvious.
Action can reside in non-action
and non-action can underlie action.
Everything depends on the state of mind.
If a person is bound up, attached
to the outcome of their action, then
that action’s consequences, like a burr,
will stick to them through this life and beyond,
determining the nature of their rebirth.
That is the unshakable law of karma.
But those who do not grasp after results,
who treat success and failure as the same,
are always satisfied. Although they act,
they are really doing nothing—like a boatman
rowing with the current, at his ease.
Their actions do not stick to them, because
they are free of yearning for results.
In acting in this way, they are engaged
in one variety of sacrifice,
offering up their actions with simplicity,
relinquishing all doubt and ignorance.”
“Krishna,” says Arjuna, “I hear you praising
action, and the relinquishment of acts.
I am confused—which of these is better?”
“Both of these can lead to liberation.
Right action is the better course. And yet,
essentially, they are not alternatives.
Through either one, carried out sincerely,
one can attain the benefits of both.
Indifferent to the fruits that follow action,
those whose actions spring from the right spirit
are renouncers, since they have relinquished
attachment to everything impermanent,
seeing that these things bring no real delight.
“Such rare people see the eternal Self
everywhere—see themselves in all creatures
and all creatures in themselves; for Brahman
is one and the same in everything.
They radiate joy, exude peace and love,
knowing me as their true companion.
Understanding this is everything,
and spiritual discipline—yoga—
is the key.
“I shall tell you what yoga is.
Yoga is austere but temperate.
It is not for the glutton, Arjuna,
but neither does it mean self-starvation.
It is not for one who lies in bed till noon,
but nor does it require sleep deprivation.
“The disciplined mind is calm, as unswerving
as a lighted candle in a sheltered place.
Not identified with suffering,
it is not shaken even by great sorrow.
That is what yoga means—yoking oneself
to true understanding; equanimity
that faces pain and pleasure evenly.”
“That unswerving calm you speak of, Krishna,
seems to me impossible to attain
since the mind is obstinate and fickle,
scattered by impulse, as leaves are by the wind.”
“Without a doubt, the mind is most unruly;
yet, by patient practice, by constant effort,
it can be reined in under one’s control.”
“But what happens to one who tries sincerely
to follow the path of discipline, yet fails?
When they die, is all their effort lost,
disintegrating like a tattered cloud?”
“No, Arjuna, no one is destroyed
who struggles to do good. They are reborn,
sustained by their efforts in previous lives,
into a family which will support
their further progress on the path to freedom.”
Sanjaya continues to repeat
Krishna’s profound teaching: Krishna says,
“Now I shall tell you how, by practicing
discipline, counting me as your refuge,
you shall know me fully, without reserve.
For all that exists is suspended on me
like jewels on a necklace. I am everywhere.
“I am the essence of everything that is;
the cosmos is sustained by my energy.
I am the deathless radiance of the sun,
the heat of fire, the soft gleam of the moon.
I am the taste in water, son of Kunti.
I am Om, the sacred syllable.
I am the roar of the wind, the manhood of men.
I am the pure fragrance of the earth.
I am the life in all life that exists.
I am the discipline in holy men.
I am the eternal seed in all creatures.
I am the intelligence in the intelligent.
I am the brilliance in the brilliant.
I am the strength of the strong, devoid of passion.
I am the desire which is not self-seeking.
All states of being are from me alone,
facets of my all-creative nature.
“The world is caught up by appearances,
dazzled by their infinite variety,
snared by illusion, endlessly distracted,
and does not recognize me, the eternal
principle that connects the humblest flower
with the grandeur of the constellations.
It is hard to penetrate appearance;
only those who seek me pass beyond it.
Evildoers do not turn to me;
but those in distress, those who long for knowledge,
the purposeful, and those who pursue wisdom—
all these seek me out and share in me.
The afflicted world, bewildered by craving,
is blind to me, who am unborn, eternal.
But there are a few liberated souls
who know me and devote themselves to me.
“Beings are born into delusion, vision
skewed by hatred and self-centered desire.
But those that strive, through me, for liberation
even as they draw their final breath
know me as Brahman, the absolute, at last.”
Arjuna says, “Please explain these matters—
say more about action, about Brahman.
Tell me, what is the true nature of beings?
How, at the point of death, can one know you?”
“Brahman is the ultimate reality,
the indestructible, unchanging Self;
it is the inherent nature of every being,
neither existent nor non-existent.
It supports all; it seems to have all senses
yet it is free of senses, unattached;
outside and inside, moving and unmoving,
distant yet near, destroyer and creator.
It inhabits every human heart.
“Action is the cosmic energy
that brings every creature into existence.
From material nature, there arise
three modes of being—purity, passion, dullness.
There is no creature in heaven or earth free
of these constituents, part of their nature.
They have diverse effects, swaying a person
this way and that. Only through detachment
can that person arrive at peace and balance.
“The state of mind that comes from purity,
based on clear understanding of the Self,
seems bleak initially, but as it grows
it reveals itself as a precious nectar.
The happiness that is based on passion
springs from sensual delight; at first
it seems like nectar, but later it turns out
to be a bitter poison. The happiness
arising out of negligence and sloth
is a dull state, lacking in energy,
a state that comes from settling for less.
“A person achieves perfection by doing
their own work, in a spirit of dedication—
better to perform one’s own work poorly
than to do well the work of someone else,
for every human enterprise is clouded
by shortcomings, as fire is by smoke.
No one can go wrong if they are working
according to their station, and their nature.
Though acting in the world, they surrender
every act to me and, through my grace,
gain the eternal, imperishable home.
“But for those encumbered by desire,
consumed by appetite which knows no limits,
the world is empty. There is no sacredness,
only the frantic scramble after gain.
They tell themselves how great they are; success
is measured by their piled-up treasuries.
They despise the weak, fawn on the powerful,
grasping, grabbing, pushing, trusting no one.
Such people are reborn in degradation.
The gateway to the ruin of the soul
is built of lust, of anger and of greed.
“As cosmic day and night succeed each other,
helpless creatures take shape constantly,
and continually dissolve, perishing,
to be reborn when day comes round again.
Impartially, I witness the endless cycle.
But those who, as they die, think of me
become a part of me, be sure of that.
“Such people have gone beyond rebirth.
Casting off the body, closing the doors
of all the senses, focusing the mind
on the breath, pronouncing Om, Om,
ever absorbed in thought of the divine,
what they think, they become. Therefore, Arjuna,
think of me always. And take up your bow!”
All this time, with the vision Vyasa gave him,
Sanjaya witnesses each precious word
of Krishna’s great address to Arjuna.
He has already recognized that Krishna
is a divine avatar, and now
he hears his teaching with wonderment and joy;
what he is hearing nourishes his devotion.
Sanjaya continues:
“Now, open-hearted Arjuna,” says Krishna,
“I will reveal further secret knowledge
and wisdom which will shelter you from harm—
wisdom rooted in direct experience.
Those who turn away from this remain
shackled to the wheel of birth and death.
“In my unmanifest form, I pervade
everything that is, yet I am greater
than all appearances. For my spirit
is the source of all beings, and sustains them.
All creation manifests the divine.
“When I take human form, only a few
recognize me, and worship me with love.
I am the father of the world, the mother,
the great maintainer, the sacred hymn;
I am the goal, the lord, the upholder,
the witness, the imperishable seed;
I am the home, the refuge and the friend;
the origin, support and dissolution.
Those who devote themselves to other gods
really worship me, for I am the object
of all devotion, though they do not know me.
“I am disinterested toward all:
I feel no partiality, no aversion.
But those who truly devote themselves to me
are in me, and I am with them, always.
Offer to me everything you do—
the food you eat, the help you give a stranger,
your daily routine, even your suffering.
I accept every gift with gladness.
A humble soul may offer me a leaf
with love in their heart, and I will welcome it.
Whoever depends on me, however low,
however ignorant—without distinction
of race or gender or community—
shall attain freedom. How much more, then,
should brahmins and the highborn come to me.
“Devote yourself to me with discipline,
and you will rest in me, your final goal.”
“All virtuous qualities have their roots
in me, springing from the one transcendent
reality—understanding, knowledge,
freedom from confusion, patience, truth,
self-control, calmness, fearlessness,
non-violence, fairness, generosity—
all are states that come from me alone.
“Those who know this are unshakable
in their disciplined devotion. Their lives
are given up to me, and I grant them
concentration; I dispel the darkness
of ignorance with the light of knowledge.”
Arjuna embraces Krishna’s feet.
“I have heard wise seers acknowledge you
and call you Brahman, the eternal Self.
And now you are telling me the same.
I do not disbelieve your words—and yet
this knowledge seems remote to me. Please tell me
all the forms in which you are manifest
so I can know how to meditate on you.
Best of persons, I love to hear you speak.”
“You should understand, I am everywhere,
but I shall tell you the most important forms
by which you can know me. I am the spirit
seated in the heart of every creature.
I am the death that carries all away
and I am the life of everything to come.
I am the beginning, middle, end.
Of female qualities, I am wisdom,
constancy, prosperity and patience.
Of the deities, I am Vishnu. I am Rama,
I am Shiva, I am Skanda, god of war.
Of mountains, I am Meru. Of waters,
the ocean; of wild animals, the lion.
Of birds, I am the eagle. Imagine
the greatest and the most essential form
of any class of beings—I am that, Arjuna.
“Whatever is endowed with grace and splendor,
strength and vigor, springs from a fragment of me.
But what use are all these details to you?
Enough for you to know that with a mere
fraction of myself, I support the cosmos.”
“This supreme mystery you have taught me,”
says Arjuna, “your discourse on the self,
has cleared the fog of my bewilderment.
But words by themselves cannot convey
the mystery of the ineffable.
I long to witness your divinity,
to see for myself what you have described.
Great lord of all creation, I beg you,
if you think me capable of seeing it—
show me your divine manifestation.”
“I will show you my hundred thousand forms,
their colors, shapes and infinite variety.
I will show you the universe in my body.
But to look at this with human eyes
would destroy you instantly, utterly.
“I will give you supernatural sight.
“NOW BEHOLD MY DIVINE POWER.”
Arjuna is astounded, shivering,
bent in awe before the divine being.
He struggles to shape his vision into words,
not to be engulfed by insanity.
“Ah! Krishna, your supreme form fills the world,
with many gaping mouths and staring eyes;
with countless ornaments more beautiful
than any seen on earth; with garlands, robes,
a million arms wielding divine weapons,
dazzling, as if the light of a thousand suns
were blazing all at once, the divine form
faces in all directions, stretching out
to infinity. The whole universe
is concentrated by magnetic force
in the person of the god of gods.
“I can see . . . I can see
all gods contained within your body.
O boundless, without end, without beginning,
your innumerable arms, insatiable bellies,
all your terrible appearances.
Crown. Mace. Discus—a dazzling mass of light,
fiery brilliance.
O resting place of the universe,
Lord!
Guardian of law.
Hosts of gods enter you in procession
with folded hands, adoring, singing
hymns, praising your celestial sweetness.
“I see you stretched between sky and earth.
Lord!
I see your countless gaping mouths, terrible with tusks.
Lord!
I tremble, faint with dizziness and fear.
Now I am drawn to your glowing eyes,
I reel in terror and in rapture.
I am like a speck of dust before you,
powerless and storm-tossed.
“Now I can see Dhritarashtra’s sons
with Bhishma, Drona, Karna—
and many of our foremost warriors too—
all sucked toward your fearful, flame-licked mouths,
jagged with fangs. Some are impaled, oh, their heads
crushed to pulp! As moths fly
heedless and headlong into flame and are destroyed,
so are these heroes rushing to their deaths
pouring in thousands into the flaming maw.
Oh! the devouring flames, the blood—
surely it is the end of everything.
Tell me, terrible being, who you are.
Oh, supreme god, have mercy!”
“I AM TIME, DESTROYER OF WORLDS.
Even before you act, all these warriors,
rank upon rank in the opposing armies,
are already dead. I have destroyed them.
From the perspective of eternal time,
the everlasting present,
those men you see lined up, eager for battle,
full of the vigor of their youth and strength,
are dead already.
The bodies which have known cold and heat,
pleasure and suffering, already carry
death and decomposition in their bones.
“The Pandavas will be victorious. Now
rise up, hero. Be my instrument!”
Arjuna’s limbs tremble in fear. He cries,
“Praise, a thousand times praise to you!
You are all gods—the wind, the god of death,
Agni the fire, Varuna the sea god,
mighty and imperishable Vishnu.
Unceasing homage to you, supreme being.
Forgive me for the times I treated you
as my old friend and my dear companion
and spoke rashly—casually perhaps.
I knew no better. I was ignorant.
Forgive me, lord, as a father would his son,
as devoted friends forgive each other,
or a lover her beloved.
“I rejoice
that I have seen what was never seen before
but my heart quakes with terror—
I beg you, return to your familiar form.”
“What I have just shown you,” says Krishna,
his human self again, “could not be shown
even to the most extreme renouncer.
Due to the love between us, you have seen it.
Have no more fear. Now I am the friend you know.”
Arjuna breathes more freely. “Now I see you
in your beloved, gentle, human shape,
my heart is beating steadily again.”
“Thinking of me, Arjuna, you will transcend
all obstacles. If, out of egotism,
you think I will not fight, it will be pointless;
your nature will impel you—you will do
precisely what you are trying to avoid.
My dear friend, at the heart of all beings
the Lord stands still, moving them with his power.
Turn to him with all your soul, and know peace.
“This is the mystery of mysteries
that I have taught you. Consider it—and act.
I am the love that fills the universe
and you are my beloved, Arjuna.
“My final word is this: fix your mind on me,
worship me with sincere and devoted love,
dedicate your acts to me; I promise
that I shall release you from all evils.
“You must never repeat this sacred teaching
to an audience unworthy of it.
But whoever shares this supreme secret
with the deserving shall surely be rewarded.
People who learn this dialogue of ours,
and study it with faith, and worship me,
will attain the blessed worlds of the righteous.
“Arjuna, have you listened to my words,
and have your ignorant doubts been dispelled?”
Arjuna stands, Gandiva in his hand.
“Krishna, they have. I have regained myself.
Through your grace, I stand, my confusion gone.
I shall do my duty, as you have shown me.”