51.
“How very many points,” sighed Yudhishthira,
“have to be borne in mind by any person
who sincerely seeks a virtuous life!
Is there one precept, above all the others,
one should not forget?”
“In my view,” said Bhishma,
“nothing is more important than honoring
one’s parents and one’s teachers; they should always
be obeyed and treated with deference.
Mother, father, teacher—they are the three worlds,
the three sacrificial fires. Their needs
should never be neglected. There is no one
in the world more wicked than a person
who harms any of these, by word or deed.
Of these, the teacher is the most important.
The two parents create the child’s body
which grows, strengthens, withers and grows old.
But one is born again through the instruction
the teacher offers. That teaching is divine,
timeless, and never decays with age.”
Yudhishthira was struggling with confusion.
Though Bhishma talked of honoring one’s parents
above all others, the Dharma King remained
angered and shocked by what Kunti had done
in covering up the truth of Karna’s birth.
“How can a man go on?” he cried to Bhishma.
“I want to live virtuously, but how to tell
right from wrong, when truth and falsehood seem
so intertwined? What is truth, what is falsehood?
And should one always speak the truth, regardless?”
“There is nothing higher than truth,” said Bhishma.
“But sometimes truth is false, and falsehood true.
A simple person clings to the literal;
wisdom brings deeper discrimination.
The law on what is right is intended
for the good of creatures, avoiding harm.
So, on occasion, lying may be right—
think of simple-minded Kaushika.
“There are many circumstances when the truth
may not be what it seems, and nor may lying.
Someone who witholds the truth, while not
directly lying, is committing falsehood.
Someone who lives by dishonesty
is a liar, and should certainly be punished.
But one who lies in order to support
a virtuous outcome is acting as they should.
And one who kills a hypocrite acts rightly
since, in fact, that sinner is already
killed by their own behavior. Remember too—
to act toward a person in the way
that they themselves have acted is to choose
right conduct.
“You look downcast, Yudhishthira.
All you can do is live as best you can—
do your duty as you understand it,
enjoy your pleasures, but in moderation,
worship the gods, and devote yourself
to Narayana above all others.”
“But tell me, Grandfather,” cried Yudhishthira,
“how can a king possibly be happy?”
“He must cultivate his higher faculties,”
replied Bhishma, “and act with energy,
never opt merely for an easy life.
Let me tell you the story of the camel.
“LONG AGO, in a previous age, there lived a camel. He was a great ascetic and scrupulously obeyed his vows. Lord Brahma was pleased with him, and granted him a wish. ‘Blessed one,’ said the camel, ‘I would like a neck so long that I could graze all around without having to move from place to place.’ Brahma granted his wish, and life was then so easy for the camel that he became lazier and lazier and hardly stirred himself at all. One day, during a violent storm, rather than looking for proper shelter, he poked his head into a nearby cave to keep it dry, and his head got stuck. A jackal who had taken shelter in the cave started to eat the camel’s neck. Try as he might, the camel could not escape, and that was the end of him. The story teaches us two lessons: do not become lazy; and—be careful what you wish for!”
“I worry about how to choose officials
and retainers,” said Yudhishthira.
“A king cannot rule by himself, that’s certain,
so what qualities should I be looking for
in my staff? What background should they come from?
I understand what you said earlier—
the king should not be swayed by favoritism—
but how can I be sure to make wise choices,
of people I can trust?”
Bhishma replied,
“You should choose men from good families
who observe dharma, and who are rich enough
not to be corrupted. They should be
well educated and intelligent,
good at analyzing situations,
and astute at understanding people
and relationships. They should be capable
of planning ahead, practical, far-sighted
and meticulous in all their dealings.
“The most important guiding principle
is that they should be well qualified
for the posts they occupy. They should not be
promoted inappropriately. On this point
a story comes to mind:
“IN A REMOTE FOREST lived a seer, practicing extreme austerities and living on roots and berries. The animals of the forest regarded him as their friend and they would visit him to pass the time of day. One animal stayed with the seer all the time—a lanky dog, who ate the same food as his master and was calm and devoted.
“One day, a hungry leopard came that way, a large and cruel beast, and it stalked the dog with a view to eating him.
“‘Help me, blessed one,’ cried the dog to the seer, ‘a leopard wants to eat me, please rescue me.’
“‘Don’t worry,’ said the seer, and he turned the dog into a golden leopard. The dog-leopard was delighted, and cavorted around in the forest without fear.
“Then a hungry tiger saw the dog-leopard and thought he would make an excellent meal. The affectionate seer turned the dog-leopard into a tiger. The dog-tiger was delighted. But, now he was a tiger, he had no taste for roots and berries, and regularly preyed on the smaller animals in the forest.
“One day, the dog-tiger was sleeping off a large meal when he was woken by a shadow falling across his face. A gigantic elephant in rut was looming over him, about to attack. Once again, the seer rescued him, turning him into an elephant so large that his rival trundled off between the trees, grumbling. The dog-elephant was delighted to be an elephant, and joyfully plundered the lotus ponds and groves of frankincense.
“Another time, the seer rescued him from a lion by turning him into a lion fiercer than any other. The dog-lion was delighted to be a lion. But the gentler animals which previously had visited the seer were now too nervous to approach.
“You might think that no creature could frighten the dog-lion now. But one day an eight-legged sharabha, a horrific beast, approached the dog-lion. Again, the seer rescued him by turning him into an even fiercer monster of the same kind. The dog-sharabha was delighted to be a sharabha, and preyed on every kind of creature, so that all other animals and birds fled from that part of the forest, and the air was silent. Food became scarce, and one day, the dog-sharabha’s lust for meat was such that his thoughts turned to attacking and eating the seer, his benefactor. But the holy man perceived this with his inner eye, and said to the dog-sharabha, ‘Because of my affection for you, I changed you into fiercer and fiercer creatures. But now you want to attack me, ungrateful one! For this, you must return to your true nature.’
“The dog-sharabha, who had become so corrupted by advancement that he eventually wanted to turn on his benefactor, became a dog again. And the seer expelled him from the forest.
“Bear this tale in mind, Yudhishthira,
when you are choosing men as your officials.
Never appoint them to a post beyond
their natural station and capacities.”
“Grandfather, what should be a king’s public face?”
“The king is first and foremost a protector,
as I have said before,” answered Bhishma.
“How should he go about it? He should learn
from the peacock’s example. The peacock’s tail
has very many colors. In the same way
the king should have a repertoire of styles
at his disposal. Sometimes he will be stern,
sometimes devious, brave, compassionate,
and so on—drawing on these various modes
at will, according to the circumstances.
Master of moods, effecting subtle changes,
he will manage even difficult matters.
“Just as a peacock is silent in autumn
the king will guard his intentions to himself.
He will keep his balance on slippery ground
as the peacock does at the edge of waterfalls;
and as the peacock relies on the blessed rain,
the king depends on blessings from the brahmins.
“As the peacock sports in the lush forest
and dances for its mate, so at night,
in private, the king’s wives and concubines
will take pleasure in his virility.
“The king should gather wisdom where he can
as the peacock snatches tasty flying insects.
Just as a peacock frequents shadowy places,
the king should make alliances in secret,
taking care not to display his weaknesses.
Like the peacock, he should steer clear of snares.
His eyes should be as wary as a peacock’s
when it looks out for poisonous snakes, and kills them.
“The king should be alert to all that happens
within his realm, moving among his people
as a peacock flies from one tree to another.
And, as a peacock cleans itself of vermin,
the king should shed attachments by performing
selfless deeds. Last, as the brilliant colors
and splendid outline of the peacock’s tail
inspire the gorgeous flowers of the forest
to put forth their best blooms, so the king,
by dint of his exemplary behavior,
teaches his subjects to live virtuous lives.”
“Now I wish to know,” said Yudhishthira,
“about the kingly rod of force, the danda.
You have often talked of its importance;
I am convinced that it is necessary.
But what form does it take? Does it mean
more than a suitably severe response
to acts of wickedness?”
Bhishma replied,
“The rod of force has many embodiments.
In concrete form, every single weapon
can exemplify it. More symbolically,
it is Lord Vishnu himself, and the goddess
Lakshmi, Brahma’s daughter, and Sarasvati . . .
indeed, the rod of force takes many forms,
divine, mortal, public, private—too many
to list them all.
“It is the origin
of the three fundamentals of a good life:
merit, wealth and enjoyment. It underlies
judicial process, whereby a wrongdoer
is fairly tried and punished equitably.
In a peaceful kingdom, there may seem no need
for correction. People live in harmony
with their fellows. But if the rod of force
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:
“ONCE 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.”