52.
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:
“MANY 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.
“AT 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.
“It is enemies, actual and potential,
that you should never trust,” replied Bhishma.
“Of course, you must have trust in ministers
and other staff whom you yourself have chosen
with utmost care. And you can be confident
in trusting brahmins who depend on you,
since their prosperity is linked to yours.
But trust must always be provisional.
Consider the story of the bird Pujani.
“PUJANI WAS a wise and learned bird who lived in the women’s quarters of King Brahmadatta’s palace. She and the king were friends, and often conversed together. Pujani gave birth to a beautiful son and, around the same time, the queen also produced a son. The two young creatures grew up playing together.
“One day, Pujani flew to a place near the ocean where wonderful fruits were hanging from the trees. She brought back one for her son, and one for the little prince. The fruit tasted delicious and was so nourishing that it brought an instant increase of strength. When the prince ate it, he jumped from his nurse’s arms, grabbed the young bird and killed it.
“When Pujani saw her cherished son lying cold and still she was consumed by grief. She wept copious tears, and cried, ‘Kshatriyas are heartless, incapable of friendship! This king’s son has killed the one who ate and played with him, the one who should have enjoyed his protection.’ She went to the prince and put out his eyes with her talons. Then she prepared to leave the king’s court.
“King Brahmadatta tried to persuade her to stay. ‘We have injured you; you have avenged the injury. Surely now we are even, and our friendship can continue as before?’
“‘Friendship between one who has committed injury and their victim can never be repaired. We both know that in our hearts. We two could never trust one another again.’
“And Pujani flew away.”
“How does one uphold the way of dharma
when villains are a power in the world?”
“There is no simple rulebook for a king;
he must use his mental faculties
and garner his ideas and policies
from a wide variety of sources.
A king who rules with scrupulous attention
to dharmic principles is justified
in doing all that is needed to maintain
prosperity, and his hold on the kingdom.
He should be ruthless with his enemies,
smashing them when the time is right—as one
might dash a clay vessel against a rock.
He should seek out an enemy’s weak points
but hide his own, as a turtle hides its limbs.
Studying the example of the animals,
he should watch and wait like the crafty heron;
he should attack as boldly as the lion;
he should display the savagery of the wolf;
and, when he needs to, he should run away
like the rabbit. Remember, the rod of force
should always be ready at the king’s right hand.
The threat of force is a great persuader
both at home, and toward rival kingdoms.
“There are those who twist the learned teachings,
who deplore the use of force by anyone.
They are people of weak understanding,
blind to practical necessity.
Others mock morality, and declare
that dharma is no more than what people do.
They too are ignorant and self-serving.
Dharma is highly complex, and a king
should be guided by those who know it best
through many years of devoted study.
The abstruse details are not his business.
He has been created to enforce
correct behavior throughout his kingdom.”
“What is the king’s responsibility,”
asked Yudhishthira, “toward those who flee
into his kingdom—refugees escaping
persecution perhaps? Does he gain merit
by offering sanctuary?”
“He gains great merit,”
answered Bhishma. “Listen to this story:
“THERE ONCE WAS a wicked hunter, who made his living by killing beautiful wild birds and selling them for meat. No decent person would have anything to do with him, so repugnant was his occupation. One day, in his wanderings through the forest, he was caught in a violent storm which flooded the forest and left him without shelter.
“In misery, and shivering with cold, the hunter stumbled about until he came to a towering tree, and since he was far from home, he decided to take shelter for the night under its branches. Joining his hands, he addressed the tree: ‘May whatever gods live here protect me.’ Then he lay down on a pile of leaves, with a stone for a pillow, and tried to sleep.
“In that tree there lived a handsome pigeon. His wife had been gone all day and had still not returned. ‘Ah!’ he sighed, ‘some terrible harm must have come to my dear one. She is so beautiful and so loving. I cannot live without her.’ And he called out in distress.
“His wife, who was caught in one of the hunter’s snares, heard her husband crying. ‘Listen, beloved,’ she called, ‘this hunter has sought refuge with you, and we know that great sin accrues to one who refuses help to such a person. Treat him with respect, therefore, and do everything you can for him. Since your duties as a householder are completed, and our children have flown, you should serve him even at the cost of your life. If you do, you will certainly be rewarded in heaven.’
“The pigeon’s eyes filled with tears at hearing his wife’s wise words.
‘Welcome,’ he called to the hunter, ‘you have taken refuge in my house, and I wish to do what I can for you.’
“‘I am freezing to death,’ said the hunter. ‘Save me from the cold.’ The pigeon collected leaves, flew to a nearby charcoal-works for the means to kindle a fire, and soon the hunter was warmed and revived.
“‘I am very hungry,’ said the hunter. The pigeon thought hard. He had no food available that he could give the man—except himself. He walked three times around the fire and entered into the heart of it.
“When he saw this, the hunter was appalled, and consumed with shame and pity. ‘This kind bird’s death is my fault! His dutiful action has taught me a great lesson. From now on I shall follow an ascetic’s life.’ Then he set aside his snares, released all the birds he had captured, and left.
“The pigeon-wife flew up to the tree, and wailed in grief. ‘Oh, my perfect husband!’ she cried. ‘He was always kind to me. He wooed me with his sweet songs; I remember how we made love in the treetops, how we swooped through the sky together. My life is empty without him.’
“Then she flew down and entered the fire herself, and as she did so she saw her husband in heaven, garlanded, riding in a beautiful chariot, honored by all, and waiting for her to join him.
“The hunter, looking up, saw the birds in paradise and he yearned to follow them. He resolved to begin his final journey, eating nothing but the wind, wandering from place to place, free of all personal possessions. Eventually he came to a forest which was on fire. He was overjoyed, and ran to the place where the fire burned most fiercely. There, his body was consumed, and his sins with it.
“So, Yudhishthira, a person’s sins
may be expiated by devotion
and extreme austerity. But the sin
of spurning one who seeks out your protection
is dreadful, and can never be wiped clean.”
Yudhishthira derived great consolation
from Bhishma’s teachings, which appeared to him
like a draft of purest nectar.
“Grandfather,
I hear brahmins talk about ‘the Real.’
What is its nature? And how may it be known?”
“It is the all-pervading Brahman, essence
of everything that is, the entire cosmos.
In every object, every living being,
it is the atman, the true self, the soul.
We know it in meditation, when we see
there is no ‘me’ or ‘mine’ specifically—
that ‘I’ am part of everything that is.
When we hear the chanting of the Vedas
the Real is given expression in those sounds.
“The Real is that which every living person,
from the most accomplished sage right down
to the lowest sweeper, has in common.
It is impersonal. And it is changeless.
It manifests itself in human virtue.”
Yudhishthira turned to the other Pandavas
and his uncle Vidura, who had been listening,
and asked them this: “I want you to think about
the three great goals of life. First, there is virtue,
law or dharma; then there is wealth, or profit;
finally there is pleasure, love, enjoyment.
Which of these three is the most important?
Which of them is the key to the other two?”
Vidura spoke first. “It is virtue
on which the other two always depend.
Think about it. Dharma encapsulates
the best of which mankind is capable—
learning, asceticism, renunciation,
unstinting faith, sacrificial rites,
compassion, truthfulness and self-restraint.
These are the perfections of the spirit;
practicing these, a person will be calm
and all their life’s endeavors will be blessed.
Those will include wealth. As for pleasure,
that is the least of the three goals of life.”
Arjuna sprang up. “This is a world
made up of action, and wealth is at its heart.
There are no activities that do not aim
at profit in some way. The holy scriptures
say that law and pleasure could not happen
without profit; profit makes all possible.
The wealthy man is able to follow dharma
and to enjoy pleasure. There are some—
mendicants, rattling their begging bowls—
who claim to have renounced pursuit of wealth
in favor of devotion to ‘higher’ goals.
But the test is in their state of mind.
Are they covetous? Are they in the grip
of attachment? If so, they are no less
involved in profit than a wealthy man,
while the latter may be indifferent to wealth,
seeing it as a means and not an end.
But I see Nakula and Sahadeva
wish to speak.”
The twins spoke hurriedly:
“Profit is the fruit of virtuous action;
and wealth makes pursuit of pleasure possible.
No merit: no wealth. No wealth: no pleasure.
So the three goals are inseparable.”
Bhima joined in. “It’s obvious that pleasure
and love are the key to every part of life
because they mean desire. Without desire
why would one pursue either wealth or virtue?
Why would one even rise up from one’s bed?
Desire is at the heart of every action.
It takes many forms—enjoying, for instance,
delightful dalliance with seductive women
gorgeously dressed, murmuring sweet endearments . . .
If all men valued pleasure as I do
the world would be a kinder, more peaceful place!”
Yudhishthira smiled. “I’m glad to hear your views;
now, this is what I think. Someone who strives
after none of these; who can regard
good and evil with a dispassionate eye;
gripped neither by aversion, nor by craving,
free from fear of death—such a person
has gone beyond distinctions. All attention
is fixed on liberation, perfect freedom
beyond the endless round of death and rebirth.
That person knows the gods direct all beings,
that what has been ordained will surely happen.
Even without pursuing all three goals
one may attain moksha, absolute release,
the final object of a virtuous life.”
The brothers praised Yudhishthira for his speech,
and he turned back to Bhishma, to question him
about the way that freedom can be achieved.