XIII
54.
Even after all Bhishma had taught him,
all his exhortations, all his stories,
Yudhishthira had not gained peace of mind.
“How can I be tranquil,” he cried out,
“when I see your body, blood-encrusted,
covered with running sores? When I see you
skewered on those flesh-tormenting arrows
and know your cruel suffering is my fault,
mine and Duryodhana’s? That wicked soul
has never had to face what he has done
to you, and to so many brave warriors;
never had to sit here, watching you,
our blameless and beloved grandfather,
endure a living hell because of us.
How I wish a hero’s death had saved me
from this relentless misery and remorse!”
Bhishma replied, “How can you still suppose
the slaughter was your fault? You were the channel
for forces much more powerful than yourself.
If you search for the causes of events
you should look beyond your blinkered mind.
Listen to this story:
“ABRAHMIN WOMAN called Gautami, who had seen a great deal of life and had attained peace of mind, found one day that her son had been killed by a snake. A hunter caught the snake and brought it to Gautami, all trussed up with string so that it could not move.
“‘Here is the culprit!’ exclaimed the hunter, dangling the snake from his fist, ‘and now I shall kill it for you. How would you like it done? Shall I hack it to pieces? Throw it on the fire? It’s up to you—this creature has made you suffer, and now I shall show it what suffering is!’
“‘Let the snake go,’ said Gautami. ‘Killing it will not bring back my boy, and you will only incur sin yourself by doing so. I understand the difference between what can be changed and what is inevitable, and true understanding enables one to pass over life’s waters as a ship sails over the ocean.’
“‘What you say is all very well for an enlightened person,’ said the hunter. ‘But for someone down-to-earth such as myself, only revenge will bring comfort—so I’m going to kill this evil serpent. To kill one’s enemies is a virtuous act, after all—and this snake is your enemy, so by allowing me to kill it, you will acquire merit in the hereafter.’
“‘You are wrong,’ replied Gautami. ‘What good can come from tormenting an enemy? Rather, good comes from not acting cruelly to one who is in our power.’
“The argument continued, to and fro, between them; and the snake remained painfully tied up, listening, and sighing to itself. Finally it said, ‘You stupid hunter—I did not choose of my own free will to kill the child. Death told me to do it. I killed the boy, yes; but I am not an independent cause. Cause and effect are highly complex. You should not be blaming me.’
“‘Well,’ said the hunter, ‘even if you aren’t the only cause of the child’s death, you are a cause, and you’re the one we’ve got our hands on—so you should be killed.’
“Just then, Death himself appeared. ‘It’s true that I told the snake to kill the boy, but I was prompted by Time. So neither I nor the snake is to blame—we are not free agents. Time appointed us to do his work.’
“Then Time, too, arrived. ‘Neither I, nor Death, nor the snake is the ultimate cause of the boy’s death. That cause is the karma of the boy himself—his deeds in his previous lives. Karma is the cause no one can escape, no matter who, or what, delivers its effects.’
“‘What you say is right,’ said Gautami. ‘My son must have died as the result of his own karma—and my grief at his loss is the result of mine.’
“Gautami found comfort in this thought,”
said Bhishma, “as should you. Neither your cousin
nor you was author of this massacre.
A person’s karma shapes their life and death.
And, beyond that, there is the cosmic plan,
the grand design constructed by the gods.”
“Are we just trapped, then?” asked Yudhishthira.
“Just acting out a part provided for us,
a part we play in ignorance, until
Death comes to claim us? Tell me, Grandfather,
has anyone who leads a normal life
(not a renunciant practicing austerities)
ever defeated Death through their devotion
to dharma, through unwavering resolve?”
“Very few,” said Bhishma. “A householder,
of whom a king is the supreme example,
has to deal with so many distractions,
temptations, compromises. But there was
Sudarshana, son of the fire god . . .
“SUDARSHANA had determined to conquer Death while living as a householder. He and his beautiful wife, Oghavati, lived a simple life—here at Kurukshetra, in fact. Sudarshana always impressed upon Oghavati that, for a householder, honoring a guest is the highest duty. ‘No matter what a guest asks for, we must vow always to give it—even our own bodies.’ Death, ever-watchful, was sure that, sooner or later, this vow would be broken, and then he would seize Sudarshana and carry him off.
“One day, when Sudarshana was out collecting firewood, a brahmin called at the house. Oghavati welcomed him with every attention and, after washing his feet with perfumed water, asked him why he had come, and what she could do for him. ‘I have come because I am drawn by your great beauty,’ said the brahmin. ‘I want you to take off your clothes and surrender yourself to me.’
“Oghavati was utterly dismayed, and tried to interest the brahmin in other gifts. But he would not be put off. Remembering what her husband had told her, she took the brahmin to her bed.
“When Sudarshana returned with the wood, he was surprised not to be greeted at the door by his wife, and even more surprised when he called her and there was no reply. Locked in the brahmin’s arms, Oghavati was too ashamed to speak. Instead, the brahmin called out, ‘I came to your house as a visitor, and your wife is giving me what I asked for—though she did try to offer me other things instead. I am very much enjoying her hospitality, and you can do what you like about it!’
“Death, hanging around in the shadows, was certain that Sudarshana would now break his vow, and was ready to strike him down. After all, no more painful test than this could be imagined. But Sudarshana called back, ‘Please enjoy yourself. You are my honored guest, and anything I have is yours.’
“At that, the brahmin emerged from the bedroom and revealed himself to be Dharma himself, the embodiment of duty. He praised Sudarshana and Oghavati for their great virtue and told them that Oghavati, whose devotion had protected her from being defiled, would be transformed. Half of her would become the river Oghavati—which flows through Kurukshetra to this day. The other half would accompany Sudarshana to heaven, which he would enter in his bodily form, since he had conquered Death. Meanwhile, Death, frustrated, went off on other, more fruitful, business.”
Then Bhishma spoke at length about the duty
of care and generosity to brahmins.
“If someone breaks a promise to make gifts
to a brahmin, then all their previous merit,
all their good deeds and ritual observances,
will be canceled out. To invite a brahmin
and then to give him nothing is an act
as serious as if one had murdered him.”
“I have often wondered,” said Yudhishthira,
“whether men or women enjoy sex more.
How could one ever know?”
Bhishma replied,
“Only a person who had changed their sex
could know for sure. On this, there is the story
of King Bhangashvana and the god Indra.
“THERE ONCE LIVED a king called Bhangashvana. He was upright and virtuous and was known as a royal sage. But he had no children. He resolved to perform the fire sacrifice, which he hoped would bring him children; and, in due course, a hundred sons were born to him.
“Indra was infuriated by this ritual, which involved exclusive sacrifice to Agni, the fire god. He felt slighted and, from then on, looked for ways to punish Bhangashvana. Sometime later, the king went on a hunting expedition. Seizing his opportunity, Indra plunged him into a state of confusion, so that he wandered aimlessly in the thick forest, faint from hunger and thirst.
“At last he came to a beautiful lake. He immersed himself and drank deeply—and when he emerged, he found that he was now a woman. The king was appalled at the loss of his manhood. How could he explain this transformation to everyone who knew him? How would he even be able to mount his horse? He managed, however, with difficulty, and rode home, embarrassed. He—now she—told her wives and sons what had happened and, leaving the kingdom to her sons, she retired to the woods and lived as the wife of an ascetic. By this man, she bore a hundred sons.
“When the time was right, she took these hundred sons to the court and asked her previous sons to share the kingdom with them, as children of the same parent. This they did, and the two hundred sons and their families lived harmoniously together.
“Seeing this, Indra was mortified. ‘It seems that, intending to punish Bhangashvana, I have done him nothing but good!’ He took on the appearance of a brahmin and went to the court. There he spoke to the first hundred sons. ‘How has this situation come about? Even brothers of the same father often quarrel, yet here you are, sharing the kingdom with the sons of an ascetic, letting them enjoy your inheritance.’
“His words had the desired effect. The two sets of brothers began to distrust one another and, very soon, they came to blows, and they did not stop fighting until all of them lay dead.
“When the news reached Bhangashvana, she was overcome with grief, and poured out her lamentations to a passing brahmin, telling him the whole story. The brahmin then revealed himself as Indra, and explained that she, when she was king, had insulted him by her exclusive worship of the fire god. Bhangashvana knelt before him. ‘Please forgive me,’ she begged. ‘It was only my great longing for children that led me to perform that ritual. I had absolutely no wish to offend you.’
“Indra was mollified and granted her a boon: one of her sets of sons would be brought back to life. ‘Which sons shall I revive,’ asked Indra, ‘the first-born, or the ones born to you as a woman?’
“‘The second-born,’ replied Bhangashvana. ‘Women are more loving, and so I am more attached to those younger sons of mine.” Indra was impressed by her answer, and told her that he would bring all two hundred sons back to life.
“‘I will give you another boon,’ he said. ‘You can choose whether to remain a woman or to resume the male sex you were born with.’
“‘I choose to remain a woman,’ said Bhangashvana. Indra was amazed, and asked her to explain. ‘Because women enjoy sex far more than men do,’ replied Bhangashvana.
“That is how we know the answer to your question.”
As Bhishma waited on his bed of arrows
for the appointed moment of his death,
Yudhishthira continued with his questions.
“How can a person become a brahmin
when they are born in a different order?
I know that the kshatriya Vishvamitra
became a brahmin through his austerities.”
Bhishma told him, “That is true, but generally
such an achievement is impossible
within one lifetime. Only through the process
of multiple rebirths, acquiring merit
lifetime after lifetime, can it be done.
The story of Matanga bears this out.
“A BOY, Matanga, brought up as a brahmin, was sent on an errand by his father. He traveled on a cart drawn by a donkey which, being young, kept veering off the track, seeking to rejoin its mother. Matanga beat it savagely.
“Seeing this, the donkey’s mother said to her offspring, ‘Never mind, son. What more can you expect from such a fellow. No brahmin would have beaten you so cruelly. I happen to know that this boy is really a chandala, born of a lustful brahmin woman by a shudra hairdresser.’
“Matanga rushed back to his father and told him what the mother donkey had said. ‘How can I be happy with such a history!’ he lamented. ‘I shall go to the forest and undergo severe austerities to rid myself of this impurity.’ This he did, enduring every sort of privation, with the aim of attaining brahmin status. His efforts came to the attention of the gods, and Indra appeared to him. ‘Why are you doing this, my boy, refraining from every human pleasure when you should be enjoying yourself? Tell me what you want and I shall grant you a boon.’
“‘I wish to become a brahmin,’ said Matanga. ‘That is the purpose of my privations, and when I attain my goal, I shall return home.’
“‘That is impossible,’ said Indra. ‘Chandalas can never become brahmins no matter what rigorous practices they perform. You are wasting your time—you will die at this rate. Better to go home to your father.’
“But Matanga ignored this advice and proceeded to stand on one foot for a hundred years. Indra appeared to him again, and was stern with him. ‘What you are trying to do simply cannot be done,’ he said. ‘A four-legged creature, having spent many lifetimes in exemplary service to humankind, might eventually succeed in being born as a chandala. A chandala, after many lifetimes as a chandala, might be reborn as a shudra. So it goes on. You can see how many virtuous lifetimes it would take to be born as a brahmin—and longer still to be born as the kind of brahmin who is learned in the scriptures and recites the Gayatri mantra. It is for this reason that brahmins are so highly honored—because of all the accumulated virtue lodged in them. So give up your foolishness, and let me give you a boon by way of consolation.’
“But, again, Matanga refused to listen. He went away and stood on one foot for one thousand years, in deep meditation. Then, still disappointed, he stood on his toes for a hundred years, until his legs became knotted and swollen and his body was no more than a skin-covered skeleton.
“Indra came to him again, and Matanga spoke bitterly to him. ‘It seems that destiny is very cruel. A man may be born a brahmin and receive respect even if he behaves badly, while I, who have strained every sinew and have behaved righteously, am doomed by my mother’s fault to inferior rank. Well, let me have a boon from you then. Let me be able to take on any form at will. Let me be adored by brahmins and kshatriyas. Let me enjoy any pleasure I wish for. And let my fame live for ever.’
“‘I will grant you this,’ said Indra: ‘Your name will be celebrated by poets. You will be adored by women. And you will be famous throughout the three worlds.’
“So you see, Yudhishthira,” said Bhishma,
“only in the cycle of rebirth
can a person’s place in the social order
be transformed. Matanga could not succeed.
Each person should pursue their own dharma
in the hope of better future lives.
And brahmins should be honored above all—
worshiped for their piety and knowledge.
For, whether they are virtuous or not,
they have earned their station in their former lives.
Feed a brahmin and you feed the gods.
Furthermore, they have particular powers
and can be dangerous if they are crossed.
Yes, you should always honor brahmins:
‘Protect them like sons, respect them like your father.’
That is the golden rule to bear in mind.”
“Please speak of compassion,” said Yudhishthira.
“When we are faced with others’ suffering
what should we feel?”
Bhishma told this story:
“THE GREAT RISHI Chyavana, who was benign and loved by all, decided to undertake the discipline known as Udavasa: for twelve years, he would immerse himself in water. He took himself off to Prayaga, the place where the river Yamuna meets the Ganga. At that spot, the surging waters of the two great rivers combine forces in their rush toward the sea. Chyavana braced himself against the mighty current, but the river, out of respect, flowed past him and left him undisturbed. He stood like a block of wood, contemplating the changeless, ever-changing river. Sometimes he lay down in the water and slept peacefully.
“The fishes and other creatures that lived in the river became his friends and nuzzled him as they swam around. In time, his skin became overgrown with river moss, his hair and beard matted and green with algae. Freshwater molluscs made their home on his body as if it were a rock.
“One day, a group of poor tribal fishermen came to the river and, casting wide their net, they pulled in hundreds of fishes, and Chyavana among them. The rishi was grief-stricken at the slaughter of so many fishes, and sighed repeatedly. The fishermen were astonished to find him in their net and instantly saw that this was a holy man. They prostrated themselves before him. ‘We never meant to disturb you, O great one. Tell us what we should do to make amends.’
“Chyavana, sitting in the midst of the dead fishes, said, ‘These fishes were my companions—we belong together. So either kill me too, or sell me with them.’
“The fishermen were horrified and hurried off to consult the king. With his ministers and his priest, the king came to the riverbank and bowed in reverence before Chyavana. ‘Holy one,’ he said, ‘tell me what I can do for you—anything at all.’
“‘These fishermen have worked hard,’ said the rishi. ‘I want you to pay them a proper price for the fishes, and for me. You must decide what that price should be.’
“The king told his priest to pay the fishermen one thousand coins for Chyavana. ‘That is not the right price,’ said the rishi.
“‘A hundred thousand coins, then,’ said the king.
“‘That is not the right price,’ said Chyavana. ‘You should consult your ministers.’
“‘Ten million coins!’ cried the king in desperation. ‘Half my kingdom—or even the whole of it!’
“‘Half your kingdom, or even the whole of it, is not the right price,’ said Chyavana.
“The king was completely at a loss, and went back to his palace, sighing. He knew that if the rishi was not treated well he had the power to destroy the three worlds.
“An ascetic who lived in the woods not far from the palace came to see the king, and offered a solution. ‘There is no wealth that can be set against the value of a rishi,’ he said. ‘Cows are also priceless—therefore the right price for Chyavana is one cow.’
“The king hurried back to the river. ‘Holy one,’ he said, ‘I think the right price for you is one cow.’ And he held his breath.
“‘Yes!’ said Chyavana, ‘that is the right price indeed.’ And he discoursed for some time on the qualities, significance and virtues of cows.
“The fishermen received the cow as payment, and begged the rishi to accept it from them, as a gift. For this, Chyavana blessed them, and told them that they were absolved from their sins and would go immediately to heaven, along with the fishes.
“And so they did.”