55.
Bhishma had recounted a wealth of stories
in answer to Yudhishthira. But once more
the Pandava was suddenly assailed
by despair and doubt. “Somehow, these tales
seem a distraction. The hard fact remains
that millions of men have died because of me;
millions of wives and children are bereaved.
I shall surely go to the deepest hell.”
Yudhishthira’s mind was turning yet again
to renunciation and a hermit’s life.
Bhishma did not argue but, instead,
talked at great length to him about the ways
a king and householder can make amends
for his previous actions. He described
the many kinds of gifts he could bestow.
“Take reservoirs, for instance. A well-built tank
is a delight to gods and men alike.
It furthers dharma, wealth and pleasure—all three.
The king who builds such tanks acquires the merit
equivalent to many sacrifices.
In making the gift of water to his kingdom
he gives the very means of life itself.
People, cattle and diverse lovely creatures
will come to drink, thanks to his generous act.
In the same way, the gift of fruit-bearing trees,
offering shelter from fierce midday sun,
will bring great rewards.
“As for penance,
one who abstains from sensual excess,
who fasts and lives a life of strict discipline,
who embraces hardships and privations,
will atone for shortcomings in this life
and be well repaid in the life hereafter.
All this can be done, while at the same time
living as an active and potent ruler.”
Yudhishthira tried to stiffen his resolve.
Turning to his brothers and to Draupadi
who sat nearby, he told them he no longer
hankered for a life of renunciation,
but was reconciled to being the king.
They applauded him, relieved and joyful,
shouting, “Yes, Yudhishthira! Well done, brother!”
“Which is the best of gifts,” asked the king,
“which gift brings the greatest benefits
in the next life?”
“Without doubt,” said Bhishma,
“giving to the destitute is highly praised.
But you should also give in the right spirit
to avoid attachment to possessions.
Make sure the act of generosity
is accomplished before the gift is given.
Above all, give to brahmins, for they are
the most precious beings that walk the earth.”
“Do all the virtuous go to the same heaven?”
asked Yudhishthira. “No, there are many heavens
just as there are many hells,” said Bhishma.
“People go to the afterlife they deserve.”
Then he told the story of Gautama.
“THE SAGE GAUTAMA came across a baby elephant that had lost its mother and was wandering about, hungry and bereft. Gautama, full of compassion, took it home and reared it as if it were his own son. In time it became full-grown, huge as a hill.
“One day, the god Indra, assuming the form of King Dhritarashtra, seized the elephant and made off with it. Gautama pursued him. ‘Please don’t rob me of my elephant. I have brought it up as my own child and now it renders me useful service, fetching wood and carrying water for me. It is very dear to me.’
“‘I’ll give you a thousand cattle in exchange, and a hundred maidservants and five hundred gold pieces. What is a brahmin doing with an elephant anyway? Elephants are meant to belong to kings, so I am entitled to take it.’
“‘You can keep your cattle and maidservants and gold,’ said Gautama.
‘What use is wealth to such as I? If you don’t give back my elephant I shall pursue you, even to Yama’s realm, where the virtuous live in joy and the wicked in misery, and I shall take him back from you.’
“‘You won’t find me there,’ laughed Dhritarashtra, ‘I shall be going to a higher realm than that.’
“‘Then I shall pursue you to that heaven for the blessed, where gandharvas and apsarases dance and sing for ever; and there I shall force you to give me back my elephant.’
“‘That is a delightful place indeed,’ said Dhritarashtra, ‘but I am destined for a higher realm.’
“‘I shall pursue you to the heaven bright with flowers and lovely woods, where those who are learned in the scriptures go; and there I shall force you to give up my elephant.’
“‘Such a place must be extremely beautiful, but I shall be going to a higher realm than that.’
“Gautama named and described one heaven after another but, each time, Dhritarashtra gave the same answer.
“Finally, Gautama realized. ‘Oh! You are not Dhritarashtra at all! I think you are the great god Indra who likes to roam through the entire universe and play tricks on people—I hope I have not offended you by not recognizing you before.’
“‘I am very pleased that you have recognized me at all,’ said Indra. ‘Not many people do. You can ask a boon of me.’
“‘Then please give me back my elephant. He’s only young, and very attached to me. He is the son I have never had.’
“‘Take him,’ said Indra. ‘And because of your goodness and integrity, you and he shall come to heaven with me without delay.’ And Gautama and his elephant were taken up into Indra’s chariot, and seen no more on earth.”
“How can we know,” asked Yudhishthira,
“where we will go to in the afterlife?
And when, at death, we leave our lifeless body
as though it were a lump of wood, or clay,
who goes with us into the unknown?”
Bhishma said, “This is the greatest mystery.
But here comes the revered Brihaspati,
preceptor to the gods. You should ask him.
No one is more knowledgeable than he is.”
Brihaspati had come to pay respects
to Bhishma. Yudhishthira touched his feet
and put his question. The holy one replied,
“One is born alone, and dies alone, O king.
And whether life brings ease or difficulty,
one faces it essentially alone.
Our righteous conduct is our sole companion,
our only friend in this life, and in death.
“Those who love us weep when we are dead,
then they turn away to their own concerns.
Our former deeds govern our destination.
For a while, a person goes to heaven
or to misery in hell. Then the time comes
for them to be born again in a new body.
Their good or evil deeds accompany them
and they are born appropriately—blessed,
or in an inferior position.
This is the inexorable law
of the cosmos.”
“But can a sinful person
not redeem themselves?” asked Yudhishthira.
“If one suffers an agony of remorse,”
replied the sage, “the consequence of sin
may be avoided. Remorse must be sincere,
and must be declared in front of brahmins.
Then one must fix one’s heart, with complete focus,
on rapt contemplation of the divine.
If this is done with single-mindedness
one can be cleansed of sin. Furthermore,
a person seeking merit should make gifts
to worthy brahmins, especially gifts of food.”
“Which of the virtuous observances,”
asked Yudhishthira, “carries greatest merit?”
The sage replied, “Non-harming, meditation,
obedience to teachers, self-control—
all these are part of dharma. But most precious
is non-harmfulness, because it springs
from compassion for all beings. People
who see all creatures as themselves, sharing
the joy and grief of every other being,
follow the highest dharma. Such a one
is at home everywhere, and walks the earth
weightless as a feather in the wind,
leaving no footprint. For violence brings
violence in return. Kindness breeds kindness.”
And with that, having said everything
he thought was beneficial, Brihaspati
turned away, and disappeared from sight,
returning to the heaven from whence he came.
“I am confused,” said Yudhishthira.
“We have just been told that the highest good
is non-violence, yet to perform the rites
for ancestors, animals must be slaughtered
and then the meat is eaten. Tell me, Bhishma,
what are the rights and wrongs of eating meat?”
“In my view,” said Bhishma, “to take the life
of a fellow creature just to gratify
the palate is a very heinous sin.
Meat is addictive. One who has eaten it,
and then gives it up, acquires great merit.
The seers have debated this, and all agree
one should abstain from meat—though it is argued
there are exceptions. Meat killed for sacrifice
has been called pure. And deer hunting is normal
for kshatriyas. But nevertheless,
complete non-harming is the highest dharma,
and heaven awaits those who practice it.”
“Faced with a threat,” asked Yudhishthira,
“which is more effective—conciliation,
or to placate the enemy with gifts?”
“There is no general rule,” answered Bhishma,
“it depends. But here is an example
of when conciliation can be best:
“A LEARNED BRAHMIN was traveling through a forest when he was waylaid by a ghastly-looking ogre, gaunt and pale. ‘I shall eat you presently,’ said the terrible creature, ‘but if you can tell me why I am so pale and thin, I shall let you go.’
“The brahmin kept calm and considered his options. He could try to escape, but he knew the monster could run faster than he could. He could try to bargain for his life, but he had no possessions that he could offer. Instead, with a tranquil mind, he gazed into the ogre’s eyes, as one creature gazing at another, and he read there the whole history of the monster’s pain.
“‘You are living alone in this forest, without the company of your family and friends; that is why you are pale and thin. You treat your friends well, but still they are hostile to you, because they are mean-spirited. Although you try your best, you see others effortlessly rising in the world, while you are stuck here. Others look down on you and show you no respect. That is why you are so pale and thin. You have tried to steer others away from wrongdoing, but they simply despise you for it. You have worked hard, only to see others profit from your efforts. You cannot always find the right words, and that makes you ashamed and angry. You know how you would like to live, but cannot see how to achieve it. That is why you are so pale and thin, O rakshasa.’
“The ogre was nourished by this answer. The brahmin, by giving words to his condition, had made it more bearable. He praised the brahmin and let him go on his way.”
Yudhishthira asked Bhishma to recite
the names of Shiva. “I am not competent
to do so,” replied the dying patriarch,
and he requested Krishna to reply.
Krishna described his journey, some time before,
to snowy Himavat. There, he had worshiped
Shiva, who had granted him a son
named Samba, born from his wife, Jambavati.
He had learned the thousand names of Shiva,
at the lovely hermitage of Upamanyu.
Now he recited them, to the great benefit
of all who were attending upon Bhishma.
In question after question, the Dharma King
sought to plumb the depths of Bhishma’s wisdom:
What benefits may be obtained by fasting?
What consequences flow from hurting brahmins?
What gifts should be offered at ceremonies?
What is the origin of the shraddha rites?
And many more. It was as though he heard
in his mind’s ear a clamorous call for answers,
a longing for wise guidance, in the voices
of those who would come after, down the ages.
The patriarch was tired. Day after day
Yudhishthira had put to him his questions
and his doubts. Now the time was approaching
for Bhishma to depart. But, while there was time,
the king raised the few remaining matters
that most concerned him.
“Please tell me,” he said,
“how to reconcile the authority
of the Vedas with practical experience.
When should one rely on one’s own reason,
when be guided by others’ example,
and when seek out the counsel of the wise?
How can there be one dharma when there is
more than one source of authority?”
“Only fools rely on their own experience,”
replied Bhishma. “The deepest understanding
of the true reality that underlies
all that is, the one and formless Brahman,
comes only from protracted meditation.
You should carry any doubts you have
to those immersed in knowledge of the Vedas.”
“It seems,” said Yudhishthira, “that outcomes
cannot be guaranteed. Some villains prosper;
some virtuous people struggle to succeed
and still may fail.”
“Unless the seed is planted
there can be no crop,” said Bhishma. “Time
determines everything and, in the end,
time protects dharma from wickedness.
Be steadfast and, to keep on the right path,
recite the names of the gods, at dawn and dusk.”
After this, Bhishma became silent
and, around him, the circle of his listeners
fell silent too, seers and Pandavas,
motionless as figures in a painting.
Vyasa told him that Yudhishthira
had now been restored to his own best nature,
and suggested Bhishma should dismiss him.
With a few last words of good advice,
Bhishma told Yudhishthira to go
back to Hastinapura, to take up
the reins of kingship. But he should return
immediately after the winter solstice.
When the pale and gentle winter sun
had turned toward the north, Yudhishthira
and the whole court arrived at Kurukshetra.
They had with them materials they would need
for Bhishma’s funeral rites—silk cloth, flowers,
ghee, fragrant sandalwood and dry tinder.
Many priests accompanied them, carrying
sacrificial fires. They found Bhishma
attended by Vyasa and Narada,
and some kings who had survived the war.
Yudhishthira approached the bed of arrows
where the patriarch lay with his eyes closed.
“If you can hear me, Grandfather,” he said,
“I want you to know that I am here
and so are all your kin.”
“Ah,” said Bhishma,
opening his eyes. Yudhishthira
cradled Bhishma’s withered hand in his.
The dying man addressed Dhritarashtra.
“My time has come. So many days have passed
while I have lain here. It seems a century.
I want you to stop grieving for your sons.
What has happened was long preordained
and could not have been other than it was.
Treat the Pandavas as your own sons
as, morally, they are. They will protect you.”
Then Bhishma worshiped Krishna, the supreme
creator, the divine, the eternal Soul.
He asked permission to give up his life.
“I give you leave, great Bhishma, blameless one,”
replied Krishna. Then Bhishma asked permission
of the Pandavas. Tears streamed down their faces
as they consented.
Bhishma spoke no more.
With yogic concentration, he withdrew
the vital force from each part of his body
and, to the amazement of all who watched,
the dreadful wounds shrank and disappeared.
His whole body healed, despite the arrows.
Then his remaining life-breath exited
through the crown of his head, and flew to heaven
like a great meteor. Celestial drums
were heard, and beautiful and perfumed flowers
rained down. Bhishma, the great patriarch,
was dead.
The Pandavas and Vidura
wrapped the body in a cloth of silk
and placed it on the pyre. Brahmins made
oblations and chanted Vedic hymns. The pyre
was doused with sandalwood oil and black aloe.
The fragrant fuel was lit, and the remains
flared up, glowed, then were reduced to ash.
The party walked together to the Ganga
and poured water libations for the goddess,
Bhishma’s mother. They saw her rise up, weeping,
lamenting for her son, remembering
his great achievements. “Yet my illustrious son,
proud, unbeaten, was killed by Shikhandin!”
“Not so,” said Krishna. “It was Arjuna,
shielded by Shikhandin, who killed your son.
No one but Arjuna was capable,
and then only because Bhishma allowed it.
But since he was no ordinary mortal,
but one of the Vasus, cursed to be born human,
now he has gone to the heaven where he belongs.”
Ganga was consoled. The royal party
paid tribute to the goddess, and she blessed them.
Then they traveled back to Hastinapura.