THREE
As the multitudinous sound of conches shook Kurukshetra, Arjuna said to his incarnate charioteer, “Krishna, let us ride out some way between the armies before the fighting begins.”
Krishna coaxed his gandharva horses forward; Hanuman was a little lion-tailed monkey on his banner. A hush fell again on the two armies, when they saw Arjuna’s chariot emerge from the Pan-dava ranks on its own. The sea of men grew quiet, watching that chariot. They saw the warrior in it spoke earnestly with his sarathy, the dark Avatara1. But they could hear no word the two exchanged; the space between the chariot and the legions was considerable.
A morning breeze ruffling their hair, Krishna said to his soldier of light, “Look, Arjuna, at the glorious Kuru armies! And the one we must fight, with Bheeshma and Drona at its head. Look at all the kshatriyas who have come to die at your hands.”
Suddenly, Arjuna grew very still, Krishna saw the Pandava tremble. Arjuna bit his lip and moaned. In an excruciating insight, he saw not enemies before him any more, but sires and grandsires, masters, uncles, brothers, sons, grandsons and childhood friends! A sob tore its way out of Arjuna and he cried, “Krishna! My hands shake and my mouth is dry. My body shivers and my hair stands on end.”
His eyes were full of tears as he looked at the Kaurava army. Stricken with fear, Arjuna whispered, “The Gandiva slips from my grasp, my skin burns as if it is on fire. I see omens of evil in the sky and my head reels when I look at the enemy I am meant to kill. Oh, Krishna, what good can come from killing one’s kinsmen?”
Krishna realized it was best if Arjuna confessed what disturbed him so much; a yawning sense of destiny was upon the Dark One. He, too, shivered, knowing that he, Krishna, had been born for this moment between two armies, senayor ubhayor madhye, which divided two ages of the earth, more than for any other time of his life. It was the Avatara’s loneliest hour. Yet, he knew this was a moment of infinite opportunity, an hour of miracles, when he could speak to dim generations of the future. Arjuna was the key to this war. If Krishna could not convince the Pandava to fight, the cause of dharma would be lost on Kurukshetra and the forces of darkness would have sway over the world.
Krishna knew that, though he bore no weapons to this war, he must fight now: a battle of the spirit, a deeper battle than any he had fought before. As the two armies on both sides froze in time, as if in a mural of war, evil, which had already seized Arjuna in coils of dread, clutched at Krishna with cold tentacles. Krishna knew the price of defeat if he lost this duel of the soul.
But Arjuna, possessed, ranted at him, “I don’t want victory! I don’t want a kingdom, its power or pleasures. Of what use is a kingdom, or life itself? Men who could be my father and grandfather, others that are my masters, uncles, nephews and cousins—with whom, for whom, I could enjoy a kingdom—stand armed to fight us to the death. I cannot bear it!
Even if they kill me, how can I think of harming them? No, I don’t want this terrible war. I would not have it if it were for the throne of the three worlds, how much less for a miserable earthly kingdom. How can I even dream of killing Dhritarashtra’s sons? They are my cousins. Let them be the most monstrous men. I shall be worse than they are if I kill them; my crime shall be more horrible than any of theirs. How can I dare spill the same blood that flows in their bodies and mine, blood that unites us? How will I ever find peace again?
Even if they are demented with envy and greed, even if they see no fault in murdering family, or in being treacherous to childhood friends, should we imitate them? Shouldn’t we know the sin in this hideous thing and shun it?”
Krishna said nothing yet. He saw what Arjuna did not: that this battlefield trembled on the verge between one age and another; both were unsteady now. Arjuna burned with anxiety. He swayed in his chariot like a green sapling in the wind. Helplessly, he said, “When a noble house like ours is divided by war, it is ruined. The old ways are forgotten, the ancient rituals and truths. And when laws perish, evil and vice take all the clan. You know what happens then; the women become loose, castes are mixed and the age turns dark.
My Lord, it is straight to hell that such a clan goes, first of all, those who began its destruction. Because the spirits of the manes fall from heaven! The sacred covenants are broken and all the generations of such a house are doomed to hell. What a heinous sin you and I have plotted: to murder our family out of greed for a throne. Instead, let Duryodhana kill me in battle while I am unarmed and unresisting!”
Arjuna sat down in the chariot, buried his head in his hands and wept. Krishna realized he must answer the Pandava, coax him out of his despair, or all would be lost. As calmly as he could, he began, “From where this cowardly spirit at such a critical time? This is not for a kshatriya. It will not lead you to heaven, Arjuna, but to disgrace. Don’t give in to this womanliness, it is beneath you. Cast it aside and arise, O Vijaya!”
But evil was truly upon the Pandava. He cried in anguish, “How will I attack Bheeshma and Drona with arrows in battle? When I should worship them instead! I would rather be a beggar in the world than kill my gurus. How could I dream of enjoying a kingdom stained with my masters’ blood? When I see who the enemy is, I don’t know if I would rather win or lose this war. This is not weakness; it is the strength of compassion. How could I live if I killed my cousins? Krishna, help me! Confusion roils my mind; my soul is weak with pity. I am sick with sorrow and fear. Teach me, my Lord, tell me what I must do.”
Again, Arjuna sobbed. “No! Nothing can drive out the grief that dries up my senses, paralyzes me. Not unrivaled kingdom on earth, why, not the sovereignty of the Devas could rid me of this terrible sorrow!” His face grim, he said, “I will not fight,” and fell silent.
Krishna smiled at him as at a petulant child. He said indulgently, “You grieve for those you should not, Arjuna; but you speak to me of wisdom. Wise men do not grieve for either the living or the dead. You and I and these kings of men, have always existed and always shall. Childhood, youth and old age are three stages of life and death is only the fourth: as natural, as inevitable, as the other three. Death is the stage by which the soul passes from one life to the next; with death, the soul assumes a new body. The wise are not troubled by this; because the soul, which pervades all the living, the aging and the dying, never dies itself. It was never born or begun; it neither kills, nor is killed. It is primeval and indestructible. It always was and shall always be.
As the body sheds worn-out clothes, so the soul sheds worn-out bodies. And just as we put on new clothes, the soul dons new bodies, as if they were its raiment. But the soul is not touched by fire or weapons, by wind or water. Inmost, subtlest element, always the being of beings, it is changeless, eternal.”
Arjuna was still downcast, unconvinced. He had the uncanny feeling the words the Blue God spoke were meant for a multitude of listeners other than himself: unborn, yet avid listeners. As if their chariot out on Kurukshetra stood not just in their own time, but at the heart of all the swirling ages of men. Deep and secret futures swelled around them, gazed on them with a billion unseen eyes and brushed their souls with ghostly fingers.
Arjuna frowned. He felt he was alone on the bank of a timeless river of light flowing from dark Krishna; flowing for him, yes, but not only for him. The Pandava sensed numberless presences gathering around and the pristine river shone at them, as well, to drink from its grace. Now Krishna began to speak in some hidden rapture; as if he played on his flute.
“Even if you believe the soul is born again and again and dies as well like that, still you shouldn’t grieve. For certain, then, is death for he who is born and the moment of it already decided at his birth; and equally certain is birth, again, for the dead. Why grieve for the inevitable? You do not determine when any man, even yourself, is born into the world. How can you hope to decide when or not he will die?”
Arjuna seemed to grow calmer now and to listen to his dark sarathy. Relieved that at least his warrior’s panic grew less, Krishna went on, “But this is not what is crucial. You are a kshatriya: for you, a battle of dharma is the highest fortune. How can you be so full of doubt at such a time? You should rejoice, Arjuna, the gates of heaven are open!
If you deny your own nature’s glory and do not fight, then you will sin. Through all time, men will speak of your shame; for a man like you, who knows honor, shame is worse than death. They will say Arjuna was afraid on the great occasion. Even your friends will scoff; think, then, what will your enemies say? Could anything be sadder? So arise, Pandava! If you die in battle, you will go straight to swarga. If you triumph, you will enjoy the earth before you find heaven. Fight Arjuna and I swear you will not sin.”
Lulled by Krishna’s voice, absorbed in his smile, his eyes, his presence of grace, Arjuna began to float away down the river of light. The sarathy now spoke softly, hypnotically, to the Pandava, touching his inner mind. As if in prayer, he chanted his wisdom, as much to himself as to his cousin.
In exorcism, Krishna continued, “Along the infinite way, no effort, even the smallest, is in vain or lost and no obstacle prevails. This is the wisdom of union, of yoga. Arjuna, I am with you. Free yourself from attachment to what you do; make no anxious difference between success and failure. Act! Act in purity, act serenely: even-mindedness is yoga; detachment and skill are yoga.
For one who is determined, his understanding is single and lucid. But the thoughts of the undis-cerning are many-branched, endless, endlessly confused.”
Arjuna was a portal to unborn generations, as Krishna’s words spilled through him, each a being alive, tender and rampant: a bright host of masters! They reached beyond him into veiled times, dim, dim, down mysterious trails of history, taking fire to the hearts of bizarre and visionary heroes, who would one day walk a very different world and make war again. In his perfect passivity, while Krishna exhorted him to immaculate action, pure war, Arjuna became the Blue God’s unwitting ally in another, older contention. He stood at a crossroads of the mythic universe and, listening absorbed, gave his astral body to become Krishna’s prophet.
Krishna said, “The wise who have yoked their intelligence are freed from the bonds of birth. They reach Brahman, the sorrowless state. Arjuna, your mind is confused with all that you have read and heard. Your heart is bewildered. When true insight dawns on you, you will see beyond bookish Vedic learning and your spirit will be profound and unshakeable.”
The earth received the Avatara’s song.