Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 4 - Kṛṣṇa-yāna Parva Chapter 1 - Yudhiṣṭhira’s Counsel and Kṛṣṇa’s Resolve

Vaiśampāyana said:

When Sanjaya, the wise counselor of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, had departed from the camp of the sons of Pāṇḍu, bearing back their message to the Kurus, the sons of Pāṇḍu gathered once more in solemn council. Their faces were grave, their hearts steadfast in dharma.

Then Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Dharma, turned to Keśava of the Vṛṣṇi race—the radiant one whose eyes were like lotus petals, the soul of compassion and wisdom—and spoke in a voice heavy with both faith and sorrow.

“O Mādhava,” he said, “the hour has come for a friend to prove his friendship. None but thee can save us in this time of peril.

Thou protectest the Yadus and the Vṛṣṇis when calamity falls upon them—

now, O Govinda, be our refuge too,

for in this ocean of grief we have none other.”

Then Kṛṣṇa, smiling gently, his countenance calm as a rain-filled cloud, replied:

“Here am I, O son of Dharma. Tell me thy will. Whatever thou commandest, that shall I surely do.”

Yudhiṣṭhira then spoke, his voice tempered by righteousness yet trembling with the pain of injustice:

“Thou hast heard, O Keśava, what Sanjaya has said. His words bear the mind of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, for the envoy speaketh only as his master’s soul.

We fulfilled our vow—the twelve years of exile, the thirteenth of concealment—believing the old king would keep his pledge.

The Brāhmaṇas who lived with us know our truth. Yet Dhṛtarāṣṭra, blinded by the love of his son, listens to wicked counsel and swerves from the path of kṣātra-dharma.

We sought not dominion over the earth;

we sought but peace.

We asked for five small towns—

Avishṭhala, Vṛkasthala, Makandī, Vāraṇāvata,

and any other he would grant us as the fifth.

There we five might live together,

content, without bloodshed.

But Duryodhana, drunk with pride and greed,

refused even that.

What sorrow, O Janārdana, is greater than this?

That the mighty of our race have fallen into covetous blindness,

that a man raised in honor now covets the wealth of others—

this greed destroyeth wisdom;

from loss of wisdom cometh loss of shame;

from loss of shame, the decay of virtue;

and where virtue faileth, there prosperity perisheth.

Like a tree stripped of fruit and flower,

the poor man is forsaken by kinsmen and friends;

they turn away as birds from a barren branch,

for poverty, O Mādhava, is death itself.

“Samvara the sage once said that no torment equals the hunger of uncertainty—‘I have no food today, what shall I eat tomorrow?’

For all things, they say, depend upon wealth:

he that hath it liveth; he that hath it not is dead among the living.

They who by violence rob another’s wealth

slay not one body alone but the man’s virtue, his joy, his very dharma.

Some, crushed by poverty, seek death;

some withdraw into forests;

some wander as mendicants, consuming themselves in despair.

Others, maddened by want, fall into the bondage of their enemies.

Poverty burns deeper than flame;

its smoke is humiliation;

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its ashes are sin.

To fall from wealth into want,

after tasting the fullness of fortune,

is like falling from heaven to earth—

the wound of memory pierceth the soul.

“The poor man’s anger consumes his sense;

in delusion he rails at gods and men alike.

From anger springeth folly, from folly sin,

and from sin—confusion of varṇa and decay of dharma.

If not awakened by wisdom, he sinketh to hell.

But when the eye of knowledge opens again,

he turneth back to scripture;

through scripture virtue is restored;

and with virtue, shame—the purest ornament of man.

He that hath shame hath restraint,

and he that hath restraint gaineth prosperity;

prosperity leadeth to true manhood,

and true manhood to heaven.

“He who is ever devoted to righteousness,

whose mind is disciplined,

and whose actions are deliberate and pure—

such a man inclineth never to adharma.

But he that hath lost shame and sense

is neither man nor woman,

nor capable of virtue—

he is fallen, a slave to desire.

For shame delighteth the gods and the Pitṛs;

it purifieth the heart and leadeth to mokṣa;

it is the gateway of heaven, O Kṛṣṇa,

and the crown of all dharma.”

Thus spoke Dharmarāja Yudhiṣṭhira, his words heavy with sorrow yet illumined by the fire of truth.

And Kṛṣṇa, the dark-hued Lord of compassion, listened in silence—his eyes deep as the ocean, reflecting the fate of all men and the inexorable law of dharma that moves even kings and gods alike.

Vaiśampāyana said:

After speaking thus, Yudhiṣṭhira, the son of Dharma, whose heart was ever bent upon righteousness, looked again upon Kṛṣṇa—the slayer of Madhu, the refuge of all beings—and continued his discourse with gentle gravity.

“O Mādhava,” said he, “thou hast seen with thine own eyes our long affliction—how, deprived of kingdom, we have lived these many years in exile and in want.

We may not lawfully abandon that heritage won by our ancestors through righteousness and valor.

Our first desire is peace—peace by which both the sons of Pāṇḍu and the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra may live in harmony, enjoying their respective prosperity.

But if that path be closed, if pride seal the heart of Duryodhana, then, alas, O Keśava, the dreadful alternative remains—to regain by blood what was lost by deceit.

Even the destruction of those wicked ones who are yet our kin will weigh upon our souls as the heaviest sin.”

He sighed deeply and said:

“Alas, how cruel is the dharma of our order!

For the Kṣatriya liveth by arms, as fish by the devouring of fish;

A warrior slayeth a warrior, as a dog preys upon a dog—

Thus each followeth his ordained path, even when that path is stained by blood.”

“O thou of the Daśārha race,” continued Yudhiṣṭhira, “battle is ever touched by the shadow of Kali. Success and defeat rest not in human hands; destiny alone moves the scales of life and death.

Sometimes one man slayeth a hundred; sometimes a hundred fall before one. A coward may kill a hero, and a nameless man may lay low the renowned.

Under all conditions, O Hṛṣīkeśa, war is sin.

Who in striking another is not himself struck?

Victory and defeat are but two names of sorrow;

for he that conquers loseth beloved ones, and he that is conquered loseth himself.

The quiet, the gentle, the virtuous and kind—

these are the first to fall upon the field;

while the wicked, sheltered by their cruelty,

often live to boast of sin.

“Even after victory,” said the king, “repentance comes. The surviving foe becometh the seed of future enmity.

Thus, O Mādhava, victory itself breeds hatred; enmity is not quenched by enmity, as fire is not extinguished by ghee.

Peace born of extermination is cruel,

and peace born of surrender is near to death.

We desire neither the ruin of our race nor the loss of our dharma.

Therefore, O Kṛṣṇa, if peace may be attained even through humility, that peace is best.

But when all gentle means fail, then, and only then, should might be shown.

Consider, O Keśava, the strife of dogs—

first the wagging of tails, then the bark, then the circling and baring of teeth, and at last, the fight.

So is the contest of men.

The stronger devours the weaker;

there is no other law.

The mighty should forbear to contend with the weak;

and the old, the father, and the king are ever worthy of reverence.

Dhṛtarāṣṭra, O Janārdana, is such a one.

He should be honored and worshipped by us.

Yet his love for his son blinds him;

obedient to that son, he will reject our words of peace.

Therefore, tell us, O slayer of Madhu—what is best now to be done?

How may we preserve both our righteousness and our right?

Whom else can we consult but thee,

who art our friend, our guide,

and the knower of all truth?”

Vaiśampāyana continued:

Then Kṛṣṇa, smiling with serene resolve, spoke to the son of Dharma, his voice calm and radiant like the sound of a conch upon clear waters.

“O son of Pṛthā,” said he, “I will go unto the court of the Kurus—for thy sake and for theirs. If peace may be achieved without injury to thy cause, it shall be my highest act of merit, fruitful of vast reward. Thus shall I deliver the Kurus and the Pāṇḍavas alike from the snare of death, and bring peace to the earth, now trembling with wrath.”

But Yudhiṣṭhira, anxious at heart, spoke again:

“O Keśava, it is not my wish that thou shouldst go. Duryodhana will not heed thy words, even if they flow with wisdom.

All the Kṣatriyas of the earth are now gathered at Hastināpura under his sway.

If harm befall thee, O Mādhava, then for us there will be neither joy nor life nor heaven itself.”

Then said Kṛṣṇa, his face grave yet radiant:

“I know, O king, the sinfulness of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s son;

yet by going I shall free thee from the blame of men.

Know that none of the earth’s kings, even united, could stand before me in wrath;

and should they dare to wrong me, I will consume them all like fire devoureth dry grass.

My going shall not be fruitless—

for even if peace fails, we shall stand justified before the world.”

Hearing these words, Yudhiṣṭhira bowed his head and answered softly:

“O blessed Keśava, do as thy wisdom counsels.

Go, then, to the Kurus, O Lord, and may success crown thy steps.

Let thy words bring peace among the sons of Bharata,

that they may live together in joy and friendship once more.

Thou art dear to us as to Arjuna himself;

between us and thee there is no difference.

Thou knowest our hearts, our foes, our cause.

Speak, therefore, O Govinda, whatever words shall serve our welfare—

whether by peace or by seeming sin—

for thou alone knowest the path of righteousness that leadeth through the darkness of strife.”

Vaiśampāyana concluded:

Thus did Yudhiṣṭhira, the son of Dharma, entrust his cause to Kṛṣṇa, the Lord of all beings.

And Kṛṣṇa, rising like the sun from a dark horizon, prepared for his divine journey to Hastināpura—the mission that would shake heaven and earth. Bright as lightning was his purpose, yet cool as moonlight was his heart. For where dharma wavered, there went the Lord himself—to restore the balance of worlds.