Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 4 - Kṛṣṇa-yāna Parva Chapter 2 - Kṛṣṇa’s Counsel, Omens, and the Call to Prepare

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then spake Kṛṣṇa, the holy one, his voice even as a clear conch-sound before kings: he had heard Sanjaya’s report and listened now to Yudhiṣṭhira’s speech; he perceived at once the bent of their hearts. Yudhiṣṭhira’s soul leaned to righteousness, whereas the counsels of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s house were turned to strife. That which is won without shedding blood is of highest worth; yet the way of a Kṣatriya was ordained to be either victory or death. Cowardice is unseemly for warriors, and subsistence by alms is no portion for the ruler of men.

Kṛṣṇa therefore declared that he would go to Hastināpura. If, without sacrifice of the Pandavas’ rights, he could establish peace, that deed would be his greatest merit; by it he might save Kuru and Pāṇḍava alike from the meshes of death, and bring tranquillity to the whole earth. Yet he told the truth plainly: Duryodhana’s heart was hardened by passion and pride; with Bhīṣma, Droṇa, Kṛpa and other great men arrayed on his side, the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra deemed themselves invincible. Mildness on the part of Yudhiṣṭhira would but make them bolder in withholding what was justly due.

Kṛṣṇa reminded them of the dice, of Draupadī’s shame, of Dussāsana’s outrage—things done openly in the sight of elders and Brāhmaṇas—and of the silence of the assembly that followed. Such shamelessness, he said, was proof that mere forbearance could not reclaim justice. He counselled Yudhiṣṭhira to pay homage to his sire and to Bhīṣma, and bade him be courageous of heart; Kṛṣṇa himself would go and there proclaim the virtues of the just and the vices of the wicked before all kings, that none might thenceforth mistake right and wrong. If men then rejected truth, their ruin would be their own work and war would be inevitable.

Then from Kṛṣṇa’s lips fell a measured warning:

“To stand with truth before the kings, and speak,

Is better than to cringe and lose the land;

When vice sits shameless in the public hall,

Let righteous speech like lightning cleave the band.”

He added that all signs—omens seen by wise men—pointed toward war: beasts lamented at dusk, elephants and steeds assumed strange aspect, flames changed colour with ill-omened hues. The world itself seemed stirred as if the breath of havoc were among men. Therefore Kṛṣṇa bade Yudhiṣṭhira gather his weapons, prepare his elephants, his steeds, his cars and coats of mail; let the warriors be made ready for the inevitable contest. As long as Duryodhana lived, he would not restore the kingdom snatched by dice; for that reason it was prudent to prepare for the strife which might come.

Kṛṣṇa spoke thus plainly, yet with gentleness: he would go to Hastināpura to try for peace; but he counselled readiness, for the wicked rarely lay down their pride at the bidding of mercy.

And Vaisampāyana added:

So Kṛṣṇa resolved, and so the sons of Pāṇḍu accepted his counsel—grieved yet resolved, fervent in righteousness, and watchful for the days to come.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then Bhīma, son of Vāyu, whose might shook the earth, spoke unto Kṛṣṇa of the Daśārha race—he who slays the hosts of the wicked. Yet this time, his voice, though deep as thunder, bore the gentleness of reason.

“O Keśava,” said he, “speak thou before the Kurus in words that breathe of peace. Threaten them not with war, for Duryodhana’s heart is like dry grass—ready to catch the smallest spark of wrath.

He resents all counsel, O Mādhava; his anger is ever awake. Arrogant, blind to his own ruin, he rejects wisdom even when it comes from love. Speak, therefore, softly to him. Let thy words be honeyed, not bitter, for harshness kindles his madness.”

Then Bhīma, though fierce in battle, spoke of his foe with the cool clarity of understanding:

“For Duryodhana’s soul is dark as a robber’s path;

intoxicated by wealth, he mocketh righteousness;

his tongue is cruel, his pride beyond appeasement;

he would die sooner than yield his will.”

“Peace with such a man, O Kṛṣṇa,” he said, “is hard as peace with fire. He listens not even to those that wish him well; his heart is walled by vanity and falsehood. Obedient only to anger, he is as a serpent hiding among reeds—ever ready to strike, ever driven by venom rather than reason.

Thou knowest his armies, his power, his nature, O slayer of Madhu. Once the Kauravas and we rejoiced together like gods in heaven—Bhīma and Duryodhana as Indra and his younger brother. But now, through his wrath, the Bharatas are doomed to burn, even as the forest is consumed when winter ends.”

Then Bhīma, his gaze cast to the earth, spoke of ancient tales:

“At the close of every age, when dharma fades,

there rise among men destroyers of their race—

born of pride, blazing with power,

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yet destined to ruin their own kin.

So were the fierce Udāvarta among the Haihayas,

Janamejaya among the Nepas, and Vahula of the Talajaṅghas;

so proud Vasu among the Krimis, Ajavindu among the Suviras;

and now, O Kṛṣṇa, Duryodhana among the Kurus—

the very embodiment of sin, born for the world’s decline.”

He sighed and continued:

“Therefore, O Janārdana, though I am known as Bhīma the Terrible, I counsel gentleness. Address him not in anger but in virtue. Speak to him with patience, for we would rather bow to him in humility than see our race perish.

Let not the blood of the Bharatas soak the earth. If peace may be won through the elders—through Bhīṣma, Droṇa, and Vidura—let them be entreated to awaken fraternal feeling once again between brothers.

O Kṛṣṇa, we shall bear humiliation; we shall live even as strangers to our own kin—

but let not the sin of annihilating our lineage fall upon us.”

He ended thus, his voice a mingling of flame and sorrow:

“Better to live in exile than in blood,

Better a humbled peace than a proud grave;

For when a race destroys its root for wrath,

It perisheth utterly, beyond all saving.”

And Vaiśampāyana said:

Thus spoke Bhīma, the mighty-armed, whose hands could crush mountains but whose heart now trembled for his kindred. Hearing his words, even the winds seemed to still; and Kṛṣṇa, who holds the world within his glance, smiled gently—pondering how peace might be spoken to the blind-hearted Kurus.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Hearing Bhīma’s gentle words, which fell like a cool rain upon a heated plain and seemed as unlikely as hills grown light or fire made cold, Kṛṣṇa—Kesava of the Sura line, mighty-armed and bearer of the bow Śārṅga—smiled and laughed aloud. His laughter was not mockery but a soft wind urging embers to life. With a voice quick as the breeze that stokes a hidden flame, he addressed Bhīma, who was then overcome by compassion and a sudden softness of heart.

“O Bhīmasena,” said he, “on other days thou hast been the very champion of war; thy soul leapt to crush the wicked sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra. How oft hast thou sat awake through the night, face to earth, uttering cries that told of a tempest within? Inflamed by the furnace of thy fury, thou sighest like one whose flame is mixed with smoke. Withdrawing from men, thou liest down and breathest hot and heavy like one pressed under a load. Those who do not know the cause deem thee mad.

“As an elephant in wrath uproots and tramples the trees about him, so hast thou, O mighty one, thundered and shaken the earth. Solitude hath been thy delight; company hath been a weariness. At times thou laughest as if possessed; at times thou bowest thy head between thy knees and meditate long with eyes closed; at times thou knittest brows and bite thy lips and glare before thee with fierce gaze. All these are the marks of wrath.

“Once in the assembly thou didst lift thy mace and swear by the rising sun and the encircling Meru: ‘As the sun riseth in the east and setteth in the west, so will I slay the arrogant Duryodhana with this mace, and this oath shall not be false.’ How then is that heart of thine now given to counsel of peace? When fear entereth the breast, those that are famished for war are cast down before battle draws near. Asleep or waking, thou readest ill omens, and perhaps it is this sight that maketh thee plead for peace.

“The man that is panic-stricken shows not the signs of manhood. Thy knees tremble, thy heart shakes, and thus thou wouldst evade the very thing that is thy nature. The hearts of men are as fickle as the pods of the salmali shaken by wind; thy present mood is as odd as speech in kine. Thy brothers’ hearts are verging upon despair—like swimmers in the deep without raft or shore. That thou, Bhīma, shouldst utter such words is as strange as a mountain moved. Recollect thy deeds and thy lineage; arise, O son of Pritha; yield not to sorrow. Such languor is unworthy of one born a Kṣatriya, for a Kṣatriya wins not his due save by prowess.”

Then Kesava’s words fell like a polished blade:

“Rise, O thunder of the Pandu line, break slumber’s chain,

Remember mace and mountain-birth that crown thy name;

Let not the wind of fear unman the mighty frame,

For glory’s forge is battle—shame not thy ancestral flame.”

And Vaiśampāyana said:

Thus did Kṛṣṇa chide Bhīma with mild rebuke, rousing the tempest within that warrior’s soul. His words were both admonition and awakening—meant to steady the heart that would soon stand between brothers and the fate of kingdoms.

Thus chid by Vasudeva, the mighty Bhīma—whose anger was like a thundercloud ready to burst—was roused at once, like a high-blooded steed startled to sudden motion. He shed at once the softness that had touched his heart and rose in the full majesty of his might. Without delay he answered Kṛṣṇa, his voice rolling like distant thunder, declaring what all who had dwelt with him long should know.

“O Achyuta,” said he, “thou seemest to take my mood for fear; thou readest me as one who swims yet knows not the lake’s depth. But of my love for battle and of the invincible force that dwells within these arms of mine thou canst not be ignorant—seeing we have dwelt together through many days and deeds. If indeed thou knowest me not, then know me now. Though men call it base to vaunt one’s own strength, thy taunt hath opened the wound in me, and therefore will I speak plainly of my might.

“Behold the earth and the firmament—vast, unmoving, the refuge of living things. If in wrath these two were to crash together as were two hills, I, with these mace-like arms, could hold them asunder with all that moves between. Observe the joints of these arms; none who once fall into their grasp can free himself. Not even Himavat, nor the ocean, nor the wielder of the thunderbolt, with all their power could release the man whom I have once seized.

“Know, O Janārdana, how oft I have humbled kings and made them bend; if thou hast not seen that prowess which burneth like the noonday sun, thou shalt see it in the havoc of the field. Thy words have galled me, as of a sore freshly opened, yet my strength is greater than my speech. On that day when battle’s storm is loosed, thou shalt behold me felling elephants, shattering cars, and striking down steed-borne warriors. Thou and all shall see me grind the foremost of the foe to dust. The marrow of my bones is yet sound; my heart quails not. Even should the world itself rise in wrath against me, I shall not feel fear.

“It is for compassion’s sake alone, O slayer of Madhu, that I temper my arm; I endure these injuries in silence that the Bharata line may not be rooted out. For this restraint of mine is not weakness but mercy—an act of love for kinsmen and of dread for a ruin that would swallow many.”

Then Bhīma’s words broke, like the roar of the ocean:

“My mace was forged in morning’s wrath, my arms are iron-bound,

I am the tempest’s fist that lays the vaunting to the ground;

Yet pity girds this breast that might the sky confound—

I stay my hand for kin, though foes in hordes surround.”

And Vaiśampāyana added:

So spoke Bhīma, the mighty-armed—proud, inexorable, and yet moved by a mercy that made his forbearance a greater thing than wrath. Hearing him, Kṛṣṇa’s eyes were grave; he read in that fierce compassion the strength of a hero who would rather spare the world than win easy fame.