Lecture IV

THE STORY ON THE METAPHYSICAL PLANE

The Indian saga, beyond all dispute, is the Mahābhārata. Of this saga the main theme — as in all true sagas — is a great war. And it is important to remember that this is a war waged between two families of cousins, the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra and the sons of Pāṇḍu, or the Kauravas and the Pāṇḍavas as they are called. Mighty warriors, beautiful women, great saints move to and from across the scenes of the drama in a glittering mêlée. We are thrilled by the vow of Grandsire Bhīṣma (Bhīṣma-pratijñā) to renounce the throne, to renounce marriage, to renounce, in fact everything that makes life worth living, — merely in order to gratify a whim of his aged father. We are moved to tears by the piteous but futile appeals of the heroine, Draupadī, to be saved from the infamy of being disrobed, in a public assembly, by her own licentious and vindictive kinsmen. We are held spellbound by the fury of the blood-curdling battles, in which opposing chieftains smash each other's chariots, kill each other's horses and elephants, fling against each other showers of sharp arrows, hack and slay each other.

The epic poets do not rest with staging for us this tremendous drama and letting us watch the performance merely as spectators. They lead us behind the scenes, so to say, showing us round and telling us all about the actors in the tragic drama we have been watching. They let us look at the show "from the inside", as it were, giving us a new and a vital view-point, affording a deeper insight into the play. The actors, we find, are representatives of two ideal communities, a moral community in which the gods have taken part as heroes and pious individuals; and an immoral — or rather an un-moral — community which it is their object to destroy. The war we saw being staged before us appears now as the state of tension between two fraternities which have existed from time immemorial and which continue to appear in ever new guises, in different places and at different times. In this way the epic poets try to familiarize us with the cosmic conception of the eternal conflict between Right and Wrong, between Good and Evil, between Justice and Injustice. The epic poets let us guess that we ourselves, without knowing it, are in fact actors in this ever-lasting cosmic drama and that we have been taking sides in the conflict and playing our own appointed parts. After reading the book we feel as if the Mahābhārata had in reality never ended. It seems to us as if it is going on now, at the present time, at the present moment; and that it will go on also for all eternity.

By precept and example, we are gradually won over by the epic poets to the side of Truth, Justice, Morality and Righteousness. These imply Dharma. And Dharma, we are assured, over and over again, will give us all that we can legitimately wish for in this life. Victory depends upon Dharma (yato dharmas tato jayaḥ). Dharma can promote economic well-being; it can lead to the satisfaction of even the sexual, emotional and artistic instincts and aspirations of man. Then why not follow Dharma?

dharmād arthaś ca kāmaś ca sa kimartham na sevyate /

When we have reached this stage, which is on the ethical plane of perspective, there is however a sudden change in the orientation, which alters altogether the picture of the conflict between the Devas and the Asuras, and leads into deeper mysteries of life, beyond the dichotomy of Dharma and Adharma, beyond Good and Evil. The consideration of these deeper mysteries will be taken up in its proper place. In the meantime I want to draw your attention to the fact that, according to Indian conceptions, the Daivī and the Āsurī creations are not exactly what we understand by Good and Evil in the ordinary sense of the terms. There is in the Indian conception none of the ultimate dualism, that has marred so much of the thought of other religions and philosophies, no God and Devil standing as ultimate irreconcilables. Indian thought in the highest form is far more scientific and rational, in so far as both the Daivī and the Āsurī creations are said to spring from the same ultimate source, and in the end both merge into it.

Good and Evil are thus conceived not as irreconcilable opposites, but rather as complementary processes. They may be described as the up-going creative side which is from within (pravṛtti), and the down-going destructive side which is from without (nivṛtti), both emanating from and finally merging into the Ultimate Reality, into that power from which everything proceeds. The two opposites combine to form a whole, which synthesizes and integrates them into a single transcendent unity. This is true not only of the Asuras and Devas, of Adharma and Dharma, of Wrong and Right, of Evil and Good, but of various other phenomena in nature and man. The universe is indeed one, in the sense that all things proceed from the same source so that everything is related to everything. But here is the rub. Polarity informs the universe. Its evolution and even existence, therefore depend upon interaction between two opposite poles, an absolutely natural and even inevitable tug of war between opposites. "The reality is universal," as Hegel puts it, "which goes out of itself, particularizes itself and opposes itself to itself."

This transcendental reality is, as you know, in Indian philosophy, called variously as Brahma, Ātman, or Paramātman. And Indian philosophers have always insisted that this Ātman, the Ultimate Reality, which is immanent in and also transcends the illimitable diversity of the phenomenal world, must be seen, heard, thought upon, and deeply meditated upon, though it is ordinarily speaking beyond the senses, though even the mind returns without having reached it. And in the

Mahābhārata we see the crystallization of the attempts made by Indian poets to understand, formulate and illuminate this illusive, paradoxical Reality, to describe the indescribable, so to say, attempts which led the inspired epic poets to the creation of one of the most characteristic products of Indian genius, which was destined to influence profoundly not only the literature and art of the subsequent generations, but also their life and thought.

To understand this lofty creation, we must however retrace our steps a little and go back to the Upaniṣads, that fountain-head of all Brahmanical speculation and philosophy. In their search for Truth the first bold step taken by the Upaniṣadic seers was to synthesize the plurality of Vedic gods into one Ultimate reality. This synthesis was almost simultaneous with the location of the Supreme in the secret recess of one's own heart :

tam durdarśam gūḍham anupraviṣṭam
guhāhitam gahvareṣṭham purāṇam /
adhyātmayogādhigamena devam
matvā dhīro harṣaśokau jahāti //

The Upanisadic seers had performed the miracle of translating bodily the heavens from beyond the skies into the cave of man's own heart. Thenceforward the old worlds (lokas) and the old gods (devas) became to the initiated merely levels of reference and symbolic entities, which are neither individuals nor planes (in the theosophic sense) but states of being realizable within oneself, within you and me. The "heart" of man thus became the altar, the sanctuary, the place of devout pilgrimage, the world and heaven and hell, — in one word, the universe. With one bold stroke man had shattered the unbreakable bonds that had bound him to life outside himself. By the fiat of his own unconquerable will, man made himself free and totally independent — of reality. Man became — what the psychologists call — an introvert ; and the Almighty became a lonely prisoner in the heart-cell of the "Yogi."

To galvanize this Internal Ruler (Antaryāmin) again into activity, the epic poets have made the daring — and, to judge by the results, an amazingly successful — experiment of leading the King out of his Dark Chamber into broad daylight in order to expose him to the gaze of his disconsolate devotees, who were pining to behold him, to hear his voice, to see him act a part in his own drama. And this Internal Ruler, as you must have guessed, is no other than Bhagavān Śrī Kṛṣṇa, the adored of many devoted hearts and the anathema to the modern critics of the Mahābhārata.

“A bizarre figure!”, exclaims the critic. “A Yādava chieftain who looks and acts uncommonly like a mortal — and a very ordinary mortal at that — and who has the incredible effrontery to say that he is a god! A cynic who preaches the highest morality and stoops to practise the lowest tricks, in order to achieve his mean ends! An opportunist who teaches an honest and god-fearing man to tell a lie, the only lie he had told in his life! A charlatan who declares himself to be the god of gods, descended from the highest heaven for establishing righteousness on earth, and advises a hesitating archer to strike down a generous foe who is defenceless and is crying for mercy!”

It was inevitable that this complex character should be totally misunderstood by western critics of our Great Epic, who generally agree in seeing in the supreme god of the Bhāgavatas only a “tricky mortal,” as Hopkins put it. The majestic sweep of this subtle Indian conception has left the Western critics nonplussed and dumbfounded. And as we are in the habit of reading our ancient books through the spectacles balanced on our noses by our Western gurus, most of whom have yet to show any real understanding of them, we are beginning to acquire a very distorted view of these books. It is high time that we look from our own standpoint at these ancient scriptures of ours, which have served our people for some millennia as their guides in life and their spiritual solace, make them our own, translate them into action and re-live their truth.

It would not be right, however, to blame the Indologists for this judgement of theirs; because we must realize that no one can understand a truth which is beyond his powers of comprehension. Śrī Kṛṣṇa in any case seems to have anticipated his critics. Has he not said (Gītā 9.11): "Fools scorn me when I dwell in human form" (avajānanti mām mūḍhā mānuṣim tanem āśritam). And again he says: "Among thousands of men, but one strives for perfection; even of the perfected that strive, but one knows me in truth" (Gītā 7.3) :

manuṣyāṇām sahasreṣu kaścid yatati siddhaye /
yatatām api siddhānām kaścid mām vetti tattvataḥ //

How shall we then try to understand him? Śrī Kṛṣṇa is a mortal and yet not a mortal. We know his caste, his family, his parents, the circumstances of his birth; and still he maintains that he is unborn; yet again he says that many births of him are passed and he knows them all. It is also clearly recounted in the epic that one day as he had laid himself down to rest under a tree, a passing hunter pierced his heel with a shaft and he died. And yet we are told that he was immortal, eternal, infinite. He also seems to love the Pāṇḍavas and to hate the Kauravas, for whose destruction he continually works, or plots. And yet as it has been said he avows that all beings he regards alike; not one is hateful to him, not one beloved.

He is a paradox, a riddle, to say the least. And what is so very strange in that? Is not life a paradox, a riddle? From the standpoint of science — physical science — is not the maintenance and reproduction of a living organism a standing miracle? The biologist Haldane says so, and he has probably very good reasons for saying so. And yet we can do nothing for it. We can only accept it, and witness the miracle being performed before our very eyes day after day, hour after hour.

The double character of Śrī Kṛṣṇa gives rise to apparent contradictions in his words and actions, which have been the despair of modern interpreters of the Mahābhārata. The only solution they have been able to discover is to cut him out altogether from the picture, to leave him out of the drama — his drama — in the name of historical truth and higher criticism. But as we shall see this heroic remedy is hardly called for in the present case. Let us try to understand the poem as it is, without any athetization.

Before we proceed to investigate the deeper meaning underlying the epic, let us consider one other question. What is the reaction of the Indian people themselves — for whom after all this poem has been composed — to the contradictions pointed out by modern critics of the Mahābhārata? Do they perceive these contradictions, or do they not? And if they do, how do they account for them? Obviously they must. But it seems to me that the immediate and untutored grasp of the essential unity of the universe, which is ingrained in the Indian soul and which only finds doctrinaire and rational expression in the works of Indian philosophers, helps out the believing Indian when he is faced by a stark contradiction in the behaviour of his idol. He is not ruffled by these inconsistencies, because apparently by automatic mental adjustment he instantly reaches the plane of thought on which the mind of the poet is working. He is, as it were, furnished by nature with a bifocal stereoscopic apparatus which instantly combines the twin views of the God who has become Man and the Man who has become God, — views taken at slightly different angles — into a single, perfectly focussed image of God-Man or Man-God, with complete effect of solidity, reality and perspective. It is only the modern critic who, starting from entirely different modes of thought, standards of conduct, and norms of expression, approaches this stupendous product of Indian genius suspiciously, hesitatingly, superciliously, — when he comes across anomalies, in the character and behaviour of Śrī Kṛṣṇa, — which are more apparent than real, — finds his progress impeded by a blank wall of total incomprehension and comes sooner or later to a dead stop.

The unsophisticated Indian, who brings faith to bear on the subject, believes simply Śrī Kṛṣṇa to be an Avatāra of Viṣṇu or Nārāyaṇa (who to him are the same, being only different aspects of the same Supreme Being) derives comfort and consolation from the belief or conviction that as Śrī Kṛṣṇa aided in the past the righteous Pāndavas, so would He help his devotees now in this age in their own trials and tribulations of life, if they lived righteously, with full faith in the Saviour; because, has he not said that to protect the good and to destroy the wicked and to establish normalcy, He comes into being in age after age :

paritrāṇāya sādhūnām vināśāya ca duṣkṛtām /
dharmasaṃsthāpanārthāya saṃbhavāmi yuge yuge //

(Gītā 4.8)

But even the sophisticated Indian need not go quite empty-handed, if he reads this great book with the care and attention which it deserves, considering that this precious work has been preserved with infinite trouble, and cherished with deepest love and reverence by his ancestors for at least twenty centuries, if not more, and handed down to us as a great legacy. But of one thing we can remain assured. To dissect this epic and to throw out from it one after another such parts or passages as we happen not to like is definitely not the right way to understand this epoch-making book.

How shall we then solve the riddle of Śrī Kṛṣṇa? We shall solve it as soon as we solve the riddle of life, which is the riddle of our own self, our real Self, in other words, our reality on the metapsychical plane as opposed to our empiric reality. The picture and the characterization of Śrī Kṛṣṇa is in fact a challenge to man to know and to understand his Self. In proportion as he understands his own Self, will man understand the Śrī Kṛṣṇa of the Mahābhārata, for he is no other than one's own true Self (Gītā 10.20) :

aham ātmā Guḍākeśa sarvabhūtāśayasthitaḥ /

"I am the Self, O Guḍākeśa, dwelling in the heart of every being."

This equation, as we shall see later on, becomes the basis of a symbolism far deeper and far more subtle than the allegory of the Devas and Asuras, whose part-incarnations the Pāṇḍavas and the Kauravas are supposed to be, — a symbolism which you will find gives an entirely new dimension to the story. In fact it is just this conception of Śrī Kṛṣṇa which takes the Mahābhārata right out of the category of the ordinary ballads, bardic lays, heroic poems, national epopees and so on, and places it in a class by itself, giving it a universal value. This is no doubt the secret of the unbounded popularity, —

nay, adoration and reverence — which the work has always enjoyed throughout Indian antiquity, and the high admiration which it has evoked even in modern times among many foreign students of the epic.

This symbol, Bhagavān Śri Kṛṣṇa, does not of course stand by itself, as in fact it cannot, and is associated with a number of other subsidiary symbols. Consequently the bearing of many of the episodes of the Mahābhārata and the full import of even the Bhagavadgītā will never be understood unless the meanings of these symbols are kept steadily before one's eyes.

It is not sufficient, for instance, to think of Arjuna and Kṛṣṇa merely as a Pāṇḍava hero and a Yādava chieftain. In the story, as we have it, Arjuna (who, though not the eldest, is the most important of the Pāṇḍavas), and Śri Kṛṣṇa are consistently represented as incarnations of two ancient sages, Nara and Nārāyaṇa. Nara obviously stands for Man, man in the abstract, or as the epic says Narottama, Man par excellence, the Superman, Nārāyaṇa — however the word came to have that meaning: we do not want to lose ourselves just now in etymological speculations — stands for the Supreme Being, the Ultimate Reality, the source from which everything proceeds. Thus the pair Nara‑Nārāyaṇa stands for Man and his God.

What the relationship between Nara and Nārāyaṇa is, is hinted at in an episode related in the Udyogaparvan: the episode of King Dambhodbhava, itself a symbolical story related as an antidote to arrogance and pride. King Dambhodbhava, the offspring of pride, had an overweening conceit of his own powers and when he was told that he was no match for Nara and Nārāyaṇa, who were living as ascetics on the Gandhamādana mountain in their hermitage at Badari, he proceeded thither with his army and challenged them. They endeavoured to dissuade him, but he insisted on fighting. Nara then took a handful of straws and, using them as missiles, flung them at the intruders, who were disturbing the tranquillity of their peaceful retreat. Those harmless looking missiles, filling the air, pierced the eyes, ears and noses of the assailants, until Dambhodbhava fell at Nara's feet and begged for peace. While

Nara was repelling the wanton attack of King Pride, Nārāyaṇa, who was even greater than Nara, sat looking on apparently unmoved.

This episode is clearly a plebeian version of the classic parable of the two birds, eternal friends, seated upon the same tree — symbol of the body — of whom one (jīvātman) eats the sweet fruit, while the other (Paramātman) sits, in a pleased mood, silently looking on. This Upanisadic story is naturally also symbolic, a parable intended to visualize the dual soul — human and divine — incarcerated in one body; or in metaphysical language, the empirical and the transcendental self subsisting in one tabernacle.

Now, this much seems clear to me. Whoever Kṛṣṇa, son of Devakī, was and whoever the Pāṇḍava Arjuna was in real life, the epic poets view Arjuna and Śrī Kṛṣṇa simultaneously as the jīvātman and the Paramātman. Indeed to the epic poets the symbols appear to have become the reality, and the real persons merely shadows.

The establishing of this equation is, I can assure you, no attempt on my part to rationalize the story of the Mahābhārata, or to impart to it a mysterious or theosophical colouring. The ancient commentators are clear about it. The unsophisticated Indian, whose property the epic is, knows it instinctively. It is sheer stupidity on the part of the modern critic to have missed the obvious,—because the epic itself is also very explicit about it.

If now you are prepared to concede that the epic poets consistently view Bhagavān Śrī Kṛṣṇa as the Paramātman and Arjuna as the jīvātman—and that, mind you, without detriment to the existence of some real historical personalities bearing these names and playing some part in the actual human drama on the stage of real life—if you are prepared to concede that much—then you will agree, I think, that the battle which the jīvātman has to fight is evidently the battle par excellence, the great battle of life, by which I mean not indeed the miserable "struggle for existence" of the evolutionist, but the battle royal with one's own self. It is this battle with—what may be called for want of a better name—one's lower self, the empirical ego, along with its adjuncts of desires and passions, hate and greed, envy and malice, combining to form a large and formidable army of stalwart and desperate opponents. Says the wise Vidura in his advice to Dhṛtarāṣṭra on the merits of self-conquest (5. 34. 53, 55):

yo jitaḥ pañcavargeṇa sahajenātmakarśinā / āpadas tasya vardhante śuklapakṣa invodurāt // ātmānam eva prathamaṁ deśarūpeṇa yo jayet / tato ’mātyān amitrāms ca na mogham vijigīṣate //

We have in the epic abundant evidence to show us that the Indian people had by then learnt to regard self-conquest as a necessary element of moral grandeur. It had become in fact the culminating ideal of the nation. Typical of this mood is the account of the last great journey of the Pāndavas, which shows Yudhiṣṭhira conquering the temptation of sacrificing a faithful follower of his for the sake of the joys of heaven. Nearing Mount Meru, all except Yudhiṣṭhira, finding themselves unable to maintain the Yogic state, fall on the ground leaving Yudhiṣṭhira alone with a dog which had followed him all the way from Hāstinapura. When the aerial car sent by Indra arrives to take Yudhiṣṭhira to heaven, the charioteer refuses to admit the humble dog, who was apparently taboo in Indra’s heaven, but Yudhiṣṭhira also refuses to enter heaven without his faithful dog. The large number of stories of that type recounted in the epic go to show that the Indian imagination had reached a point where it could conceive of nothing in the universe transcending in greatness man’s conquest of himself. That was the demand that Buddhism, with its exaltation of character and detachment, had taught the Indian people to make of manly men. Great was the renunciation of life by the monk; but greater still, according to the epic, is the acceptance of life and the renunciation of self-interest, egoism or self-hood; and that is not possible without self-conquest.

The sum and substance of all such stories and parables is that, as taught by the Gītā (6.6), your real enemy, as your real friend, is within you, not outside :

bandhur ātmātmanas tasya yenātmaivātmanā jitaḥ / anātmanas tu śatrutve vartetātmaiva śatruvat //

"Self is the friend of him by whom the self has been conquered; but the self shall be, in its enmity, like a true enemy, towards him of uncontrolled self." Accordingly, in the Gītā, Śrī Kṛṣṇa constantly exhorts Arjuna to kill first the enemy within the gates, within himself:

pāpamānam prajahi hy enam jñānavi jñānanāśanam /
Gītā 3. 41 cd.
jahi śatruṁ mahābāho kāmarūpam durāsadam /
Gītā 3. 43 cd.

"Kill the sinful one that destroys both knowledge and experience . . . . O thou strong of arm, slay thou the enemy, in the shape of desire, so hard to reach."

If you pursue steadily the indications afforded by the symbolism underlying the lineaments of Arjuna and Śrī Kṛṣṇa and dive yet deeper into the plot of this great drama, you will discern as though in dim twilight unmistakable traces of an extensive but carefully veiled allegory underlying the whole narrative, a very delicate tracery of thought reflected, as it were, in the subconscious of the poets and finding an elusive expression — now refined and subtle, now clumsy and, to us, grotesque — in the characterization of most of the dramatis personae as well as in the delineation of many of the scenes.

The chief features of the symbolism I am thinking of are indeed quite clear and indisputable and have been pointed out long ago by ancient Indian commentators, and, apparently, even independently observed by many earnest and sympathetic students of the epic in modern times. The symbolism is admittedly sketchy, the details, as in all good poetry, being left, probably intentionally, to be filled in by the creative imagination of the sympathetic reader. It is like the Dhvani-tone, in the best Indian poetry, where the denotation (abhidhā) gives no sense or at best an imperfect sense, and we are obliged to find a transferred sense (lakṣaṇā). This transferred meaning is in the best samples of the art more striking and even more important than the expressed, but must be obtained by repeated study and deep cogitation. And that is exactly the case with the Mahābhārata.

It is not difficult to determine the symbolical role of Arjuna and Sri Krsna, since, as was remarked above, the epic itself is very explicit in its statements about them. Let us now proceed cautiously to inquire into the significance of some of the other important characters of this psychological drama, about whom the epic poets have not been quite so explicit.

The subject is difficult, and I am not sure that I see my way clearly through it. But I will try to give you the results of my thoughts. Let me add that the precise form of explanation you are prepared to accept is, to my mind, of little moment. What I just now want to do is to impress on you the fact that there is an inner significance behind the events so dramatically narrated in the Mahabharata, a meaning which is of far greater interest and consequence than the epic story on the mundane plane; or even for that matter on the ethical plane. It is true that most modern scholars are inclined to reject all such interpretations as mere subjective reading into the text of meanings that were never intended by the author; but such a view is entirely superficial. Such criticism is particularly inapplicable to our epic since it itself declares as its object the exposition of all the four aims of life: dharma, artha, kama, and moksa. The last item admittedly is concerned with metaphysical entities. We are therefore justified in expecting in the Mahabharata, directly or indirectly, light on the eternal verities of life.

Let us then look more closely into some of the other main characters of the drama. Next to Sri Krsna and Arjuna in transparency stands Dhritarashtra, the blind king of the Kurus, about whose significance there cannot be much doubt. He represents clearly, as Shri Krishna Prem has pointed out in his book on the Gita, the empirical ego, the lower and transient personality, blinded by egoism and foolish infatuation, as the Gita puts it, ahamkara-vimudhatma (Gita 3. 27). There is a subtle pun on the word Dhritarashtra itself, signifying as it does "one who has seized the kingdom", naturally by force or cunning. Although he arrogates to himself the title of king, yet his rule over the kingdom is merely a nominal one, for the real power lies with his vicious sons, just as the human personality. which so proudly says "I" is but the sport of a continuous succession of involuntary desires and passions which are the real rulers of the body it calls its own. Observe also that Dhṛtarāṣṭra is subject in a marked degree to that persistent and unshakable feeling of selfish separateness which is the distinguishing feature of the self-centred ego. This separateness shows itself for instance in the pathetic sense of attachment exhibited by Dhṛtarāṣṭra towards his own vicious sons, when the recall of the Pāṇḍavas is urged by the wise and impartial Vidura. Says Dhṛtarāṣṭra :

asamsāyām te 'pi mamaiva putrā
Duryodhanas tu mama dehāt prasūtaḥ /
svam vai deham parahetos tyajeti
ko nu brūyāt samatām anvavekṣya //

“Undoubtedly they also are my sons. But Duryodhana is sprung from my (own) body. Who, if he see impartially, would now say: ‘Give thy body up for the sake of another’?” Another striking characteristic of him is his constant vacillation between good and evil impulses, to which I have drawn attention on a previous occasion. Dhṛtarāṣṭra listens to good advice in a peevish and doubting mood, promises half-heartedly to act accordingly, and then goes and does deliberately the very opposite, but repents his weakness and ends the episode by casting the blame on destiny, the last resort of the weak mind. Having eased his conscience in that way, he is again ready to listen to more advice and repeat the whole cycle again. This, as you must realize, is precisely what the weak ego does in respect of the things it dislikes. If you now study carefully from this view-point the characterization of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, you will realize that he is a perfect symbol of the vacillating ego-centric self, pandering to its own base passions and weaving its own evil designs, engrossed in self-esteem and bent on self-aggrandization, alternately gloating over transient gains and moaning over inevitable losses.

If that be granted — and I think there cannot be much doubt about the correctness of the explanation I have given — then it would follow without need of any rigorous demonstration that Dhṛtarāṣṭra's sons, Duryodhana and his ninety-nine brothers, symbolize in their aggregate the brood of egocentric desires and passions like lust, greed, hatred, anger, envy, pride, vanity, and so on, to which the empirical ego is firmly attached and to which it clings desperately. But it is especially lust, anger and greed (kāmaḥ krodhas tathā lobhaḥ—Gītā 16.21), which are the ruling passions, and we find them strikingly combined in the chief of the Kaurava brothers, king Duryodhana.

Amidst the paraphernalia of pomp and luxury, the blinded ego, bearing the insignia of power and authority, leads the miserable existence of a criminal confined in a dark solitary penitentiary, being watched over and bullied by his jailors, the domineering and dominating passions. A slave of his boisterous and unruly emotions, the shrunken and enfeebled ego lives on merely to placate his masters, deriving a small amount of fleeting and vicarious enjoyment when the passions are gratified and falling back into despondency when they are frustrated.

In view of the facts set forth above, you will, I think, not find it difficult to believe that when the epic poets represent the Pāṇḍavas and the Kauravas together with their allies, who comprise in their aggregate the body politic, as engaged in an internecine civil war on the battlefield of Kurukṣetra, they are very plainly hinting at the psychological conflict within man of the good and evil propensities, comprising the motive forces of the human body or the human personality. Or, to put it differently, the Bhārata-yuddha on the holy Kurukṣetra is a projection, on the background of generalized history, of the psychological conflict within man himself. You will realize the propriety of the name Kurukṣetra in this connection when you recollect that kṣetra is just the technical name of body in the Sāmkhya-Yoga terminology of the Gītā (13. 1):

idaṁ śarīraṁ Kaunteya-kṣetram ity abhidhīyate /

“This body, O son of Kunti, is called the ksetra (field).”

Let us, however, return to the consideration of the question of the symbolism underlying some of the main characters of this epic drama. I have shown above that while Śri Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna symbolize the Paramātman and the jīvatman, Dhṛtarāṣṭra and his hundred sons stand for the empirical ego and its entourage of desires and passions, which cling round the blind ego and make up the totality of its little world. Now psychologists will tell you that not even the most vicious and degraded of human beings is without a conscience, that is, without an innate consciousness whether his actions are morally right or wrong. In Indian philosophy there is no precise equivalent for the word conscience. It operates with the concept of buddhi, which is a cogitative organ and the chief counsellor of man in ordinary life, enabling him to discriminate between good and evil, right and wrong. The blind king Dhṛtarāṣṭra has such a counsellor in his own brother, the wise Vidura, who is always by his side, remaining with him to the end of his days. Dhṛtarāṣṭra knows that by consulting him he can determine under every circumstance the right course of action (2. 51. 5), because he is dharmārthakuśala (5. 34. 1), adept in questions concerning dharma and artha. To beguile a sleepless night, Dhṛtarāṣṭra gets Vidura to discourse to him when Vidura reads him a lengthy lesson in ethics containing many maxims, which has come to be known as Vidura-nīti, advising the misguided king to concede the just claims of the Pāṇḍava brothers. In that royal family, says Dhṛtarāṣṭra, Vidura was the only one who was esteemed by the wise (5. 33. 15): Śrotum icchāmi te dharmyām param naiḥśreyasam vacah /
asmin rājarsi‑vaṁśe hi tvam ekaḥ prājñasammataḥ //

Dhṛtarāṣṭra appreciates the wisdom of Vidura's words and consults him constantly, but characteristically never follows his advice, which is naturally most unpalatable to him, as he is acting under the guidance of his sons who are all in all to him. You will agree with me, I think, when I say that this character bears as clearly as possible the physiognomy of Buddhi, the one-pointed reason, and this is borne out by the terms mahābuddhe and its equivalents which are used by Dhṛtarāṣṭra in addressing him. (cf. 5. 35. 1).

Another character which shows distinct traces of characteristic moulding is Grandsire Bhīṣma. Since Śrī Kṛṣṇa says that when Bhīṣma dies all knowledge will die with him (B. 12. 46. 23) and he advises Yudhiṣṭhira to question the dying stalwart on matters concerning Dharma especially, Bhīṣma seems to represent tradition, the time-binding element in human life and society. It is recognized that one of the most difficult things to obliterate completely is tradition or memory. Its death may be said to be in its own power, as Bhīṣma's was; because every attempt to kill it gives it only a new lease of life. It subsides of itself when its purpose is achieved. And this is true of the memory of the individual as of race memory.

Let us return for a moment once more to the two great characters of our epic, Arjuna and Śrī Kṛṣṇa. We have ascertained that Arjuna is the symbol of the jīvātman, not indeed of the ordinary mortal, the ego-centred personality, but the Superman (Narottama), who by practice of self-control and discipline, has purified himself, conquering the baser part of his own nature. He is, in other words, a jīvātman, one who has conquered his self, master of his body along with all its appurtenances, and not its slave, as the average man is. When in doubt or difficulty, Arjuna constantly seeks the advice of Śrī Kṛṣṇa, and follows his advice religiously, regardless of consequences to himself and to others. A very clear indication of what the epic poets thought about Arjuna and Śrī Kṛṣṇa is to be found in their identification of the two characters, which is often implied and sometimes even clearly expressed in our epic and which must have puzzled you, if you have thought about it. Thus in the Gītā, Śrī Kṛṣṇa mentions Arjuna among his vibhūtis or special manifestations. He is Vāsudeva, he says, of the Vṛṣṇis, and Arjuna of the Pāṇḍavas (Gītā 10.37) :

Vṛṣṇīnām Vāsudevo'smi Pāṇḍavānām Dhanamjayaḥ /

More surprising still is the specific mention by Śrī Kṛṣṇa on another occasion that he and Arjuna are one and the same and absolutely indistinguishable from each other (3.13.40) :

ananyaḥ Pārtha mattas tvam ahaṁ tvattaś ca Bhārata ;
nāvayoḥ antaraṁ śakyam veditum Bharatarṣabha //

Now this is obviously an absurd statement, if taken literally and considered as a proposition of everyday life, since identity could not go further and yet the epic itself recounts individually the life of two distinct and separate personalities. If it is an expression merely of intense friendship or love between two comrades or kinsmen, it is a preposterous exaggeration, which we are unable to appreciate. But the statement is explicable — in fact it is literally true and indisputably appropriate — from the monistic point of view which insists on the essential identity between the Ultimate Reality and its manifestation. Arjuna appears different and acts differently from Śrī Kṛṣṇa merely because his essential identity on the transcendental plane is realized neither by Arjuna himself nor by others around him. We may put the same thing in a different way and say that Bhagavān Śrī Kṛṣṇa is playing a dual role : as Śrī Kṛṣṇa he is guiding the Pāndavas and as Arjuna he is fighting for them. Bhagavān Śrī Kṛṣṇa of course knows this and he wants Arjuna also to know it. In substance says the Bhagavān to Arjuna, "Know thyself, O Arjuna. I am the Parabrahman. And there is no difference essentially between you and me. Who are you then ?" Tat tvam asi Svetaketo, in the words of the Upaniṣad. The Bhagavān is in other words coaxing Arjuna, the Nara, or rather the Narottama, the Superman, to tear off the mask he has been wearing and see himself as he in reality is. He will then realize that he is not different from the Bhagavān : there is no duality. That is why Kṛṣṇa is one of the names of Arjuna, why they are called Kṛṣnau, why Bhagavān Śrī Kṛṣṇa says that there is no difference between them, — if you can penetrate the thin veil of Māyā which separates them, if you can throw out of gear the mental kaleidoscope which breaks up the One into the many.

Lastly we come once more to Śrī Kṛṣṇa himself, who as I have tried to show is primarily a symbol of the Supreme Being, the Superself, the Ultimate Reality, the Changeless First Principle, free from the operation of Māyā, and therefore beyond Good and Evil. He is serene, liberal, tolerant, free and inperturbable. He is manifestly a God who has become a Man. How little difference, if any, would there be between God who has become Man and Man who has become God. Must it not be a reversible equation? Otherwise the Avatāra theory would be meaningless and merely a vapid piece of mystification. Is it blasphemy to say that Man could become God? I think not. Does not the Bhagavān himself show how Man could become God? "Freed from affection, fear and wrath, full filled with me, devotedly attached to me, by discipline of knowledge cleansed, — many have attained to my state of being, that is, have become as I am (Gītā 4.10):

vitarāgabhayakrodhā manmayā mām upāsritāḥ /
bahavo jñānatapasā pūtā madbhavam āgatāḥ //

This is tantamount to saying that there is no unbridgeable gulf between Man and God. To be sure, godhood is a difficult ideal, but in Indian conception one not impossible of achievement. Thus it will be seen that Bhagavān Śrī Kṛṣṇa, who is declared to be a manifestation of the Supreme Being, that is of the Superself, is at the same time a symbol of the hope and destiny of mankind.

I have indicated above very briefly the symbolic significance of some of the principal actors in this drama on the metaphysical plane, and I do not want to spend more words on the subject. As I told you at the outset, the precise form of theory or explanation which we accept is of little moment. What is of importance is to realize that there is an inner significance behind the events so realistically narrated in the Great Epic of India, just as there is an inner significance behind all acts, conscious and unconscious, of man himself; and yet more generally there is an inner significance behind all the phenomena of life, even though we may not be able to define and understand precisely that significance. I may add that all great works of Indian art and literature, be it then the Mahābhārata, the Rāmāyana or the Yoga Vāsiṣṭha or the plastic image of Natarāja, — they are all infused with the idea of penetrating behind the phenomena to the core of things, and they represent but so many pulsating reflexes of one and the same central impulse towards seeing unity in diversity, towards achieving one gigantic all-embracing synthesis.

Let me emphasize here with all the power at my command that it is only from this one point of view: that you will be able to understand and interpret the Mahābhārata, and that all attempts to explain it merely as an evolute of some hypothetical epic nucleus are merely examples of wasted ingenuity. The Bhṛgus have to all appearances swallowed up the epic nucleus such as it was, and digested it completely; and it would be a hazardous venture now to reconstruct the lost Kṣatriya ballad of love and war. Conditioned by its origin, our poem also has an element of love and war, but they are not the loves and wars of the old type. They have been transfused, metamorphosed and wrought into deep symbols of lasting value and vital interest, combined into an intricate transcendental cameo, telling us how to relate our lives to the background of the reality in which they are cast, teaching us to live our lives, so to say, under the shadow of eternity.

I have given you the symbolic significance of some of the principal characters in this psychological drama. With this key in your hands, it will not be difficult, I think, for you to decipher many of the hieroglyphic pictographs that had puzzled you before, and thus to obtain an insight into the deeper meaning of this great book and of its message to mankind.

Let us look then once again at some of the familiar old epic tableaux which you have known from your childhood. We shall take first the tableau representing Duryodhana and Arjuna sitting on either side of the sleeping Kṛṣṇa as narrated in the Udyogaparvan (5.7.5):

tau yātvā puruṣavyāghrau Dvārakām Kurumandanau /
suptam dadṛśatuḥ Kṛṣṇam śayānam copajagmatuh //

They were waiting to advance their respective claims for help, each hoping to secure his favour for himself to the exclusion of the other. When he wakes up, however, Śrī Kṛṣṇa surprises them by declaring that though he himself would not take up arms in the impending war, as he was related to both parties, he was going to help both in an equal measure, only in different ways, leaving the choice to themselves. To one claimant he will give his armies; the other he will serve in person unarmed. Is this, I ask you, a conceivable situation? Can you imagine, for instance, a modern politician giving such an answer to two opponents who have both come to canvass his help at the same time? Or were the old politicians different from their successors today? Is that not really very strange behaviour? It is, if one insists on regarding this as a true newspaper report—which is all that one cares for nowadays—of what happened at a meeting of three ordinary politicians. When you treat it, however, as a symbolic tableau and project it back on the transcendental plane, you will find that it is a very accurate report of what is going on behind the scenes and one full of deepest import and interest.

What do we find on the metaphysical plane? The Daivī and the Āsurī forces, symbolized here by Arjuna and Duryodhana, both derive their power from the same primeval source, which appears to be quiescent but is not inert, and is here symbolized by the sleeping Śrī Kṛṣṇa. That qualityless supreme source from which everything proceeds, who has been variously styled the Superself or the Oversoul, whom we conceive to be merely existence, consciousness and bliss, does not of course participate directly in men's squabbles. This Superself is conceived as the silent witness of the play of his Māyā. This play of his Māyā is not, however, a purely mechanical affair, like a marionette show, as one is likely to suppose. It is clearly hinted that the universe is governed by an element of freedom. Life is constantly placing alternatives before us and asking us to choose. Each one of us chooses and gets what he desires, though he is generally — or rather almost invariably — dissatisfied afterwards with what he has got and would not hesitate to deny that he had desired some of the things which he got in his life, though these are but the natural and inevitable consequences of his own voluntary actions. Duryodhana wanted power, which he gets in the shape of Śrī Kṛṣṇa's invincible army, which later gets annihilated, being deprived of their leader, in the course of the war and proved powerless to prevent the catastrophe which overtook Duryodhana. Arjuna, on the other hand, wanted just divine guidance (yato Kṛṣṇas tato dharmaḥ). Arjuna chooses it and gets it for the mere asking, and becomes in the end the conscious and willing instrument in the hands of the Divine Charioteer, who pilots his chariot on to final victory (yato dharmas tato jayaḥ).

Let us inspect another tableau, so familiar to all of you, that of the Philosopher on the Battlefield, Śrī Kṛṣṇa sitting in a war-chariot with Arjuna by his side and discoursing leisurely on metaphysical problems. A bizarre picture it seems, if we see in it only a warrior and his charioteer seated in their war-chariot occupying the centre of the battlefield and conversing about Prakṛti and Puruṣa, Sāṃkhya and Yoga and what not, when they ought to be discussing plans of war and questions of strategy. The grotesqueness of the scene vanishes, however, the moment we remove their masks and see who the persons participating in the discussion are. The key symbol is the chariot, a symbol which occurs in the Upaniṣads, in the Mahābhārata, and even in the dialogues of Plato. In the Upaniṣads the individual soul is described as the rider in the chariot of the body, while Buddhi is the charioteer. This has been improved upon in the Gītā, where the individual soul is still the rider, but the role of the charioteer has been taken over by the Supreme Self, who is beyond Buddhi, symbolized here as Bhagavān Śrī Kṛṣṇa. This, as far as I can judge, is the only way of explaining the introduction of a lengthy philosophical discourse on the battlefield, just prior to the commencement of hostilities, which would otherwise remain a grotesque absurdity. For, if the Bhārata War is viewed as a war against the enemies of the Self, then it is in the fitness of things that it should be preceded by a full-length discussion on the nature of the Self. The precise spot selected in the poem for the discourse is also not without significance. Man is for ever poised between two opposing tendencies, between the up-going creative process (pravṛtti) and the down-going destructive process (nivṛtti), and he has to make his choice between them. When the perplexed mind knows not where duty lies, the self has only to commune with his own Self, since true knowledge in these matters is to be found within the self. It is plain that since we ourselves are part of the universe, descended from that power from which everything proceeds, we must contain within ourselves some of the inspiration sufficient for our individual needs, could we only become aware.

En passant I may refer to the grotesque explanation that has been given by some foreign critics of the Mahābhārata that the idea of getting Śri Kṛṣna to prompt the heroes to commit certain supposed excesses in the Bhārata War was to exonerate the heroes by calling in as a last resort the direct command of the deity to justify what to moral apprehension was unjustifiable. "For," says HOPKINS, voicing the opinion of the analytical criticism of the Mahābhārata, "if Vishnu commanded a hero to do this, who could question the right or the wrong." This is sheer nonsense. The idea of the epic poets was evidently too subtle for HOPKINS, whom it seems to have eluded completely. What the poets wish to say is this. Learn to "contact" with the Self. When pleasure and pain are the same to you, when you become indifferent to the success or failure of your little schemes, when you lay no claims to the fruits of your action, then—and then, only—the Self will guide you personally through life, counselling you at each step, —metaphorically speaking, will drive your chariot for you. Then be true to your Self and do as he bids you. The question here is of the Self, with a capital S, of whose existence HOPKINS appears to have had not even a glimmering. If you take refuge in your self, that is, if you are true to your Self, your real Self, who is naturally the same as the Supreme Self, you will commit no sin. Says the Gītā (18.66)

:

sarvadharmān parityajya mām ekaṁ śaraṇaṁ vraja /
ahaṁ tvām sarvapāpebhyo mokṣayiṣyāmi mā śucah //

"Abandoning all dharmas, come to me alone for refuge; I will release thee from all sins; grieve not!" This "I," who is speaking is your own Self, with a capital S, because the visiting card of the speaker reads: ahaṁ ātmā Gudākheśa (Gītā 10.20). This you will realize is a very different proposition from putting the guilt on the pet god and being oneself free.

Who or what is this Self anyway? Promptly—almost indignantly—there is flashed on the screen of our mind, in reply to that question, the picture of tawdry shrivelled personality, that flaccid bundle of desires and hopes, fears and wraths. We are not now deceived, for we know this apparition to be an imposter, the blind king Dhṛtarāṣṭra, who has usurped the sway over the kingdom of the body, only to become a puppet of his vicious offspring. This blind imposter would be a useless and unsafe guide, even under ordinary circumstances; how much more so in times of stress and storm, of deep perplexity and real danger!

We have to dive deeper within ourselves to find the true Self, the King of the Dark Chamber, who abides in the heart of every being (Gītā 18.61):

īśvaraḥ sarvabhūtānām hṛddeśe 'rjuna tiṣṭhati /

But it is not so easy to discover His Majesty. Effort is necessary and perseverance: practice of self-control and concentration of mind. The Yogi must preserve a mind entirely detached from the things of the world. He should choose a place fit for meditation removed from other men. There he should sit in an upright position, steady and motionless, and by keeping his eyes fixed on the tip of his nose, he should ensure the steady concentration of his thoughts. Thus sitting the Yogi must so tranquilize his mind that neither fear nor lust may move him. All earthly thoughts will vanish, and one thought only — the thought of the Superself — will dominate his mind. Moderation must be the watchword of the daily life of the Yogi. But this Yoga practice is not by any means an end in itself; it is merely the means to an end. Its object is just to be able to achieve yoga or union, to "contact" with the Self, the real Self of man.

The history of this Self — which is also our self — goes back to the creation of the universe, and beyond to that power which has spread out this all (yena sarvam idam tatam — Gītā 2.17). Many births of the Self are passed (Gītā 4.5), all of which the Self knows but not we. We have no reason to suppose that anything has happened contrary to the urge and the need of the Self. One can therefore fulfil best the purpose of one's life by regarding oneself as the chosen instrument of the Self to effect some particular purpose (nimitta-mātāram bhava Savyasācin — Gītā 11.33). In fact all our suffering appears to be due to the building up of a strong consciousness of our existence as a separate entity and to our frantic efforts to cling to that personal separateness and identity. One must transcend that separateness and unite oneself to that Power from which one proceeds — and every thing proceeds — to know oneself one with the universe, which is also one's self.

But one imagines one is already united with oneself. In fact we believe that we can be disunited with ourselves only after our death. This belief Indian philosophers have always held to be blank ignorance or rather the opposite of true knowledge (avidyā).

Arjuna, who fancied that he knew his self, was labouring under the same delusion. And the Bhagavadgītā embodies the effort on the part of Bhagavān Śrī Kṛṣṇa to educate him, or rather to re-educate him, by disabusing his mind of various misconceptions and instructing him in his duty. And this is done not by giving him lessons in Dharmasāstra or any other Śāstra, but by merely teaching him to know his Self, to "contact" with the Self, for that, as the Indian philosophers have always maintained, is the source of all true knowledge.

* * *

THE BHAGAVADGĪTĀ

No discourse on the Mahābhārata would be complete without a reference to the Bhagavadgītā, the real kernel of the Great Epic. I have been talking round it a great deal, but let us now turn for a moment to it directly.

The mise-en-scène of the Glorious Song of the Blessed Lord is, as you know, the battle between the Kauravas and the Pāṇḍavas, the occasion is the reluctance of Arjuna to fight with his own kinsmen and the elders (gurus) in the opposing army. It was a case of a psychological conflict. To be or not to be: that was the question. For his part, he says, he prefers to renounce worldly life, to walk out of the conflict, rather than be the cause of killing his kinsmen and destroying his own family. This is a negative view of life, which is clearly not approved by his Self, whom he thought he knew so well, but — as it turned out — did not know in the least. Therefore his real Self faces him on the threshold of the conflict and makes him self-aware, that is, reminds him of that identity which Arjuna had forgotten. When he does know his true Self, as he does after Śrī Kṛṣṇa had instructed him in the mysteries of the Self, Arjuna finds that many persons whom he had formerly regarded as his kinsmen, to whom he felt firmly attached by the strongest ties and without whom life would not be worth living, were indeed his enemies whom it was his duty to kill. Projected back on to the psychological plane, this means that he must fight and annihilate his enemies comprising the entire make-up of his lower self, the whole paraphernalia of his illegitimate desires and passions, his private likes and dislikes, all the false ideals and traditions to whose guidance he had unthinkingly submitted, all sorts of relationships he had contracted in his separate existence. He had clung to them desperately, thinking that life would be impossible without them, because he had wrongly regarded them as an integral part of his being, which was just the proton pseudos of his existence.

The Bhagavān knows well enough that Arjuna's mood of despair is but a passing emotion and that his nature will prevail, compelling him to fight, as he was destined to do. Only he wants Arjuna to know the raison d'etre of the fight. It was not merely a question of the justice or injustice of the cause for which he was fighting. Political exigencies have no real value on the metaphysical plane. The mind of man or his intellect can be depended on to make right of wrong and wrong of right, to suit his self-interest. Man is judged ultimately in the secret recess of his own heart, and the final arbiter is the Self of the dispassionate man, who has conquered himself and eliminated self-interest. And if a man's action is certified as right by his Self, it is unquestionably right as far as he is concerned, and there is no power on earth or in heaven which can make it wrong. By prevarication or subterfuge he can deceive no one but himself, because all that he thinks or does not think, all that he desires or does not desire, all that he does or does not do, is indelibly impressed on his own personality, and becomes merely the basis of further efforts to realize the Self.

Arjuna the Superman has been constantly exhorted by Śrī Kṛṣṇa to become a Yogi, which means nothing more or less than that he should be one who has attained conscious union (yoga) with the Supreme Self. When we analyse human life, we find that it has three—and only three—aspects : intellectual, (or ratiocinative), reactive, and emotional. Consequently his union with the Superself must be likewise threefold or three-dimensional : intellectual, reactive and emotional, which the Gītā calls Jñānayoga (or Buddhiyoga), Karmayoga and Bhaktiyoga.

Of these the first, Jñānayoga, is union with the Self by knowledge. It consists in the intellectual conviction arrived at by ratiocination—or still better by intuition—that the universe is one, that everything in the universe is interconnected, that one cannot escape relationship that unites us to everything that exists, nor from the continuity which joins us to the past, the present and the future. It also includes the intellectual realization that one's real interests and the universal interests coincide exactly. Diversity of phenomena is admitted, but the Jñānī sees unity in diversity, which is naturally a difficult mental or intellectual feat and which is the real test of true knowledge. Hence this is said to be a difficult path to tread.

The second yoga is Karmayoga, which is the union with the Self by physical action. As a result of it all action is performed for the sake of the Self, that is, the Superself, and such action is uninfluenced and unaffected by what may collectively be termed the profit-motive. It is characterized by a certain dexterity—one might say, a certain knack—in performing actions that enables one to cast off the "binding" power of action, in other words, to prevent a recoil,—a result which is achieved by dedicating one's life to the universal aim, in other words, by regarding oneself as an agent or instrument in the hands of the Superself and dedicating to him accordingly the fruits of all actions as they accrue.

The third and last yoga is the Bhaktiyoga, which is union with the Superself by devotion or love. It manifests itself as the emotional delight in being united with the Self, from whom one has been divorced during one's selfish separate life, and in co-operating with him for the universal aim. It is characterized by accepting the universe with an enthusiastic gladness, by accepting it not only with one's mind, with one's reason, but with one's whole being. The Yogi recognizes that reason alone is not an adequate instrument with which to encompass the universe and therefore substitutes for it unquestioning devotion to the service of the Self, whom he mentally pictures to himself, from habit, in an anthropomorphic form as the Lord (Iśvara).

Since the universe is infinite and the Self pervades everything, it follows that any one of these three paths pursued diligently will lead to the same ultimate goal, the one and only goal. But following any single one of these three paths to the utter exclusion of the other two would inevitably lead to a wilful strangulation of the personality of man, involving unnecessary repressions. The complete Man is one who attains to conscious unity with the Superself in all aspects of his being, intellectually, reactively and emotionally, integrating all the sides and aspects of man. Knowing intellectually the universe to be one and seeing unity in diversity, the Yogi will act, uninfluenced by the profit motive, with his whole being for the universal aim, in his particular sphere of action, whatever it be; and also he will experience emotional delight in doing so. He reaches a state of self-consciousness, of wholeness, in which his knowledge and experience have so become part of himself and his intuition is so awake that he is spontaneously in harmony with his surroundings. He has realized that his own interests and the universal interests coincide absolutely with no gap between them. Such a man accepts without question his place in the social order and fulfils the functions allotted to that place, because he realizes that he has attained it by his own past endeavours and his own conscious or unconscious desires.

This is in a nutshell the Gītā doctrine in its essentials, stripped of its archaic phraseology. It implies an ideal, simple to preach and hard to practise, the vow of the Perfected Man, which is as keen as the razor's edge, as the Indian poet says. And this ideal pervades the entire Mahābhārata.

Is the Gītā an interpolation? The question has no meaning in the light of the explanation I have given you of the structure and the meaning of the Mahābhārata. The Gītā is in fact the heart's heart of the Mahābhārata, and the Mahābhārata is a sort of a necessary commentary on the Gītā. It has been well said that no decalogue has half the influence over human conduct that is exercised by a single drama or a page of narrative. The philosophy of the Gītā had to be expounded by application, if it was to be of any use to the mass of the people for whom it was primarily intended,.

This was somewhat of a digression, but an inevitable one, as no discourse on the Mahābhārata, however short and summary, would be complete without at least an indication of the trend of the teaching of the Bhagavadgītā.

* * *

Let us then go back to the consideration of the story on the metaphysical or transcendental plane. I was trying to show you that there is a subtle symbolism of the metaphysical order underlying the story. I drew your attention to the fact that when the epic poets speak of Śrī Kṛṣṇa, they are almost always thinking of the Paramātman, whom we have called the Superself. Arjuna equally clearly represents to them primarily the individual self, who is deemed by the Superself a pupil, sufficiently advanced in self-realization to be initiated into the final mysteries of the threefold yoga, which is the attainment of conscious union with the Superself on all the three planes of human existence. But since Arjuna is explicitly stated to be merely a manifestation (vibhūti) of Śrī Kṛṣṇa or is in other words merely another aspect of him, the Guru and the Siṣya are in this instance thought of being identical. We have here in other words the splitting up of one personality into two characters, Arjuna and Śrī Kṛṣṇa. From this point of view the Gītā is purely and simply a document of self-analysis or psycho-analysis by oneself. Here the cosmic mind, symbolized

as Bhagavān Śrī Kṛṣṇa analyses by introspection with the Gītā the conscious mind, symbolized as Arjuna, determines and eliminates its complexes and synthesizes it.

The central symbolism of the Superself and the individual self, which is of a patent and indisputable character, gets transferred to the minor characters as well of this psychological drama, and all the other important characters, also function, to a certain degree, symbolically. Many of the scenes of this drama which at first sight appear to us unintelligible or at least uncouth and grotesque acquire deep significance when they are treated symbolically and projected back on to the metaphysical or psychological plane of thought.

Now I realize that these descriptions must remain rather ineffective when unaccompanied by detailed illustrations. But such detailed illustrations would clearly take us quite beyond the limits of the present lecture series. I will only mention that this is no new discovery of mine, but that such psychological and metaphysical explanations of the characters and the plot of the Mahābhārata are scattered in the ancient Indian commentaries of the epic, the best known among them being the Mahābhārata-tātparya-nirṇaya of Ānandatīrtha, the great Madhvācārya, who has clearly stated in that work that the story of the Great Epic has been related in such a way as to convey also an allegorical meaning:

evam adhyātmaniṣṭhaṃ hi Bhāratam sarvam ucyate /
durviñeyam ataḥ sarvair Bhāratam tu surair api //

Ānandatīrtha explains the symbolism by giving the psychological concepts corresponding to many of the important characters, differing partly from those given by me. But as I have said, the details which have been left intentionally vague by the ancient poets are really of little moment. The important thing is that it was traditionally recognized that the Kurukṣetra is at the same time the battlefield of the different emotions and passions in the heart of man, the holy battleground of the eternal war between the higher nature and the lower nature of man.

* * *

RETROSPECT

In the course of these lectures it has been my endeavour to demonstrate that there are three clear perspectives from which the Mahābhārata can be viewed. There is the matter-of-fact view-point. On this material or mundane plane, it is the lively story of a fierce war of annihilation said to be waged between two families of cousins, which ends in the victory of one of the claimants to the throne, a story which in all probability is not entirely an invention but has some historical basis, which is however, entirely in the background. On the mundane plane, from end to end, the main interest of the poem is held and centred on character. Next there is what may be called the Dharmic view-point. On this ethical plane, the war is regarded as a conflict between the principles of Dharma and Adharma, the Pāṇḍavas standing for Dharma, the Kauravas for Adharma, they being the incarnations of the Devas and the Asuras respectively, and the war ends in the victory of Dharma (yato dharmas tato jayah). There is, thirdly and lastly, the transcendental or metaphysical view-point. This aspect of the story is only suggested and gains in interest and importance by being that, having all the power and beauty of a chiaroscuro from the brush of a master painter, which produces its ethereal effects by the power of suggestion. On this transcendental plane, which is the view-point beyond Dharma and Adharma, beyond Good and Evil, the epic develops what may be termed the philosophy of the Self, which may properly be regarded as an attempt at a synthesis of life. In doing this, the epic poets stage a war between the Higher Self and the lower self of man, symbolized by the family of cousins, who are fighting for the sovereignty over the kingdom of the body. In this conflict the Superman (Arjuna) under the guidance of the Superself (Sri Krsna), acquiring insight into the nature and character of his own self and realizing the fundamental identity between the individual self and the Superself, cleaves with the sword of knowledge his own ignorance, manifested in the shape of all the illegitimate desires and doubts, passions and prejudices, ideas and idiosyncracies, which 'had' crystallized round him in the course of his separate existence and which he had falsely considered as innately and intimately belonging to himself, as an inalienable and indivisible part of his own personality, his own individuality, his own being

:

tasmād ajñānasambhutaṁ hṛtstham jñānāsinātmanaḥ /
chittvainam saṁsāyam yogam ātisthottiṣṭha Bhārata //
Gītā 4.42

Projected on to the material or mundane plane, these various ligaments which bind the self are made visible, embodied as relatives, teachers, elders, and friends, whom Arjuna sees from his central position, ranged on one side of the Kuru-kṣetra, and whom he finds so difficult to face and to kill. His illusion destroyed, the individual self becomes ready to obey unhesitatingly the behests and to accomplish joyously the work of the Superself as his chosen instrument.

Bhagavān Śrī Kṛṣṇa always exhorts Arjuna to become a Yogi. The Yogi intellectually realizes that the universe is one, that he cannot escape from the relationship that unites him to everything that exists, nor from the continuity which joins him to the past, the present and the future. The Yogi, who is self-aware, is characterized by equipoise, accepts the universe with an enthusiastic gladness, whole and as it is, realizing the immense possibilities which it holds. He accepts it not only with his mind, his reason, but with his whole being. The way of the Yogi is the hardest, demanding as it does greatest love, courage, freedom, and self-mastery.

The key-note of the philosophy of the Mahābhārata, which is identical with the philosophy of the Gītā, is samatva. It is the essence of Yoga, the heart's heart of Yoga, so that in the Gītā samatva is identified with yoga (samatvaṁ yoga ucyate — Gītā 2.48). The meaning of samatva can be seen only by careful observation of its use,—a point we cannot go into here. It means something like equableness, harmony, balance. Balance of what? It is evidently balance of personality that is meant. The man who is sama clearly does not try to fly from the world. Worldly life brings a multitude of marvellous experiences, most precious, not to be missed at any cost, but not to be utterly absorbed in. The way of life of the Yogi, who has attained samatva, affects his whole personality, bringing into their right and balanced relationship the functions of reason and will and emotion. He walks evenly among the beauties and the perils of the world — like Bhagavān Śrī Kṛṣṇa in our epic or his human counterpart, Arjuna; you have to think of the two as one — feeling the love, joy, anger and the rest. In fact he runs through the whole gamut of emotions, and through it all he preserves his balance, equipoise, aloofness, — like a scientist watching objectively the results of the ever new experiments he arranges, able to control the materials but not the results.

To put it yet more simply, the Mahābhārata embodies the spirit of Yogic Idealism, that is, of feeling the value and wonder of life and being desirous of making it a better thing; and further, with that end in view, to combine the spirit of intense enjoyment with a tempering wisdom, perfect control and natural equipoise, — going into seas of experience steered by samatva. That is active renunciation, the leitmotiv of the Mahābhārata. The doctrine is enunciated formally in the Gītā, and illustrated in a lively and picturesque manner in the story.

The epic poets, we find, are using every means in their power to expound, illustrate and popularize what we might for short call the Philosophy of the Self, a lofty philosophy of ethical autonomy, unparalleled for its boldness and comprehensiveness, and to convey their message of moral duty and hope, with emphasis on the application of these principles to the problems of daily life.

When we realize these facts, questions as to the historicity of the polyandrous marriage of Draupadī, or the precise ethnic affinities of the Pāṇḍavas, or the exact date of the Mahābhārata War, of the origin and development of the epic — these and other favourite topics of academic wrangling — lose some of their glamour and cease to engross us. They are legitimate questions no doubt and not totally devoid of interest. But we must realize that while disputing about them, we are still

On account of the rapidly shifting planes of perspective of the vast canvass on which the epic poets operate in developing their three-dimensional theme, the construction of the story has naturally become very complex, and its form has given rise in modern times to many amusing misconceptions and to some grotesque theories. But I can assure you that there is no serious contradiction or inconsistency in the work, as you may have been led to believe from a cursory perusal of it. I hope I have succeeded in showing you that the Mahābhārata, which may have started as an epic, has certainly not ended in becoming a chaos, as OLDENBERG imagined. It would be a pardonable hyperbole to say that it has ended in becoming the cosmos, as it very modestly says of itself :

yad ihāsti tad anyatra yan nehästi na tat kvacit/

"What is in this work may be found elsewhere, but what is not in this work is to be found nowhere"!

The chaos which modern critics think they see in the Great Epic of India is but a reflex of the state of their own mind and not in the work at all, which on the other hand is a mighty pulsating work, clothing in noble language and with pleasing imagery a profound and universal philosophy, a glowing and rhythmic synthesis of life.