In plain words
I have slain even the greatest of men. I have had them slain. You drew us close, children who had lost their father, loved us more than a father and raised us, and you too we have brought down to the ground. You, Bhīṣma, famed as the master of archery with no equal, we have put through much suffering. With a lie I made Droṇācārya, my guru, renounce his weapons and his arts of war. We have slain many dear kinsmen and friends too. With what face am I to rule the kingdom now? With what face am I to sit on the throne? Please, do not crown me!’ Dharmaja pleaded. Bhīṣma smiled: ‘Karmānubandhīni manuṣyaloke. Dharmaja! You are one who knows everything. Karma is the cause of everything, not persons. Not the deed. “I have killed many, I have killed,” is all you keep saying. Who is it that kills? Who is it that has others kill? You have no power to kill. You have no power to have anyone killed. What kills, what has others kill and what keeps alive is nothing but the karma each one does! Let me tell you a little story about this.’ And Bhīṣma began a story.
A mother who had one only son lost her husband and, taking the boy by the hand, set out through the forest for the next village. Tired out, they sat down in the shade of a cool tree to rest a while. That mother was no ordinary mother. She was a divine mother who had well understood the secret of karma. She laid her son on her lap for a while and, meaning to rest a little, leaned her head back and closed her eyes. After a while the boy gave a shriek and cried. The mother opened her eyes and looked. In that moment a snake had come out of an anthill, bitten the boy, and was going back into the anthill. The mother saw the sight. Blood flowed. Within a little while the boy fainted. Before she could look this way and that, his life was gone. She sat with the boy before her, wailing aloud. Along that same road a highway robber was going on his way. He too came under that tree to rest. When he saw the grieving mother, even this wild man's heart melted. “Mother, why are you weeping?” he asked. “My son has died. A mother's grief is natural, is it not, my son!” “What caused the child's death?” he asked again. “A snake came out of that anthill, bit him and went,” she said. She told him he had died of the snake's bite. At once, to comfort the mother and ease her grief as far as he could, the wild man tried to break open the anthill and kill the snake. Then the mother laid the child aside and caught the man's hand: “My son!