Verse 1

In plain words

7. Vidura's Teaching on Right Conduct "That you, having reached such an age, should go on living a dog's life without any shame or sense of disgrace — it is a humiliation even to me. Fie! Fie! A crow's life is better than yours!" So Vidura began to speak, with great harshness. Then Dhṛtarāṣṭra cried, "Ah, enough! Enough! You are taking my very life-breath! These are not words a younger brother speaks. A doubt is growing strong in me whether you are truly Vidura or not. Besides, is Dharmaja a stranger? Am I someone fallen on strangers' charity, living at another's door? What are these strange words? Dharmaja cares for us with greater Prema than children born of one's own womb — what sin could be greater than to regard him as a stranger? This is my fate!" And shaking his head, he sank deep in thought. At this Vidura laughed with contempt and said: "O King! Have you not felt even a little shame in speaking such words? Dharmaja may well regard you with more Prema than a father; he may render you more service than your own sons. These are the reflection of the good qualities within him, the adornment of the name he so truly bears. But do you not need to consider your own case? Even with your legs already stretched out toward the cremation ground, holding the body alone to be what matters, you go on, eyes shut, filling your belly as one fills a basket. Before this — how you treated the Pāṇḍavas, listening to the words of your wicked sons, how you conducted yourself toward them — once

could you not reflect on it? You placed them in the house of lac and tried to burn them. You tried to kill them with poison. In the full assembly you subjected Pāñcālī to humiliation. The Pāṇḍavas, embodiments of Dharma — you and your sons, turned rogues, made them undergo every kind of hardship. In those days you sat shifting about on the throne like an old elephant, asking those beside you, 'What is happening now? What is happening now?' — if you remembered that, could you stay in their house for even a minute? Were these Pāṇḍavas not your own people then? Has the bond of kinship that did not exist in those days sprung up in you newly today? You say it without even a trace of shame. Why say more? Did not the dice-game of those days take place on your consent alone? Will you deny that too? Of that I myself am the eye-witness. How much did I tell you? Did you take even a little of it into your head? Where had these moral principles and this Prema gone in those days? Today, gulping down like a dog the food the Pāṇḍavas set before you, living a base life, you still go on saying, 'Are the Pāṇḍavas strangers?'" So, with the harshest of words, like knife-thrusts and hammer-blows, Vidura set himself to awaken virakti in him. With these words Dhṛtarāṣṭra truly had a change of heart; thinking that Vidura was telling him the truth as it is, and reflecting on it, he said: "Brother! All that you say is true indeed; but what would you have me do? Suppose I go off alone to the forests, telling no one — I have no eyes. Someone or other must be with me as a companion. As long as it lasts, this body must be looked after somewhat, must it not? There may be difficulties in arranging food; and besides, you know that Gāndhārī cannot stay apart from me for even half a minute. Tell me yourself what you would have me do." Vidura observed that, speaking thus in somewhat calmer words, he was coming round to the right way —

Delusion about the Body: The Mark of Fools "Dhṛtarāṣṭra! It is this abhimāna toward the house called the body that is making you blind. However long one lives, this body must inevitably be left behind. It is not permanent. This body — made of excrement and urine, foul-smelling flesh and blood, oozing stench every minute — is not you. The delusion 'I am the body' is the mark of fools; such a one is jaḍa. While the enemy called Death is marching in against it with an army of countless diseases, you, without a thought for any refuge, like one gone mad, go on gratifying your cravings. These are never permanent; they must be left behind. Therefore reach some sacred kṣetra — any one of them — and, with contemplation of the Supreme and remembrance of Paramātma, strive eagerly for attainment of the higher world. To leave the body in a holy place itself is blessed; but do not suffer a forlorn death like a jackal, like a dog. Arise! Take up Vairāgya; leave the house. Cast off delusion!" Thus, as though he had made everything ready then and there, Vidura caused Vairāgya to be born in Dhṛtarāṣṭra's heart. Then Dhṛtarāṣṭra, after some deep thought, shedding streams of tears, his lips trembling, groping about with his hands, said: "Vidura! What shall I say of you, who have taught me such sacred counsel for my good? Though you are younger in body, in Jñāna you are like a guru to all of us. Do as you wish. Do not regard me as apart from you — listen to my words with a somewhat calm mind. After that we shall proceed as you wish." In this way he expressed his own situation. "Tie Your Delusions Up in Bundles and Throw Them into the Water…" "Vidura! It is not quite proper to set out without telling Dharmaja, who protects us with greater Prema than one's own sons. If he comes to know of it that way,

he will not send us to the forests. And if we were to insist otherwise, it is that Dharmaja's svabhāva to set out along with us himself. I am caught in such a dharma-saṅkaṭa — rescue me from it yourself, and find me a place fit for tapas." So he pleaded, with great humility. Vidura, smiling, said: "O King! Your words are very strange. You are not setting out for amusements, for feasting, or for roaming in pleasure-groves, are you? You are going off to practise tapas as one who has renounced all attachment — and yet you would give room to mamakāra and abhimāna, and resolve to go only after taking formal leave. What is that, if not strange? Such thoughts ought never to arise in you, who have undertaken to sacrifice the body itself. These are causes of bondage indeed; they can never be means to Mokṣa. Tie up such delusions in bundles and throw them into the water. Set your body moving with nothing but the clothes you stand in. Do not waste time." So, with no regard for pity or courtesy, without altering his manner of speech, he rained down words of great renunciation. Dhṛtarāṣṭra, who was sitting on the bed listening, again said anxiously: "Vidura! The words you speak are utterly true. But I need not tell you specially of my condition: the body is a ripe fruit, and the eyes — unripe ones. Must there not be someone to help me, even just to show me the way? And then your sister-in-law, Gāndhārī, though she has eyes, has become blind because of me. How shall such blind people as we reach the forest without a companion? Our life has fallen into dependence on others. Who has the power to overstep destiny?" Seeing Dhṛtarāṣṭra wiping the tears from his eyes as he said this, Vidura, though he felt pity in his heart, did not show it outwardly, and with great enthusiasm said: "O King! You have only to ask; I am ready for everything. What other joy could I have than sending you off to tapas? Set out; I shall take you." With that Vidura rose and stood up. Dhṛtarāṣṭra too got down from the bed and stood up. Meanwhile Gāndhārī too, holding his shoulders, got down and said, "My lord!

I too am coming, fully ready," she pleaded. To this Dhṛtarāṣṭra set out many reasons for her: that to protect women in the forests is very hard; moreover, that she would be exposed to wild beasts, fearsome noises and many hardships — and so much more. Gāndhārī heard it all, yet only nodded, as though she had not heard; she would not stay behind apart from her lord, she said, and no suffering that her lord did not bear would fall on her alone: "Just as, all this time, I have conducted myself following my husband, so too in this matter it is my duty to follow. It is the natural Dharma of the noble women of Bhārata. Whatever you may say, I will not stay behind apart from you. Nor is it Dharma for you to speak thus. Rather than the comforts of the inner palace without you, the hardship of the forest with you is all happiness to me. Keep your affection toward me, and grant me your consent." And saying this, groping her way, she fell at his feet. As Dhṛtarāṣṭra was again saying something, Vidura cut in: "O King! This is no fit time for arguing, or for deliberating on Dharma and adharma. This jewel among sādhvīs, who all this time has followed you without leaving you for even a minute — can she stay apart from you today, of all days? That would not be right. It is best to take her along too." Gāndhārī and Dhṛtarāṣṭra Go to the Forest "For those who go for tapas, neither fear and alarm, nor hardships and losses, nor hunger and thirst stand in the way — nor must they. To be caught by such things can never be tapas. When you are in the very act of sacrificing the body itself, will you worry over mere hardships and losses? Come! This is no moment for delay." So saying, Vidura took Dhṛtarāṣṭra by the hand and walked ahead; as Dhṛtarāṣṭra followed Vidura, Gāndhārī placed her hand on her husband's shoulders, and she followed Dhṛtarāṣṭra. Vidura — a supreme bhakta, a man of prajñā — with the utmost vigilance, so that neither the guards nor the townsfolk would know any trace of them,

led them out of the city — not by the main streets, but through narrow little lanes. He was in great haste to reach the forest before daybreak. But the river Gaṅgā lay across their way, and since there were no boatmen to ply a boat at that untimely hour, they had to wait on the riverbank until dawn. Then, having let Dhṛtarāṣṭra and Gāndhārī rest under cover of the bushes, he himself kept a lookout for a boat, and before the pitch darkness had lifted, they crossed the Gaṅgā.

In plain words

8. The Transformation That Arose in Dhṛtarāṣṭra Vidura, Dhṛtarāṣṭra and Gāndhārī reached the forest. While Vidura, full of śraddhā and intent on the task, searched to settle on the best place fit for tapas, teaching Dhṛtarāṣṭra and Gāndhārī the path of sādhana suited to them and passing the time in contemplation of sacred matters — meanwhile, in Hastināpura, as soon as it dawned, Dharmaja rose, duly performed his bath, the sandhyā worship and the other rites, completed the agnihotra and the rest, performed the acts of dāna and Dharma that were his daily observances, and, as was his custom, set out on foot to pay his respects to his paternal uncle Dhṛtarāṣṭra, arriving at the mansion where Dhṛtarāṣṭra and Gāndhārī lived. Since Dhṛtarāṣṭra and Gāndhārī, his aunt and uncle, were not to be seen in the bedchamber, he thought they had perhaps gone to attend to their morning duties, and for some time he walked about here and there, looking on all sides. As he did so, seeing that in that room the belongings lay just where they were, the bed undisturbed, the pillow not pressed down, he thought someone had perhaps made the bed. But some unknown suspicion entered him and began to trouble him. Then he went over, thinking to take a look at the house where Vidura stayed. There too Vidura was not to be seen. The bed looked entirely untouched. When he asked the attendants there, they told him that, having gone last night to Mahārāja Dhṛtarāṣṭra's residence,

the great ṛṣi had not come back. The moment he heard this, Dharmaja's heart lurched. Going back with great speed to Mahārāja Dhṛtarāṣṭra's mansion, he searched room after room; learning that there was no one in it, his suspicion grew still deeper and turned to grief. His legs and hands faltered; his throat went dry; his words stopped. Why say more? Dharmaja collapsed as if lifeless; helpless, he cried out frantically. He called for Vidura. Hearing that voice, the servants and the officials nearby started in alarm. As though asking what calamity it might be, all of them — "What is it? What is it?" — stood by the great lord with folded hands, anxiously awaiting his command. Meanwhile Sañjaya came in haste. Dharmaja gripped both of Sañjaya's hands tightly and, pouring out his sorrow, cried: "Where have my mother and father gone? I have had to see their bedchamber empty — what is the reason for this? Did they tell you anything? If I knew any trace of them, I would go, clasp their feet, plead with them, and bring them back. If I have committed any offences, I would beg them to forgive me. Tell me quickly, Sañjaya!" Seeing Dharmaja lamenting thus — anxious, distraught, shedding tears — Sañjaya was stunned and sank into thought. The Pāṇḍavas weep, finding no trace of Dhṛtarāṣṭra He knew nothing at all. Thinking only that this was Vidura's doing, he too, shedding streams of tears, holding Dharmaja's hands, said in a choked voice: "My lord! I pray that you will believe my words; I am telling you the truth. The Mahārāja, who on any matter however small used to take counsel from me — 'Sañjaya, what would you have me do?' — has, in this matter, without the slightest consultation with me, without telling me any intention of his, acted thus; and to me, of all people,

it is utterly astonishing. What shall I say? Though I was right beside him, he told me nothing whatever of that move; in his undertaking such a deed I know of no sin of mine. I never imagined, even in a dream, that the Mahārāja would deceive me so. Having shown me mountains of trust and Prema, to deceive me like this in the end — that is the fruit of my sin." Seeing Sañjaya weeping like a child as he said this, Dharmarāja said: "Sañjaya! This is truly the fruit of our sin, and nothing else." How ill-fated we are is made plain by this. Our father left us in our very early childhood and passed to the other world. Our revered uncle reared us, mere infants as we were, and brought us up. Be he father or uncle, we believed with all our hearts that he alone was ours, and served him. What offence could I have committed in his service? Knowingly, with deliberate intent, I never harboured any offence against them. So that my uncle and aunt — who had lost a hundred sons and were burning in the fire of grief — might have some Śānti, at least in some measure, and might forget their grief for their sons, I and my brothers served them single-mindedly and looked after them so that no want of any kind ever came to them; we never neglected them in any matter whatever — not in deed, not in manner, not in thought. That they should take offence at such as us and leave the house in this way, without telling us even a single word — that is the fruit of our sin. Our aunt and uncle are old; and not only that, they are blind. I cannot think how they left the house. How many hardships they must be suffering! Not even one servant went with them. What use is it, so many of us being here? Not seeing the way, have they perhaps fallen into the Gaṅgā? Alas! How unfortunate I am! Having guarded them all this time as the eyelid guards the eye, in the end, in their old age, I have brought them to so harsh a condition!" So he lamented, beating his breast, and the sound of his wailing reached his brothers.

Wondering what calamity it could be, they came from wherever they were, leaping up like birds taking flight. Kuntīdevī too, not knowing the cause, cried in agitation, "What is it, my son? What has happened?" and, drawing him to her side, began to console him. Then she looked here and there through the rooms. Since her brother-in-law and her co-sister-in-law Gāndhārī were nowhere to be seen, she asked Sañjaya where they were. He too, unable to give any answer, began to weep aloud. Thinking that this might well be the reason, and crying, "Alas! Where have they gone, at this age? What is the reason?", she anxiously put many questions and tried to question the servants and everyone else. Weeping, they all said they knew nothing at all. Meanwhile Dharmaja called his brothers and, unable to utter a word, made signs of many kinds. His brothers understood nothing of it. Then Dharmaja gathered his courage, wiped away his tears, told them what had happened, and said: "Probably, since they are blind, they cannot have gone very far. Having lost their way, they will be groping about here and there. So send the retinue at once and have them searched for in every direction." So Dharmaja commanded Bhīma. Then Bhīma, Nakula and Sahadeva, as their elder brother had commanded, sent out as many troops as were needed in every direction. Hollows, high ground, wells, tanks, rivers, gullies — they combed them all, step by step; no trace was found. At last, thinking that the Gaṅgā itself might have become their eternal abode, they had all its banks searched, and, thinking they might have floated up somewhere, they summoned experts who dive into the water to search, and had it searched. The result was failure. No trace of Dhṛtarāṣṭra and Gāndhārī was found. At last the Pāṇḍavas fell into despair and passed their days in anguish, saying, 'So in the end we could not protect them.'

While this was so, Dhṛtarāṣṭra and Gāndhārī, seated at ease in the tapovana, were practising tapas; with unceasing contemplation of Paramātma they had immersed their hearts in bliss, and as they remained tanmaya, a forest fire that sprang up in the woods came upon them of its own accord and reduced their bodies to ash. Since Vidura had the wish to give up his body at the holy place of Prabhāsa, he was not caught by the forest fire; rejoicing at the sadgati of Dhṛtarāṣṭra and Gāndhārī, he set out from there on pilgrimage to the holy places, reached the holy place of Prabhāsa, and there relinquished his perishable physical body.

In plain words

13. The Coronation of Parīkṣit Kuntī Devī too followed the path of Śyāmasundara. All that remained there now was Kuntī Devī's lifeless body! Arjuna, who was near her, perceived his mother's life departing and began to weep aloud: "Brother! What is this strange thing? Have we lost even our Mother?" Dharmaja, who was standing, said "What?" as though startled, came close, and on seeing his mother's face stood stunned. The maidservants who had been waiting at the outer doors heard Arjuna's words and at once peeped inside. Kuntī Devī's body had fallen to the ground. Arjuna had placed his mother's head in his lap and, covering his face, was grieving. The maidservants who saw that sight told one another in agitation; and when they came in and looked, and learned that their queen had left them forever, they all began to wail loudly. Meanwhile, running one after another, they informed the queens in the inner palace. Within a minute the news of Kuntī Devī's death had spread through all of Hastināpura. From the inner palace the queens — beating their breasts, striking their heads, making lamentations of every kind — like ants pouring from anthills, queens and maidservants came from every side in crowds upon crowds, running

and, seeing them coming, Bhīma, Nakula, Sahadeva and the others, the ministers, and all the rest came flocking there within minutes. The scene at that moment was beyond description! All who saw the lifeless body of Kuntī Devī — who only a minute before had been waiting, full of joy and full of life, for Arjuna's arrival, to hear the news of Dvārakā — could not believe it. All who came and saw stood frozen like dolls, without stirring or moving. On one side the weeping of the maidservants and the cries of the queens could be heard, enough to melt even hearts of stone. Dharmaja's Intense Vairāgya Meanwhile Dharmaja consoled everyone, reassured his brothers with courage that they should not grieve, and moved about here and there without shedding a single tear — and this astonished those who watched. Then the ministers came and asked him in sorrow: "O King! Your Majesty's courage astonishes us greatly. Mother, whom you regarded as equal to your very life and whom you served — what is the reason that your heart has today become frozen?" Dharmaja, smiling gently, said: "Ministers! Mother's death arouses envy in me; grief does not come. She is supremely fortunate! As soon as she heard the news that the Lord had gone to His own abode, the world became distant to her. Not wishing to endure the pain of separation, she too went to Śyāmasundara's side. The unfortunate ones in every way are these stone-hearted Pāṇḍavas! Though we were intimate with the Lord, though we received from Him every kind of joy, and though we have heard of His departure, our hearts did not break — they are no different from rocks. Truly, in us that same Bhakti

had it indeed been there, why could we not, like Mother, give up our bodies? Fie! Our lives are nothing but a burden to the earth; they have no other use." As soon as everyone learned that Kuntī Devī had given up her life because she could not bear separation from Kṛṣṇa, they left off their grief for Kuntī and began to lament even more terribly over their parting from Śyāmasundara. Some, hearing from Dharmaja's own mouth that Kṛṣṇa had gone to His own abode, lost consciousness and collapsed where they stood. Some cried out like madmen. Still others beat their heads against the walls. In this way — as when kerosene is poured onto burning firebrands — the two griefs became one, and in the tumult no one could hear another's words. At that moment Dharmaja stepped into their midst, gave courage to the queens, consoled each as befitted each, and told them there was no need to lament either for Mother's death or for separation from Śyāmasundara: "They have each carried things out according to their own saṅkalpa. Now we must make the fitting efforts to complete our own saṅkalpas." Saying this, Dharmaja came to his younger brother: "Arjuna! Arise! There is no more call for delay. Mother's cremation rites must be performed at once. Tomorrow itself Parīkṣit's coronation must be performed; this very night we must leave Hastināpura. Even a single moment feels a burden." As soon as he declared this intense Vairāgya, Arjuna — whose Vairāgya was more intense still — lifted his mother's head from his thigh and laid it down, ordered Nakula and Sahadeva to make the fitting arrangements for Parīkṣit's coronation, and he too began to move about here and there, telling each person the tasks it befitted them to do. Bhīma was having the arrangements made for his mother's cremation.

The ministers, citizens, priests and gurus who were watching and hearing these strange proceedings were filled with astonishment, agitation and anxious distress, and began to waste away within. Among them, in them too, intense Vairāgya sprouted. The extraordinary events taking place in the royal palace could not fail to overwhelm anyone whatever with astonishment. "Ah! Dharmaja had been groaning and pining over the parting from his uncle and aunt; upon him at once came the thunderbolt news that Kṛṣṇa had gone to His own abode, and it shattered his heart. Then, the loss of Mother. Her body has not yet even been carried out. On another side, the coronation preparations. In such a state, the emperor leaving everything and setting out for the forests with his brothers! Such courage and daring are possible for none but the Pāṇḍavas alone; others cannot manage them." Be that as it may, within hours he performed the scripturally enjoined cremation rites for his mother's body, had the Brahmins summoned, and undertook to have Parīkṣit Mahārāja's coronation carried out with only the ordinary rites. The news was not conveyed at all, neither to the vassal kings nor to the other kinsmen and friends living in Indraprastha. The Coronation Performed Amid Tears of Grief A coronation, for the emperors of the Bharata dynasty's throne, was customarily decided months in advance and carried out with immense arrangements and with how much splendour! But today they were resolving to complete every preparation within minutes, with only what was at hand. Within minutes the ceremonial oil-bath and the other rites were performed; the Brahmins and the priests were summoned; the ministers were taken along; the boy was adorned with every ornament and seated on the throne. And as Dharmaja, with his own hand, was placing his own divine crown, studded with gold and gems, on the child's head, there was no one who did not shed streams of tears. The burden of the kingdom, which he should have assumed amid tears of joy and the akṣata of blessing, Parīkṣit Mahārāja had to assume amid everyone's tears of grief.

Why say more? Even Dharmaja, however much he restrained himself, could not hold back, and began to weep aloud. The hearts of those who saw it were rent. Who can lessen the strength of vidhi? Whatever must be done, at whatever time and in whatever manner — prārabdha itself causes it to be done so; vidhi alone drives it; mere mortals are mere instruments. Parīkṣit Mahārāja, of great virtue, watching all these scenes — though a boy, unable to defy the word of his elders — came down from the throne onto Dharmaja's feet, collapsed, and, weeping aloud, said: "Lord! Whatever you do is right; your command I shall bear upon my head; only, you must not leave me and go." Seeing the boy thus clasping his feet, praying and grieving, even hearts of diamond, of whatever kind, could not help but shed streams of tears. So terrible was that scene. The boy clasped the feet of Arjuna, his grandfather, and lamented: "Grandfather! Having placed so great a kingdom on my head and left me all alone, how can your feet move to go away? I am an infant who knows nothing — ignorant, innocent, an incapable one with no fitness. This sacred kingdom was ruled by very great men of intellect, men rich in power, mighty in strength, steadfast, heroic, valiant; to tie it onto the head of this incapable one and go off to the forests is not just of you. Let someone else take up its burden, and send me to the forests."