Krishna Leela
Krishna As Warrior: Part – I
Krishna’s short
journey from Vrindavan to Mathura
was a watershed in his life. Until then his prominent characteristic was that
of a carefree child and then of accomplished lover, fulfilling his will in a
pastoral setting. On reaching Mathura,
he assumed the mantle of a man of the world, a dexterous player in the urbane
of city and state politics. This dramatic transition cowherd to prince, from
flute-player to warrior statesman, and the equally dramatic change of canvas
from the groves of Vrindavan to the decorum of kingly courts, has led some to
postulate that historically there perhaps two Krishnas, two heroic figures
whose its coalesced in time into the image of the one Krishna that we know of
today.
This line of
reasoning need not be dismissed outright. Historical curiosity about the origin
and evolution of deities in the Hindu tradition has led to a new and authentic
insights. But, in the case of Krishna,
enquiries of this nature have not had—indeed cannot – have definitive answers.
In spite of the sharp qualitative difference in his personality in the
post-Vrindavan phase, there is much that points to the unitary aspect of his
life. His mission was the elimination of evil personified in Kamsa: he came to
Vrindavan to escape Kamnsa, and he went to Mathura to kill Karnsa.
From Mathura he sent Uddhava
to Vrindavan to console his grieving parents and the gopis. The Bhagavata
asserts that many years later, at Kurukshetra, on the occasion of a pilgrimage
to mark the total eclipse of the sun, Krishna
met Nanda and Yasoda and the gopis again. The Mahabharata frequently refers to Krishna as Govinda— a name that incontrovertibly
associates him with his early years as a cowherd. Thus, as Alt Hiltebeitel
states in ‘Krishna at Mathura’, ‘the problem is
not to find separate origins for “contradictory” aspects of a composite Krishna but to understand why his essentially unitary
biography is largely split in two. In Vrindavan, he is a prince in the guise of
a cowherd; in Mathura
and Dwarka he is a cowherd in the guise of a prince. In both, he is an avatar
of Vishnu merely indulging in his effortless leela to assume many forms.
Kamsa was killed by
Krishna through superior physical prowess. It
was a clash of strength, in which Krishna,
aided by Balarama, but without recourse to any supra-human powers, deposed and
killed the tyrant. Kamsa had received due warning of the formidable strength of
the two brothers. A washer man who had refused to lend them clothes appropriate
for city-wear, had had his head smashed by one blow from Krishna.
Kamsa’s sacrificial bow, which strong men could not even bend, had been picked
up by Krishna and easily broken into two.Kuvalayapida, Kamsa’s massive elephant
swaying in a rut, had been set upon the two young men, but Krishna had dragged
it by its tail and, wrenching its tusk out, had killed the angry beast.
Now there was to be
a wrestling match. Kamsa’s greatest wrestlers Chanura and Mustika were to fight
Krishna and Balarama. The entire town had
gathered to witness the match. Kamsa himself was seated in the royal pavilion.
Krishna took on Chanura, and Balarama, Mustika. The professional wrestlers were
full-grown men and tremendously strong, but no match for the agility and
physical stamina of the two brothers. The moment to fulfill the prophecy of the
death of Kamsa was now at hand. ‘Like a falcon swooping down from the sky*,
Krishna caught hold of Kamsa, knocked off his crown, and dragged him by his
hair around the arena, until he lay lifeless.
It was a dramatic
moment. The people roared their approval. Kamsa’s wives screamed in grief. The
noise of drums rent the sky. Some skirmishing—soon quelled by
Balarama—persisted. Through all of this Krishna
retained his transcendental calm. Good had prevailed over evil. More
importantly—unlike in many other contexts of his future life as a warrior—it
had prevailed with little ambivalence. In a transparent act of daring and
courage, he had demonstrated that it could prevail. Now there was other work to
do. The first was to release his long-suffering parents—Vasudeva and
Devaki—from prison.
They had spent
their lives waiting for this moment, and now that it had come and their son of
whose exploits they had heard so much, was in front of them, they stood
awkwardly inhibited, overawed by his divine presence. But Krishna,
always at ease in the human realm, used his powers of ‘maya’ to appear before
them as nothing but their son. A tearfully joyous reunion followed aas much too
short—for it was time also for Nanda and Yasoda to say farewell. Their role of
custodian was over. One phase of life had come to an end. Krishna and Balarama,
so inseparable from them thus far, had to move on to the next. This was the
inevitability of the chasm between Vrindavan and Mathura.
Krishna reinstated
his maternal grandfather, Ugrasena, on the throne of Mathura. It was time now for Balarama and him
to prepare themselves to don the mantle of their princely heritage. They may
have vanquished Kamsa but they were still cowherds waiting to acquire the
training of their Kshatriya lineage. As rustic youths, so dear to the gopis,
they may have mastered the fine art of ‘barjori’, but to become accomplished
princes they now needed to master the formal disciplines of logic, prosody,
grammar, phonetics, astronomy and etymology.
The strength and
daring of the killer of the dreadful asura Kesin may have been fabled; but the
grandson of Ugrasena, ruler of Mathura,
needed also to know about the science of warfare and the relative merit of all
the weapons used in battle. The gopis of Vrindavan may have been content to see
a garland of wild flowers around Govinda’s neck; but the scion of Mathura had to undergo
the ‘upanayana’ ceremony where a sacred thread was put on his body. In
Vrindavan, Kanha’s flute was enough to give the gopis an insight into the
divine; but in Mathura, Krishna’s
mind had to be given a formal grounding in the Vedas and the Upanishads.
Balarama and he spent sixty-four days and nights in the custody of Guru
Sandipani, renowned for his learning and wisdom, and emerged masters in all the
sixty-four arts and crafts.
The Bhagavata
narrates an interesting episode during Krishna
and Balarama’s sojourn in Sandipani’s ashram. It was customary for disciples to
pay one’s guru his fee in the form of guru dakshina. As his ‘dakshina’,
Sandipani asked the two brothers to rescue his son who had been kidnapped to
the kingdom of Prabhasha in faraway Saurashtra. In an
adventurous journey, described with colour and verve in the Puranas, Krishna and Balarama finally rescued the boy from the
very clutches of Yama, the God of Death. Shorn of mythological additives, the
incident, if it is based upon historical memory of a real expedition of this
nature, is perhaps indicative of the first foray of Krishna outside the
Vrindavan-Mathura region, and his first contact with the west coast of India,
where he would later opt to set up his own kingdom at Dwarka.
At Mathura,
Krishna’s career as a warrior began by a
decision to withdraw from the battlefield. Kamsa’s wives—Asti and Prapti—were
the daughters of the powerful ruler of Magadha, Jarasandha. Jarasandha had
sworn to avenge the widowing of his daughters and, true to this oath, attacked
Mathura as many as seventeen times in the years following Kamsa’s death.
Krishna and Balarama stoutly defended the city; the city did not fall, but
Jarasandha was not defeated either. It was an unacceptable impasse, which was
taking a heavy toll of the people of Mathura. Then Jarasandha was joined in his
depredations by an ‘outsider’, Kalayavana, who besieged the city at the head of
his huge army of ‘mlechchas’ It was at this time that Krishna decided that
discretion was the better part of valour.
It was better to
retreat to fight another day, than to fight when defeat was certain. Such a
clinically realistic approach to warfare was something new. It went against the
grain of the prevailing Kshatriya code of honour, which upheld values of
sacrifice and valour over those of strategy and expediency. A Kshatriya’s code
was to fight. To retreat in a fight was tantamount to betraying that immutable
code. Krishna’s decision to withdraw from Mathura must therefore have had its
strong detractors in his time from even amongst his own followers. One evidence
of this is the somewhat derisive epithet ‘Ranchhor’— relinquisher of the
battlefield—that has survived to this date in association with his name. In the
town of Dwarka he is, in at least one important temple, even worshipped by that
name—evidence, if any were needed, that over time the overwhelming appeal of
his myth made palatable even those of his actions which were not entirely
explicable in terms of traditional expectations.
The statecraft of
the decision was never in doubt. Magadha was a powerful kingdom and Jarasandha
a formidable foe. The Bhagavata states that Krishna deliberately allowed
Jarasandha to escape on all seventeen occasions, but this appears to be—even by
the Bhagavata’s standards—a rather far-fetched rationalization. Kalayavana was
probably an invader from across the Himalayas whose marauding hordes could not
be taken lightly. Mathura, at the head of the Indo-Gangetic plains, was much
too vulnerable a site against such attacks.
The Yadava army
after the turmoil and dislocation of Kamsa’s death had little time to recoup
and consolidate. The withdrawal to the more sheltered west coast, away from
Magadha and the northern frontiers, made sound strategic sense. Jarasandha and
Kalayavana pursued the retreating Yadavas, but geographical distance ultimately
made it impossible for them to sustain the impact of their military strike.
Kalayavana was probably killed by cunning and deceit father than in open
warfare. The Bhagavata says that Krishna emerged from his fortress consciously
unarmed and alone, thus luring Kalayavana to pursue him. Prof. Goswamy and
Prof. Dallapiccola give an account of the killing of Kalayavana in Krishna, The
Divine Lover.
Dodging Kalayavana
but leading him on at the same time, Krishna now entered a dark cave where he
knew the glorious king Muchkunda to be asleep. Unsuspectingly, the Yavana also
entered the cave. There he dimly perceived the form of a man lying asleep on
the ground. Naturally assuming that this must be Krishna, he kicked him, at
which Muchkunda woke with a start and cast on the intruder an angry glance
which instantly reduced the Yavana to ashes. Muchkunda had in a bygone age,
aided the gods against the demons and, completely overcome with grief, had
solicited just one favour from them: that he be allowed to enjoy a long repose.
‘Sleep long and soundly’ the gods replied ‘and whoever disturbs you shall be
instantly burnt to ashes by the fire emanating from your body.’ Krishna knew of
this favour and had turned it skillfully to his own advantage.
The linkages between
a possible historical event and its mythological embellishment and perpetuation
is once again made evident.
The move to Dwarka
symbolized the expansion of Krishna’s mythic domain from the north and the east
to the west of India. Dwarka was built as a fortress-city, on a mountainous
perch overlooking the Arabian Sea. It was a well laid out city, and the
Bhagavata speaks eloquently of its gold encrusted buildings and crystal
balconies. At the heart of the city was Krishna’s resplendent palace, encrusted
with jewels and replete with all manner of luxuries. This was the setting of a
powerful king, but as an extremely popular and poignant incident of Krishna’s
life demonstrates, it was power that was both accessible and human. Once a
childhood friend of Krishna, by the name of Sudama, came to see him at Dwarka.
Sudama was very
poor and had agreed to visit Dwarka reluctantly and only at the goading of his
more calculating wife. As he wended his way to Dwarka, all kinds of doubts
assailed Sudama: Who would believe him when he claimed Krishna as a friend?
Would the royal guards even allow him to enter the palace? Would Krishna
recognize him? And if he did, what would be his reaction to see an indigent
friend of so long ago? Once in Dwarka, Sudama was pleasantly surprised to find
that he could enter the palace without hindrance. What is more, Krishna himself
saw him approach and, even from a distance, immediately recognized him. Tears
of joy began to flow down the cheeks of the ruler of Dwarka.
He clasped his friend
in a tight embrace and seated him on his own couch. With the greatest reverence
he himself washed his friend’s feet. Then he served him food with his own
hands. All this while, Sudama had endeavoured to hide some handfuls of rice
tied up in a rag which his wife had sent as a gift for Krishna. Sudama was
ashamed of a present so wretched for a king so rich, but Krishna, seeing the
little bundle, opened it eagerly and ate up the poached rice with the utmost
delight. The next day, when Sudama left, Krishna accompanied him for a
considerable distance to see him off. Sudama had not been able to bring himself
to ask anything of Krishna. It was more than enough, he told himself, that he
had managed to meet him and had been treated with so much love and respect. A
huge surprise, however, awaited him when he reached home. His humble hut had
been miraculously replaced by a glittering palace. Krishna had fulfilled his
needs without his asking.
This little story
has enduringly etched itself on the Indian psyche. Krishna’s intensely human
reaction on seeing his impoverished mate—a reaction that overcame the
constraints of wealth and status by its sheer spontaneity—has become in the
minds of the common man, a defining metaphor for the test of friendship. It has
also come to be regarded as the definitive parable to emphasize the importance
of human values in the conduct of those in high office. Yesterday’s cowherd was
today’s monarch. Much around him had changed; and yet, so much in him could
never change.
The Sudama episode
reiterated Krishna’s enduring links with his past. Sudama’s journey to Dwarka,
notwithstanding his initial misgivings, so beautifully portrayed in the
Bhagavata and elaborated upon subsequently by many accomplished writers, was
meant to demonstrate the triumph of faith over doubt.
While Dwarka was
the seat of his kingdom, the real stage for Krishna’s role as a warrior was
still located along the river Yamuna, in the familiar setting of the north
Indian plains, not far from Vrindavan and Mathura. Krishna’s aunt—Vasudeva’s
sister Kunti—was married to Pandu, the ruler of the Kuru kingdom with its
capital at Hastinapur. Kunti’s three sons— Yudhishthira, Bheema and Arjuna—were
thus Krishna’s cousins; this familial relationship also included in its scope, on
the same footing, Pandu’s two younger sons— the twins Nakula and Sahadeva—born
from another wife, Madri.
Pandu had died
early and his large kingdom was being run by his brother, the blind
Dhritarashtra. The real power behind the throne was Duryodhana, Dhritarashtra’s
unscrupulous and ambitious eldest son, who wanted to inherit the throne and
exclude completely the five Pandava brothers from their father’s legacy.
Dhritarashtra did not approve of his son’s doings but was too weak and
vacillating and too overwhelmed by love for his sons, who numbered a hundred,
to stop the machinations against the Pandavas. Duryodhana was aided and abetted
by his mother’s scheming brother, Shakuni. The most serious conspiracy hatched
by uncle and nephew was the attempt to burn alive the Pandavas and their mother
in a palace specially prepared for this crime. The Pandavas managed to escape
due to a timely warning, but it was clear that they would no longer be safe in
Hastinapur.
For some time they
led an itinerant existence dressed as Brahmins to conceal their real identity.
During their travels they visited the court of King Dhrupad, who was conducting
a swayamvara for the marriage of his daughter Draupadi. A galaxy of princes
were gathered for the occasion but it was Arjuna alone who could perform the
feat prescribed for her hand. Being the skilled archer he was, he shot through
the eye of a fish revolving above his head by looking only at its reflection in
a pool of water below. Krishna was also present at the swayamvara. He had, of
course, seen through the disguise of the Pandavas, and became, from then
onwards, their closest ally and adviser.
The war between the
Pandavas and the Kauravas is the theme of the great Indian epic, the
Mahabharata. Krishna, ranged on the side of the Pandavas, played a central role
in its unfolding events. It is not the intention here, nor would it be
feasible, to narrate the entire sequence of events, all the plots and
sub-plots, and the scores of characters, that constitute the background to Krishna’s
role in the epic’s narrative. It would perhaps serve our purpose if we touched
upon the main events of his involvement in the great fratricidal conflict. At a
generalized level, Krishna was on the side of good and against evil. The
Pandavas were sinned against.
The Kauravas led by
Duryodhana were the villains. His participation was, therefore, for the
restoration of righteousness and the defeat of adharma. However, while in broad
terms this description of his role is sustainable, the fineprint of his
involvement militates against the assumption of any unquestioned ethical
clarity. What is profiled much more clearly is Krishna the strategist, at one
moment the sober statesman, but very often also the shrewd manipulator bent
upon achieving his purpose irrespective of the means employed.
The Pandavas
established their own kingdom at Khandavaprastha, a region which was a half of
the Kuru kingdom in extent, but barren and desolate. The territory was given to
them by Dhritarashtra after he had invited them with all honours to return to
Hastinapur from their volitional exile. Vidura, Dhritarashtra’s younger
brother, had personally journeyed to Dhrupad’s court to request the Pandavas to
return. The brothers were reluctant, but Krishna advised them to accept the
invitation. When Dhritarashtra made the offer of Khandavaprastha, Krishna knew
that it was an unfair and unequal settlement. But again, he advised
Yudhishthira to accept it. He was present at the formal ceremony arranged by
Dhritarashtra to consecrate Yudhishthira as the ruler of Khandavaprastha. And
finally it was he who helped the Pandavas transform Khandavaprastha into a rich
and fertile region. Indraprastha, its capital, soon emerged as a city to rival
all others. According to the Mahabharata, at Krishna’s behest, Vishyakarma the
celestial architect himself planned and executed the construction of the city.
Having made his
kingdom secure and prosperous, Yudhishthira wanted to perform the traditional
Rajasuya sacrifice to project his political pre-eminence among the other states
and kingdoms. His advisers were enthusiastic, but Krishna, whose advice was as
usual sought, advised caution. In a remarkable portrayal of the unsentimental,
calm and dispassionate military strategist, Krishna clinically essayed the
political situation. It would be a mistake, he said, to underestimate the
strength of Jarasandha, the as yet unvanquished ruler of Magadha. Jarasandha’s
position was bolstered by a host of important alliances. Sisupala, prince of
the Chedi kingdom, was a good friend of his, and other Kshatriya
scions—Dantavaletra, Rukmi and Paundraka Vasudeva—were known to be close to
him.
Yudhishthira’s own
cousin, Duryodhana, would, in a conflict, probably be on the side of the
Magadha ruler. Bhishma, Dronacharya and Kripacharya, formidable warriors of the
Kuru kingdom, would perforce have to support Duryodhana. Even if they did not,
Kama, an archer to match Arjuna, would surely go with Duryodhana.
‘With such a
formidable team of foes you have absolutely no chance of performing the
Rajasuya,’ Krishna argued. ‘Jarasandha has captured ninety-eight kings and he
keeps them mprisoned. He has an idea of making a sacrifice of royal heads to
lord Sankara. The man is mad. But he is too powerful to be ignored or to be
defeated. So long as this Jarasandha is alive, your hopes of performing the
Rajasuya are thin indeed. If, however, we manage to kill him, then there is
nothing to worry about. The other kings, seeing him killed, will not have the
courage to defy you and your brothers. This is my firm opinion. Think of a way
to kill Jarasandha, and the rest is easy.”
Jarasandha was
killed, but not in open battle. According to a plan hatched by Krishna, he was
tricked into accepting a one to one wrestling match with Bheema. Even in such a
bout, he would not have been defeated, for he had been gifted with divine
powers by the sage Chandrakansika. Every time Bheema tore his body into two,
the two halves would miraculously rejoin. Bheema was at his wit’s end, until
Krishna came to his rescue.
When he was able to
manage it, Krishna caught the eye of Bheema. Krishna had a small leaf of a
plantain in his hand. He split the leaf into two. He then turned one piece
round and threw the two pieces at two corners of the floor. Bheema understood
what he was trying to say. Again, Bheema threw Jarasandha up in the air. He
caught the descending form of the king by the legs. He tore him in two. Bheema
now threw the two pieces at two corners of the hall such that one leg and one
half of the head were corresponding. The halves did not join up any more.
Jarasandha, the favoured of Shankara, was now dead.
With Jarasandha out
of the way, Yudhishthira’s Rajasuya was eminently successful, and a grand
ceremony was arranged for his coronation. Kings and princes and sages and
distinguished guests poured in from all the four corners. The Kauravas, led by
Duryodhana, had been specially invited. Krishna, of course, was one of the
first to arrive. After the ceremony was over, it was incumbent upon
Yudhishthira to express his gratitude to each of his guests personally. As per
traditional practice, it was also necessary for him to identify a special guest
of honour. Bhishma’s advice was to select Krishna for this honour, an advice
more than enthusiastically accepted by Yudhishthira and the Pandavas.
Accordingly, Krishna was ritually ‘worshipped’ by Yudhishthira. In conformity
with the custom to show respect and obeisance, Yudhishthira, aided by Sahadeva,
washed Krishna’s feet with his own hands. Appropriately, so the Mahabharata
says, the very heavens rained down flowers on this happy event
Krishna As
Warrior: Part – II
As the rift between
the Pandavas and Kauravas widened, the destruction of the Pandavas became
Duryodhana’s sole obsession. In his uncle, Shakuni, he found an ideal tactician
to achieve this goal. Together, they devised a strategy to entice Yudhishthira
to a game of dice. Yudhishthira, being no match for Shakuni’s mastery over the
dice, predictably lost the game, on which he had staked all his material possessions,
even his four brothers and wife Draupadi. Duryodhana invited all Pandavas to
another game of dice. Incredibly Yudhishthira, unable to overcome the gambler’s
instinct, accepted. This time there was only one stake: whichever side lost
would have to go into exile in the forest for thirteen years. Yudhishthira’s
folly reduced the Pandavas to homeless wanderers.
Once the exile was
over, the Pandavas sought their kingdom back but Duryodhana refused. Krishna,
who tried to make peace on behalf of the Pandavas, failed in efforts. War thus
became imminent. His personal investment in trying to achieve a peaceful
solution notwithstanding, Krishna was the quintessential warrior. The political
setting of northern India at the time of the ‘hi terical’ Krishna, certainly
provided an appropriate stage for his war-like exploits. The Aryans were in the
process of colonizing the region.
Small and competing
kingdoms had come up along the Gangetic Valley. These were often in conflict
with each other. New territory had to be won and secured. Forests had to be
cleared for human settlement. Weapons of copper and bronze were being discarded
by the revolutionary discovery of iron. One account, in Krishnavatara by K.M.
Munshi, which does not claim to be a historical rendering but is nevertheless
based on a thorough study of traditional texts, has. these extremely
interesting passages describing the discovery of iron ore by Krishna
Burning and
crackling on the altar, when he saw, as usual, a fiery stream of copper being
released by the (fire) god. As he diverted it into a narrow gully which young
Garuda kept filled with water, he felt highly dissatisfied. For long he
continued to invoke the gods to send him super human arms, offering fresh fuel
and coconut oil at the altar. Suddenly, his eye caught sight of something
miraculous. One of the rocks, which had not melted with the others, began to
glow like the sun, fiery as at mid day, golden red as at dawn. It was a strange
sight. It was a sign from the gods, thought Krishna. The other rocks had
already melted freely, but not this glowing, fiery ball of light and heat. He
continued to invoke the gods and to pour his offerings into the fire. The
flames leapt up from the altar. A stream trickled out of the glowing ball. When
diverted into the gully, it sizzled frantically, a fiery steam issuing from it.
When the molten
liquid became cool, Krishna picked it up and was delighted that the gods had
answered his invocation. He flung it at the copper blade of the sword; the
blade broke into two. He shot copper arrow-tips against it; their edges were
blunted. At last Indra had sent him a piece of his thunderbolt, heavy and
unbreakable.
Krishna then
discovered that the little red rocks . . . were the favoured offerings of the
Fire God, for when they were offered, the fiery liquid which came from the
altar became pieces of thunderbolt.
Krishna and Garuda
made a search for such reddish rocks all over the hill. When they were found in
sufficient quantities, they were offered to the sacrificial fire. Though the
Fire God was difficult to please, Krishna satisfied him with copious offerings
of coconut oil and sandal wood. Then the fire blazed high. The flames leapt up.
The red rocks glowed red. A stream of molten liquid flowed out. Cooled and
tempered, hammered and sharpened, the thunderbolt emerged as a shining weapon—a
weapon which could easily break copper and flint weapons. It was the gift of
the gods.
The above is
obviously an attempt to reconstruct what might have been but is not entirely
implausible. In general terms there can be little doubt that the period of the
historical Krishna coincided with a phase in which military adventurismand acts
of personal valour and bravery were the stuff from which cult figures could
easily emerge. A.L. Basham, one of the most eminent historians of ancient
Indian culture and history has, therefore, rightly surmised that ‘. . . it
seems certain that there is some historical basis for the legend of the hero
god; but evidently tales of many heroes from many ages and many parts of India
have been fused together in the Krishna myth..
Given Krishna’s
mastery over the arts of war, both the Pandavas and the Kauravas were keen to
have him on their side in the imminent battle. According to the Mahabharata,
Arjuna journeyed to Dwarka to obtain a commitment of support from him. Hearing
of this, Duryodhana also journeyed to Dwarka. Both arrived simultaneously, but
it was Duryodhana who first entered ‘ Krishna’s bedroom. Krishna was asleep
then; waiting for him to awake, Duryodhana sat down on a chair at the head of
the bed, while Arjuna deferentially took a place on the opposite side, near the
feet. When Krishna awoke he first saw Arjuna, and then turned around to notice
Duryodhana. Duryodhana was the first to speak.
He bluntly asked
Krishna to be on his side, and said that since he had arrived first, his
request should get priority over Arjuna’s. Krishna’s answer was that while
Duryodhana may have arrived first, it was Arjuna whom he had seen first on
awakening. Arjuna was also younger than Duryodhana, and had, therefore, the
right to ask first. The choice Krishna said was between him personally, and,
his well armed and extensive Yadava army. Furthermore~ whichever side he may be
on, he would not fight himself. He would be weaponless, providing only unarmed
support. To Duryodhana, given these options, the choice was abundantly clear.
He was most relieved, therefore, when Arjuna unhesitatingly chose the
non-fighting Krishna and allowed Duryodhana to have Dwarka’s formidable army.
Why did Krishna not
take up arms in support of the Pandavas? After all, he was fully convinced of
the justness of their cause. And that being the case, why was his involvement
in their support qualified? On more than one occasion he had said that the
Pandavas— specially Arjuna—were closer to him than anyone else. Why then a
self-imposed restraint on the degree of his participation in their struggle to
obtain their rights? Perhaps the rights and wrongs in human affairs are never
that categorically clear for unambiguous divine involvement on any one side.
Perhaps the purpose was to demonstrate that even without arms his mere presence
was more than enough to ensure victory. Or perhaps, it was a symbolic gesture,
meant to convey, as in so many other aspects of his life, the perennial shadow
play between his mortal form and his essential divinity. He would be a
participant, but at a transcendental level. He would be involved, but in a
detached manner. In his human avatar he could not remain an aloof observer. But
being God, his association, however vigorous, would always be tinged by a sense
of distance.
Krishna’s role in
the actual war is not beyond controversy. The controversy concerns the means he
employed, even while not fighting himself, to ensure the victory of the
Pandavas. There are at least six incidents in the Mahabharata, crucial to the
final outcome of the war, which call into question the ethicality of his
actions in terms of the prevailing code of fair play, or at least in terms of
the expectation of fair play from him.
On the eve of the
war, Krishna’s attempt was to wean away the mighty warrior Karan from the
Kauravas. This he did not by appealing to Karan’s sense of rectitude, or by
persuading him to see the legitimacy of the Pandava’s claims. His strategy
instead was to use a crucial nugget of information about Karan’s personal life
to break his pledge of unshakeable loyalty to his childhood friend and
benefactor—Duryodhana. Karan was in reality the first-born of Kunti, from an
unintended liaison before her marriage with Surya—the Sun God. Krishna was
aware of this, and chose this moment to reveal the truth to Karan. The news had
a traumatic impact on the young warrior. At one stroke the Pandavas, whom he
regarded as his most implacable foes, were revealed to be his brothers. Krishna
did not stop there. He went on to outline in detail the advantages that would
accrue to Karan were he to betray his old loyalties:
You know that a son
born to a woman when she was a maiden, becomes, by law, the son of the man she
marries. Accordingly, you are a Pandava. You are the eldest of the Pandavas.
You are a Pandava on your father’s side. You are a Vrishni, my relative, on
your mother’s side. Come with me now. I am going to Yudhishthira. Your brothers
will fall at your feet. All the kings who have assembled to help the Pandavas
will honour you as the eldest Pandava. You will be crowned by them as their
king. You will be the king and Yudhishthira will be the Yuvaraja. He will lead
the white horses of your chariot tayour presence and lift you to your seat. The
dark and beautiful Draupadi will belong to you, since you are a Pandava.
Yudhishthira will get into the chariot after you. The mighty Bheema will hold
the umbrella over your head. Your younger brother Arjuna will be your
charioteer. He will hold the reins over your horses. Nakula, Sahadeva and I
will be walking behind your chariot.
Krishna’s mission
did not succeed because Karan, in spite of the enticements somewhat blatantly
outlined to him, refused to give up his friendship of Duryodhana who had stood
by him when he needed support most.
But Krishna’s
request was not a complete failure either. Karan’s emotional equipoise was
shattered. His animosity to the Pandavas was weakened. His hitherto resolute
morale for battle was shaken. The ground had been prepared for him to concede a
boon of the greatest significance to Kunti, who met him a few days later. Kunti
too was unable to persuade him to forsake Duryodhana; however, not wanting to
completely disappoint his mother, he promised her that he would not attack
Yudhishthira, Bheema, Nakula and Sahadeva. The duel with Arjuna was something
to which he was irrevocably pledged, but, at all times, he assured Kunti, at
least five of her sons would remain alive.
During the war, the
Pandavas, at the explicit urging of Krishna, managed to kill the top warriors
on the Kaurava side by means which were at best expedient and, at worst,
deceitful and unfair. Bhishma was more than a match for any on the Pandava
side. His arrows were wreaking havoc on the Pandava army. In consultation with
Krishna, the Pandavas decided to meet Bhishma and ask him how he could be
defeated. Even though he was duty bound to fight on the side of Dhritarashtra,
Bhishma, at a personal level, had the greatest love for the Pandavas. Krishna’s
clear reasoning was that if Yudhishthira posed the question to Bhishma, the
grand old man would certainly reveal the answer. The plan worked. ‘Place the
warrior Shikhandi before me/ Bhishma said, ‘and I will have to put down my
bow!’ Bhishma had sworn never to fight against a woman, or even a man who had
once been a woman. Shikhandi was a man only in appearance. In reality, he was
an incarnation of princess Amba of Kashi. Amba had wanted to marry Bhishma,
but, the latter, wedded to his oath of celibacy, had spurned her advances. The
princess had then sworn to avenge this humiliation. Born again as Shikhandi,
she led the attack on the venerable warrior. Bhishma relinquished his arms, and
Arjuna’s arrows were quick to pin him down.
Drona, the towering
guru of the Kuru clan, was another formidable warrior whose depredations were
taking a heavy toll of the Pandava forces. Krishna’s plan to kill him was
ingenious. It was well known that Drona was extremely fond of his son
Ashwathamma. If he was told that Ashwathamma had died, Drona would, Krishna
said, lose all desire to fight. But Drona would believe this news only if
Yudhishthira, who never spoke an untruth, conveyed it to him. Yudhishthira
baulked at being told of his role; Arjuna too was disapproving. But Krishna’s
exhortations were coldly persuasive. ‘If Drona lives for but half a day, the
Pandava army will be wiped out,’ he said. In a study by R.C. Gupta, Krishna
says, ‘A lie to save lives is not immoral. In fact, in certain situations a lie
is permissible. A lie in the presence of women, in marriages, to save cows, or
to rescue a Brahmana, is not; wrong.’
The plan was
implemented with Machiavellian skill. Bheema had killed an elephant called
Ashwathamma. Yudhishthira, the reluctant conspirator, did not tell a complete
lie when he told Drona, ‘Ashwathamma is dead!’, adding in an inaudible whisper,
‘the elephant called Ashwathamma.’ The shattered Drona, unquestioningly
believing Yudhishthira, lost his will-to fight. A few caustic words from Bheema
on the inappropriateness of a Brahmin indulging in wanton killing were enough
to make him dispiritedly put down his arms, and Dhrishtadyumna, son ofDhrupad,
swiftly cut off his head.
Karan was killed
when, during his fight with Arjuna, he got down from his chariot to lift its
wheel sunk into the ground. It was against the rules of war to attack a man
when he was unarmed, and Karan asked Arjuna to respect this code of conduct.
But Krishna was quick to intervene. Fair play in war had no application, he
said, to those who had scant respect for it themselves. By supporting
Duryodhana’s unjust cause, Karan had forfeited his right to be dealt with
fairly. Eyes flaming with anger, Krishna recounted the inhuman and unscrupulous
manner in which, just a few days earlier, Karan had gauged up with other
Kaurava luminaries to kill Abhimanyu, Arjuna’s young son. ‘Kill Karan now,
before he returns to his chariot,’ Krishna pressed Arjuna, and the next moment,
Karna, his head severed from his body, lay dead on the battlefield.
Jayadratha, the
ruler of Sindhu and the son-in-law of Dhritarashtra, was killed, if not by a
tampering of temporal laws, then bydivine manipulation. Jayadratha had been
instrumental in the death of Abhimanyu. Arjunahad sworn to either avenge his
son’s death by killing Jayadratha before sunset the next day, or to immolate
himself. Having heard of Arjuna’s oath, Jayadratha, protected by the entire
might of the Kaurava army, remained effectively elusive. At the end of an
exhausting day of fighting, he was still beyond the reach of Arjuna. The
horizon was darkening with the imminent sunset. Krishna was worried. Jayadratha
emerged triumphantly from hiding, only after he was very sure the sun had set.
But just as he did so, the sun inexplicably peeped out from the darkness to
shine again. This time Arjuna did not let the opportunity slip by. One arrow
from his bow and the exultant Jayadratha was dead. Krishna had saved Arjuna
from his vow of selfimmolation by creating a false sunset to lure Jayadratha
from his hideout.
Duryodhana was the
last of the Kaurava brothers to be killed. With honourable magnanimity,
Yudhishthira had offered him a duel with any of the Pandavas using a weapon of
his choosing. Krishna was quick to chide Yudhishthira for such foolhardy
generosity. Duryodhana was too good a fighter, he said, to be defeated by
anybody except perhaps Bheema. Fortunately, Bheema himself challenged
Duryodhana to fight him with the mace, and the latter readily accepted. The
fight was long and bitter. The two opponents were evenly matched. But, after a
while, it became clear that even though Bheema was the heavier of the two,
Duryodhana was more agile and the better fighter. Krishna, who was watching the
duel intently, confided to Arjuna that Bheema would never be able to win in a
fair fight. He had to be defeated by unfair means.
‘Has Bheema
forgotten his vow to break Duryodhana’s thighs?’ Krishna asked Arjuna in a
voice loud enough for Bheema to hear. Arjuna, (quickly grasping Krishna’s
intent), smacked his own thighs as a signal to Bheema. Bheema got the message.
In one forceful blow his mace smashed Duryodhana’s thighs, leaving him
prostrate and writhing in agony. It was against the rules of war to hit below
the navel. Duryodhana was thus not expecting to be hit on his thighs. Bheema
too would not have broken the rules of war but for Krishna’s unambiguous
urging. Balarama, who was observing the fight, was furious at the unfair means
adopted. He was ready to attack Bheema, but was restrained by Krishna. Then
Duryodhana, who was in his death throes, but still mentally alert, spoke. His
last words were a damning indictment of the means adopted by Krishna during the
war. The fallen warrior recounted each incident—the disarming of Bhishma, the
killing of Drona and Karan, and, of course, the duplicitous means responsible
for his own defeat. There was unconcealed contempt in his voice, and the
heavens themselves seemed to endorse his stand by raining flowers on his head
when he died.
Krishna’s response
to the accusations of Duryodhana is extremely interesting. First, he admitted
that he had resorted to unfair means. The Kauravas, ‘who were the very flowers
of Kshatriya prowess’, could not, he said, have been killed by fair means. The
vow he had made to Draupadi at Kamyaka forest could thus be fulfilled only by
the pursuit of deceitful means. Deception, Krishna said, is acceptable when the
enemy is stronger. ‘The gods themselves are not above it; we have only followed
their example.’ The Kauravas symbolized adharma. They had to be defeated. In
such a situation, ‘the end,’ he said, ‘justifies the means’. In the prevailing
times, ‘unsullied righteousness’ could not be practised. The fourth quarter of
time, the Kalyug, had begun. In this age, absolute morality would be at a
discount.
The working of fate
and destiny did not allow right and wrong to retain their sharply distinctive
focus. ‘It is the rule of time. You must not try and change the course of
Destiny. She will have her way. She is unrighteous too, and she fulfils herself
in manv ways mostly unrighteous.’ Krishna’s final argument was that in his
human avatar he had to play the game as a mortal would. ‘When I am living as a
god, I act like a god; when my form is that of a gandharva or a naga, my
actions and behaviour are in conformity with such a status; now, as One born of
human parents, I must act and behave as human beings would.’
Peace and
prosperity smiled upon the Pandavas after the defeat and decimation of the
Kauravas. Their own sons had perished in the war, but a grandson, Parikshit,
born to Uttara and Abhimanyu after the latter’s death, kept the lineage
preserved. This family continuity would have tragically snapped, but, as
always, for Krishna’s help. Parikshit had been stillborn, possibly as a result
of injury to the embryo from the after effects of a special weapon launched by
Aswathamma, in the last stages of the war. Krishna, true to his promise to be
at hand to ensure a safe birth, miraculously resuscitated the child. In time,
Parikshit grew into a handsome and responsible prince.
The time for
Krishna to relinquish his mortal frame was approaching. When the war had ended,
Gandhari, inconsolable at the death other bundled sons, and, furious with
Krishna for not having prevented such fratricidal bloodshed, cursed him: ‘You
Krishna, will one day slay your kith and kin and die yourself alone in the
wilderness.” Her ominous prophecy came true in a curious way. The story goes
that once Shambha, a son of Krishna, along with some other Yadava boys, insulted
the sages Vishvamitra, Narada and Kanwa.
Shambha dressed
himself as a woman and accompanied by his friends presented himself before the
sages with the question: ‘Will this woman bear a male or a female child?’ The
sages, who immediately saw through the ruse, were not amused, and cursed the
boys thus: This woman will produce a club that will destroy the Yadava race.”
Accordingly, an
iron club emerged from Shambha’s belly. Ugrasena, aware of the prophecy, had
the club ground to dust and scattered, but from the particles there grew
fearsome iron rushes. One particle, bigger than tlie others, was thrown into
the sea and swallowed by a fish. The fish was caught by a hunter, Jara, who,
discovering the piece of iron in its belly, used it as a point for his arrow.
Meanwhile, events
toward the destruction of the Yadavas were proceeding inexorably. There were
evil signs and portents foretelling the imminent destruction of Dwarka. On
Krishna’s advice, the Yadavas left for a pilgrimage to Prabhasa. But destiny had
to be fulfilled. In Prabhasa they consumed liquor and under its effect set
about attacking each other. Such was their uncontrolled anger that when their
weapons were expended, they used the same deadly rushes as weapons in a fight
to the finish. Krishna tried unsuccessfully to stop the fighting; enraged, he
himself slew several of his kin. In the end, save Krishna, Balarama and
Krishna’s charioteer, all the Yadavas lay dead.
In anguish, Krishna
retired to the forest. Here he saw a large serpent emerge from the mouth of
Balarama and take him towards the deeps of the ocean. Balarama, an avatar of
Sesha, Vision’s great serpent, had returned to his celestial origins. Krishna
knew his own end was close. He despatched his charioteer to narrate the
sequence of events to Ugrasena and Vasudeva. He had already ensured the
survival of Uddhava by sending him on a separate pilgrimage to the mountains.
Now, the emblems of his mighty power—his conch shell, mace and
discus—circumambulated him and ascended heavenwards. Alone in the wilderness,
Krishna sat down to meditate, one foot resting on his knee.
At this moment,
Jara, the hunter, mistaking the sole of Krishna’s foot as belonging to a deer,
shot the arrow tipped by a piece of the fatal iron club. The lethal arrow, strongly
reminiscent of a similar weapon in Greek mythology, lodged itself in its
target. On realizing his error, Jara fell at the Lord’s feet, but Krishna, not
in the least perturbed, blessed him and assured him of a solace in the heavens
of the gods. Then, by his own volition, Krishna relinquished his mortal frame,
to become one with his essential self – eternal, unblemished and universal.
On that very day,
the oceans rose in upheaval and submerged the city of Dwarka.
Krishna As
Saviour: Part – I
When the great war
was about to begin, Arjun, the most accomplished of the Pandavas, refused to
fight. The two armies were arraigned in all their military splendour opposite
each other. Conches and symbols, kettledrums and trumpets sounded in the air.
There was the glint of armour, as impatient warriors, legendary for their skill
and valour, stood ready for battle on horse-drawn chariots and magnificently
caparisoned elephants. Arjun, standing on his great chariot yoked to milk-white
stallions, asked Krishna, his sarathi (charioteer), to halt mid-way between the
armies. On both sides he saw kinsmen—fathers, uncles, brothers, teachers,
elders, companions. And his will faltered. He did not want to kill them. ‘I
desire not victory, nor kingdom, nor pleasures, he told Krishna, ‘if these are
to be won at the cost of so much bloodshed.’ His lips were parched, his body
shook and his hair stood on end. ‘It is against honour to kill one’s own
cousins,’ he said. There is a special place in hell for those who destroy their
family, for once the family is destroyed, unredeemable chaos is the only
consequence.’ And so, on the great battlefield of Kurukshetra, Arjun, the great
warrior, slumped in dejection and put his bow and arrow down, overcome by
sorrow and anguish.
It is with this
dramatic portrayal that the Bhagvad Gita, a text of pivotal importance in the
Hindu view of the ‘Song Divine’. It is, however, much more than a lyric. Its
700 shlokas in eighteen chapters, placed in the sixth book of the Mahabharata,
essay a philosophical outlook of the most profound impact and significance. The
text unfolds in the nature of a dialogue between Arjun, caught in the throes of
doubt and confusion, and Krishna, who counsels him in his moment of crisis. In
the end, Arjun, his mental equilibrium restored and his sense of futility
removed, picks up his bow and arrow and boldly enters the fight.
The eclectic
ideological framework of the Gita allows for each of its commentators to
interpret it from a subjective perspective, although, inevitably, many such
commentators assert that their interpretation is the only valid one. The Gita,
by its very nature, indulges such interpretative individualism. Perhaps,
therefore, it is better to comment on the Krishna-Arjun discourse from a
personal frame of reference, from a viewpoint that derives authenticity because
it stems from an intimacy of experience. To do so does not require one to have
a specialized knowledge of all the philosophical intricacies that have been
tagged on to the Gita. An amalgamation of all the interpretations of the Gita
would be an exercise in prolix meaninglessness. This is not to suggest that
there is nothing to be learnt from some of these interpretations. But,
ultimately, in the arena of the human predicament, there has to be contemplative
solitude. And it is how the Gita impacts on the silences that constitute the
discrete experience of each person’s existential dilemma that gives it enduring
meaning and value.
On the battlefield,
Arjun, representing ‘generic man’, suffered a motivational void. In a flash,
all the carefully imbibed ‘oughts’ of his life crumbled. He was gripped by the
sudden realization of the futility of effort, in a world bereft of any
ontological meaning. Endeavour and strife have intrinsic value if they are
earthed in an explicable context. But to a man who does not know why he is
born, and why he will die, the din and fury of the intervening period becomes,
at the first moment of corrosive questioning, a pointless pantomime. There is
no collective panacea for a man who, in one valid but unguarded instance, comes
face to face with his own irrelevance. In a universe, be numbingly vast, with
galaxy upon galaxy existing in causeless, mechanical monotony, the individual
is dwarfed by his own meaningless finitude. In one blindingly perceptive
realization, the conditioned moorings of his life are swept away by the sheer
barrenness of the cosmic drift, informing him and everything else in his life.
One is born, one lives and one dies. There is no enlightening redemption from the
starkness of this sterile charade. And all of a sudden the purport of ambition
and achievement, of causes and goals, becomes opaque. And a weariness ensues.
The greatness of
the Gita was that it began by portraying this alienation. It recognized the thinking
individual’s rebellion against the unquestioning acceptance of the validity of
effort. Arjun was not Bheema, whose actions were characterized by temperamental
fluctuations; he was also unlike Yudhishthira, whose choice of volition had
congenitallv subordinated itself to the call of conventional duty. Arjun’s
despair had authenticity because it afflicted him. The entire burden of his
conditioning was to accept battle as his very raison d* etre. And yet, being
Arjun, at a crucial moment of his life, he was consumed by doubt about the
value, in any ultimate sense, of his assumed role.
The aim of
Krishna’s discourse was to attempt to give purpose and context to the lives of
people like Arjun. The attempt was both adroit and Herculean; adroit because an
armada of approaches were employed without scattering the focus of the
exercise; and Herculean because the task was nothing less than to salvage for
the individual a framework for existence, which would perhaps render
palatable—or even help transcend—the essential meaninglessness of his life.
Krishna’s first
task was to devalue the human condition in its empirical attributes by
postulating the infinitude of its essential and non-empirical attribute. It was
an efficacious methodology, not because it was startlingly original, but
because the basic Vedantic logic was put forward with refreshing clarity and as
a pragmatic response to a specific existential situation. Arjun could not
comprehend an imperative for action in a phenomenal world that was stubbornly inexplicable.
The Gita partially conceded his point. The world as perceived prima facie was
indeed finite, transient and bereft of ultimate value.
The body would
wither away; friends and relatives were equally perishable; material wealth was
ephemeral; the whole network of mortal life, unanchored to any larger, enduring
reality was a fleeting ripple in an endless sea of subsistence, and hence
meaningless. But, said Krishna, there is, behind the bewildering futility of
manifest phenomenon, something else which transcends empirical limitations.
This is the self, the soul, the essential being, Atman, the Supreme Spirit, the
Brahman—call it what you will. The body may suffer birth and death, but this
Self is never born and does not die. It is indestructible, eternal, unchanging,
immovable, indefinable, unseen and omnipresent. Arjun’s despondence at the
pointlessness of endeavour in the human realm had validity but only in a
constricted frame of reference. By these terms of reference, he, as a mere
individual, was an infinitesimal irrelevance in an existence galactic in its
aimlessness. But if he could be persuaded that, unknown to himself, his
essential self, was inherently transcendent over the incomprehensible dross of
his perceived existence, then a first step towards the reclamation of purpose
in life could be made.
A second step
directly related to the first was the assertion that this essential self was,
even at the individual level, beyond the clutches of mortality. It is mentioned
in the Gita:
Thy tears are for
those beyond tears; and are thy words of wisdom? The wise grieve not for those
who live; and they grieve not for those who die—for life and death shall pass
away.
Because we all have
been for all time: I, and thou, and those kings of men. And we all shall be for
all time, we all for ever and ever. As the Spirit of our mortal body wanders on
in childhood, and old age, the Spirit wanders on to a new body: of this the
sage has no doubts. He is never born, and he never dies. He is in Eternity: he
is for evermore. Never-born and eternal, beyond times gone or to come, he does
not die when the body dies.
The finality of
death renders redundant mortal activity. The thread of life hangs in perpetual
dread of the severance of death. Why? What for? To what purpose?—these are the
questions which chip away the individual’s sense of belief in his own being,
when confronted by his irrevocable vulnerability in the face of death. The
assertion, therefore, that mortal death is not the final chapter and that each
particular soul on its way to salvation will reincarnate itself in another
body, provides a continuum of perspective that at once imbues with value and
meaning the scope of endeavour in this life. It gives to our otherwise puny and
insignificant lives a larger canvas. The stage of our human here-and-now
endeavours acquires a wider perspective. Our actions acquire intrinsic value
for their quality will determine the journey that our soul will take in more
lives to come. Our karmas in this life will be responsible for the fruits we
get in the next. Our actions are thus not forlornly adrift in isolation. At
once, we become part of a greater destiny, and the inert vacuum of purpose
afflicting our lives is set aside by the breadth of this new vision. Life then
becomes not a one-act, vaudeville show abruptly terminated by death, but a more
serious business, with questions of purpose and meaning linked to a continuum
governed by its own mortality—defying the dynamics of cause and effect.
Within this larger
metaphysical framework, the question of how best to interface with the mundane
world, with its daily tedium of action and choice, volition and consequence,
remains. The Atman or Brahman may be eternally fulfilled, but the individual,
even incorporating in himself an ansh of that transcendent reality, has to
strive to retain equilibrium and balance reflective of that reality, in the
midst of the business of living. The bulk of the Gita is devoted to essaying a
modus vivendi to answer this seminal existential poser. The first premise is
that in the human realm, involvement with action in some way or the other is
unavoidable. There cannot be renunciation of action. The Gita is crystal clear
on this.
If action cannot be
avoided, then the next question is how to ‘cohabit’ with it while retaining
one*s serenity and peace of mind. The ‘action* in question here is not that
which falls within the purview of mechanical stimulus and response. It is not
an involuntary sequence of locomotion. The eye blinks, the tympanum vibrates,
the nose twitches. This involuntary action of the motor nerves is not at the
core of the action-in-life which is the focus of the Gita. The Gita is
concerned with action which is the result of conscious choice. It is this locus
of movement which internalizes in itself the potential for turbulence. This was
the source of trauma for Arjun on that day of battle. In his own case the
canvas was spectacular: shining banners, the battlefield and resplendent
chariots. But the virus could as easily affect an ordinary clerk, one ordinary
day, as he gets ready to go to the office: Is the effort justified? Is it
required? What will be its reward? Can it be substituted by another course of
action?
The clamor in
action arises when the mental processes interface with the daily vicissitudes
of living. This interface is unavoidable, but its consequences are not
unalterable. An object, a person, a relationship, a situation, a place becomes
important because we give it a certain value. The point to consider is to what
extent the giving of this value is a necessary and inherent aspect of the human
situation.
It would appear
that in the praxis of human situations, there is no fixed law of universal
cause and effect. For instance, situation A influences person B, but leaves
person C unmoved. Now, if there was something inherently value-invoking in
situation A in a universally applicable way, then person C would have been
influenced with the same intensity as person B. Obviously, if the giving of
this value is not an inherent attribute of the situation itself, then its
origins must be in the person himself. From here arises the next and
fundamental question: To what extent can this giving of value be controlled?
The Gita firmly
believes that the value imbuing process is controllable. Going further, it
strongly advocates that in order to overarch the tension and agitation of daily
life, the individual should seek to control it. The Gita’s prescription, in
this regard, breathtaking in its simplicity, but undoubtedly based on profound
empirical observation, is that action-in life should be performed free of
attachment, sans desire, and, most importantly, without tainting it with the
value of expectation.
A mindset, acquired
through conscious effort and discipline, which de-links the performance of
action with a contemplation of its reward is, according to the Gita, an
invincible panacea to the strife of daily living. Like much else in the Gita,
it is an exhortation based on sound common sense. In the mortal world,
involvement in action is unavoidable but it hardly needs reiteration that there
is no guaranteed nexus of efficacy between effort and achievement. There are in
life too many imponderables and variables that can make the most well planned
actions go awry, and the most unintended effort achieve success. Even from the
point of pragmatic expediency, an obsession with consequence even as the effort
is unfolding, is an inefficient utilization of available energy. Action, which
one considers right, should be performed, as an end in itself, severing it from
the debilitating and ineffectual preoccupation with reward. Then, action, which
in the absence of such an approach could agitate, becomes a means to
constructively overcome such agitation, an act of consecration, enabling the
retention of peace of mind.
But is the ideal of
nishkama karma—desireless action—really feasible? After all, it appears but
natural for an individual to work towards a result, to be conscious of the
desired consequence of his efforts, to be seized, in short, of the likely rewards
of his endeavours. Does the Gita, therefore, espouse an impracticable
behavioural pattern? We are all conscious of our individual identities. Each of
us has an ego that strives for recognition and achievement. Can this sense of
‘l-ness’ this ahankar, this consciousness of ‘self constantly striving for
projection in competition with other individual egos, be nullified?
The Gita’s answer,
drawing heavily from the mainstream concepts of Hindu philosophy, is twofold.
At one level, it devalues the scope of such an ego. These warriors,’ Krishna
tells Arjun, ‘will one day cease to exist even without you/ A man who,
therefore, thinks that without him, the world around him will collapse, is
deluded. In a transient and ephemeral world, there is a finiteness to our
preoccupations, and an even greater finiteness to our abilities in configuring
them. As Krishna reiterates: ‘When a man sees himself as the only agent, he
cannot be said to see.” More importantly, our actions, are, in the normal
course, far less autonomous than we would like to believe. ‘There is no being
on earth, or among the Gods in heaven free from the triad of qualities that are
born of nature,’ Krishna says to Arjun. Our actions are affected by these
inherent qualities of nature, ‘but deluded by individuality, the self thinks,
“I am the actor.”‘
Krishna As
Saviour: Part – II
At another level,
the Gita, as already stated earlier, exalts the ego, by claiming that it too is
a part of the infinite Atman, the supreme spirit. Once our individual self is
assimilated in such an all pervasive entity and elevated to such a transcendent
pedestal, then the preoccupation with projecting our own little selves, is
logically diminished. The Upanishadic saying. Tat Twam Asi—That Thou
Art—becomes a three word demolition squad against the normal
expectation-ridden, ego infested way of thinking.
On the methodology
of achieving the desired mutation in our attitude towards action, the Gita is,
significantly enough, one of the least dogmatic texts in Hindu philosophy. Its
overriding purpose is the conquest of mental strife and agitation. It is
unambivalently clear on the principle cause of this strife and agitation; but,
beyond this, it does not limit its effectiveness by espousing only one path to
redemption. For some, jnanamarg, the path of knowledge, in which the real
nature of things is understood through the acquisition of knowledge, could be
the most efficacious; for others, the path of bhakti or devotion, in which all
the fatiguing retention of our misguided individuality is surrendered
cataclysmically to the will of the Almighty, could be better; and for others
still, the path of karma or action, in which all activity, free from the taint
of ‘I-ness’ or thought of reward, is performed as a daily consecration, could
be the best of all. This exhilarating lack of dogma in the Gita comes through
transparently in the following stanzas:
Set thy heart on me
alone, and give to me thy understanding: thou shalt in truth live in me
hereafter. But if thou art unable to rest thy mind on me, then seem to reach me
by the practice of Yoga concentration.
If thou art not
able to practise concentration, consecrate all thy work to me. By doing mere
action in my service thou shalt attain perfection. And if even this thou art
not able to do, then take refuge in devotion to me and surrender to me the
fruit of all thy work—with the selfless devotion of a humble heart.
For concentration
is better than mere practice, and meditation is better than concentration; but
higher than meditation is surrender in love of the fruit of one’s actions, for
a surrender follows peace.
If there is one
dominant attribute of the Gita, it is its advocacy of the harmonious life, as
an overriding goal, valid in itself. Here its analysis is both ruthless and
precise. The onslaught of the senses is forever at war with a person in pursuit
of wisdom and serenity. If the onslaught is not checked, attachment arises, and
from attachment, desire; desire leads to anger, and anger to confusion;
confusion causes distortions in memory, and such distortion in turn leads to
loss of understanding. Once understanding is lost, all is lost.
Attraction and
repulsion, attachment and hatred, are inherent in any interaction with the
phenomenal world, if the senses are not kept in control. To the Gita, desire is
the root cause of the loss of serenity. The power of desire is not
underestimated; at more than one place the Gita equates it with a voracious
fire, capable of devouring the resolve of even the wisest of men.
The renunciation of
desire is, however, not stated as a religious dictum; its harmful impact is
psychologically analysed and its consequences spelt out with clinical
elaboration. The man in the grip of desire is bound by a hundred shackles of
hope, forever confused by fanciful thoughts, and consumed by pride, anger and
greed. In short, desire while initially seductive, is in the long run
enslaving, and non-conducive to the peaceful life. It must therefore be
vanquished, through a control of the senses. ‘Great Warrior,” Krishna exhorts
Arjuna, ‘kill the enemy menacing you in the form of desire.’
In stark contrast
to the discordance and inadequacy of the man without harmony, is the serenity
and composure of the sthita prajana, the man who has seen the reality of the
world around him and his own role within it, and has his faculties and senses
firmly in control. The Gita is most persuasively evocative in portraying the
qualities of such a person. He is impartial to joy and sorrow, gain or loss,
victory or defeat, failure or success. He neither exults nor hates. He is
unmoved in fortune or misfortune, honour or disgrace. He is calm, controlled
and poised and possessed of a quietness of mind. Forever content, he is
autonomous in his source of delight which is his inner self.
He is beyond fear
and anger and envy and greed. He has conquered cravings and passion and is free
of desires, expectations and vain hopes. At peace with himself, his detachment
is imbued with a transparent tranquility. Imperturbable, unwavering and still,
his composure is not shaken by others, while others find peace in his presence.
His contemplative calm is suffused by good will for all. His entire demeanour
and personality is like a lamp ‘whose light is steady for it burns in a shelter
where no winds come’. The joy that radiates from his being is effortless,
untainted by the strain and tension of denial and discipline.
In its pervasive
idealization of the harmonious person, the Gita at one point appears to ride
roughshod over issues of social equality and equity. It is of course true that
the Gita, while enjoying the reverence due to a religious text. was also a
social document, reflecting in part the prevalent views of thinking of the
period when it was written. The writing of the Gita is generally ascribed by historians
to the period between AD 150 to AD 350 although there are scholars who have
dated it as far back as 500 BC. It is possible that the text was not written by
one individual but that portions were additions or accretions by people whose
motivation could very well have also been the preservation and perpetuation of
their class interest. In any case, in Hindu religious texts, the intrusion by
the Brahminical class of portions which give divine sanction to a social order
congruent with their interests, was not uncommon.
It does seem
likely, therefore, that the reference to the four varnas in the Gita, and its
exhortation that the individual should acquiesce in their inflexible inequity,
was included for such a purpose. Krishna was used as a mouthpiece for giving
divine sanction to entrenched vested interests representing the
Brahmin-Kshatriya coalition. To the same class would belong the following
shloka in section 9: Tor all those who come to me for shelter, however weak or
humble or sinful they may be—women or Vaishyas or Shudras—they all reach the
Path supreme.’ The textual chastity of the Gita has been blemished by such
crude attempts to make it a vehicle for social biases and prejudice. The
interpolatory nature of the attempt is also quite obvious. The shloka cited
above fits in poorly with the general tenor of the section to which it belongs,
and is even more out of place when seen against the totality of the Gita’s
perspective. More than anything else, to make Sringaramurtirnam Krishna
pronounce women as ‘sinful’ is, to say the least, disingenuously laboured, if
not patently ludicrous.
This being said, it
would be unfair to damn the text as a whole for the unacceptable aberrations of
a small segment of it. It is indeed a rare religious text that completely
transcends the limitations of the thinking of its time, or is totally oblivious
to the social circumstances of the period when it was penned. There is,
besides, another aspect to be considered. Perhaps, the Gita was deliberately
less than sensitive to notions of social justice and egalitarianism because
these concepts, while unquestionably valid in themselves, were not the primary
focus of its concern.
The Gita was
seeking to essay the attributes of a life enduringly free from the viruses of
anxiety and tension. Its aim was to give man a panacea for his perpetually
destabilizing interaction with the world around him. Given this frame of
reference, it is not inconceivable that, for the Gita, contentment was a higher
goal than the agitation of mind that necessarily accompanies the struggle to
change the parameters conditioning our daily existence. Of course, it would be
wrong, even for a moment, to postulate that the Gita was consciously
articulating a passive acceptance of injustice. Krishna asked Arjuna to pick up
his bow and fight because the Kauravas represented injustice. But in motivating
him to do so, he appealed to his duty as ordained by his vocation in life,
namely that of a warrior. He did not tell him to organize a yagna to pray for
the defeat of evil, as he vvould for instance have exhorted a priest to do. Nor
did he give him ‘revolutionary’ advice to give up his status in life to take up
the battle through any and whatever means available. To this extent, Krishna
was a person of his phenomenal time and place.
But to return to
the mainstream context of the Gita. The earth is a minor planet in our solar
system. The sun is a minor star amidst the millions of other stars with their
own solar systems that form our galaxy. And there are millions of galaxies. The
mind-boggling vastness of the universe, the timelessness of time, and the
inevitability of creation, still act, for many, as a corrosive to faith. The
notion that an individual life has an anchorage of purpose and meaning seems to
stray adrift the moment we juxtapose it to the seamless canvas of its
background. For those continuing to be assailed by such doubt, Krishna, in the
Gita, offered redemption through an assertion of his own all-encompassing
divinity. Arjuna, the ever questioning intellect, wanted visible proof of the
Absolute to facilitate his quantum leap to faith. Philosophical reasoning and
postulations were not sufficient for him. In the tenth and eleventh chapter of
the Gita, Krishna fulfilled Arjuna’s reverential curiosity.
‘I am said Krishna,
‘not only Vishnu, but also Shiva and all the other Gods; I am the mountain, I
am the lake, I am the animal, and I am the bird and the serpent; I am the wind,
I am the river, I am the sage, the detached philosopher, as also the God of Love;
I am the creator of sound and its articulator, the beginning of time, time
itself, and its destroyer. In me are all the human attributes, the rhythm of
every melody, the fragrance of every flower, the knowledge of every mystery. In
short, I am the beginning, the middle, and the end of all creation, and
nothing, animate or inanimate, can exist without me. And, even this
elaboration,’ he said, ‘is not necessary; suffice it to know that the entire
universe is pervaded and supported by but a fragment of my Being.’
But Arjuna wanted
to see to believe. Beyond the theoretical description, he asked Krishna to
physically reveal to him his being in all its majestic plenitude. Once again,
Krishna complied, giving Arjuna, for that moment, a divine eye to see his glorious
form. And Arjuna saw a Being whose radiance was equivalent to that of a
thousand suns put together, a form which encapsulated in itself the entire
universe, a Body, with innumerable arms and mouths, and eyes which had a glow
as powerful as that of the sun and the moon. He saw too all the gods paying
obeisance to this magnificent reality, whose beginning or end could not be
seen, and in whom burnt the fires of destruction and the terror of relentless
time. In Him, Arjun saw the past, the present and the future; the Creator, the
Preserver and the Destroyer. It was a wondrous experience, exalting as also
daunting, and finally unable to bear the sheer density and magnitude of the
experience, Arjuna implored Krishna to assume again his human form.
Krishna As
God: Part – I
In Vrindavan, they
still believe that every night Krishna and Radha meet to enact their rasa
leela. The city is more concrete than jungle, overcrowded and dirty, like so
many other cities in India caught in the penumbra of development, neither
metropolis nor village. An unexpected expanse of green greets the visitor when
he enters Madhuvan, a large walled-in courtyard full of stunted but green
amarvraksha trees, remnants, it is said, of the lush grove where Madhu and his
beloved met on moonlit nights in sensual dalliance.
They say Rang
Bhavan—the garden pavilion in the centre of the shrubbery—still has traces
every morning of their passionate love play. Betel leaves inexplicably adorn
the floor. There is a broken bangle or two. And often also parts of a gajra,
the weave of the flower strings undone, but the flowers still in bloom. They
say that no man or beast can stray into this garden of love at night.
Retribution for encroaching on the privacy of the divine lovers is severe.
Those who have tried have been maimed, or robbed of their senses, or rendered
deaf and dumb. In nearby Sevakun), where it is believed Krishna and Radha rest
after their rasa, a bed (shayya) decorated with flowers is still prepared every
evening. The doors are reverentially locked at night so that none may stray in
inadvertently to disturb their rest. And on a sandy stretch along the river
Yamuna—the Raman Reti— people still build sand-houses in the hope that the
Yugal Sarkar—Krishna and Radha—strolling hand in hand in the wind-caressed
nights, may walk over the edifices, and thus bless them.
Krishna and Radha
live on in and around Vrindavan, not as lore or legend but simply as faith.
Every year, hundreds of devotees happily chant their way on foot on a pilgrims’
trail that leads from Mathura to Vrindavan, to Gokul, Nandgaon, Barsana and
Goverdhan. Goverdhan, the mountain which Krishna so effortlessly lifted on his
little finger, can hardly be seen. It is at best an indifferent hillock, but
this hardly tests the faith of the worshippers. They are aware of the belief
that the more sin proliferates in the world, the more the mountain is
diminished, and they complete the 22 km parikrama of the elevation with gusto.
At Goverdhan, there is a water tank. It is said that its waters were brought
forth by Krishna by merely scratching the soil with his flute—an art of mental
invocation. The Sarovar is thus called Mansi Ganga, and huge crowds gather on
its steps during the festival of Diwali.
At Barsana, Radha’s
village, not far from Vrindavan, the entire area is sprinkled with sites
commemorating her love for the blue god. Radha Kund is the pond where she swam
with Krishna; Anjanokh is the bower where he lovingly put collyrium in her
eyes; Mor Kuti is the spot where he disguised himself as a peacock and danced
for her; and Sankhet is the place where the two met secretively to make love.
In the post monsoonal verdant countryside, people gather also to celebrate
another sport associated with Krishna: wrestling.
The arenas are
makeshift, and the audience is happy to watch from tree perches or tractor
tops, but the enthusiasm is in no way less than what it must have been when Dau
and Mohan took on Kamsa’s famed wrestlers, Chanura and Mustika. In spring, the
colourful if tumultuous festival of Holi is another mass invocation of the name
of Krishna. When Krishna and the gopas smeared Radha with colour, or when she,
with her sakhis, took Krishna by surprise and drenched him in coloured water,
it was but one aspect of their manysplendoured love play.
The men and women
of Braj still play Holi as though each of them was Krishna or Radha, a gopa or
a sakhi. There is a popular local saying: Jag Holi Braj Hola (The world plays
holi; the people of Braj, hola). A sensuous undercurrent permeates the celebrations
and sometimes, given the social sanction of this occasion to the public
interaction between the sexes, the latent eroticism is more than overt, a
conscious negation of inhibition in the name of divine precedent. The animating
mythology takes on different forms.
At Barsana, it is
Lathmar Holi, where the women take sticks and beat the men who have improvised
shields to protect themselves; at Cirkula, the ladies strip the men of their
clothes, and use the shreds to whip them; in Javgaon, there is the excitement
of the forbidden, as wives play uproarious Holi with their husband’s elder
brothers. The parallel here is of Radha and Balarama. Masti is a word typical
to India and difficult to render in the English language. It is a combination
of ecstasy and joy and heedless abandon. They say that during Holi in Braj,
masti was at such a peak that Balarama abandoned the restraint normally
expected of an elder, and played Holi with Radha, who too jettisoned the
customary reserve of the bahu, the daughter-in-law. Balarama has been profiled
as the strong, earthy, uncomplicated, gentlemanly hedonist.
His Holi was
horanga, famed for its vigour and lack of inhibition. Fond of wine, his
Bacchanalian exploits included dragging Yamuna, the river, by her hair closer to
himself to quench his thirst. The bend in the river, at Ramghat, is attributed
to this tantrum. At Baldevgaon, close to Vrindavan, there is a temple where he
is worshipped along with his consort Revati. On Holi, devotees gather and offer
cannabis to him and there is much rakish revelry in evidence.
Rasa leela, amateur
theatre, enacting incidents from the life of Krishna, draws huge crowds in
Braj, particularly during the days preceding Janamashtami. The rasacharyas of
Vrindavan are respected doyens of this local theatrical tradition. Their
repertoire includes over a hundred rasa leela plays, covering mostly Krishna’s
life from birth to the slaying of Karnsa Karnsa vadha.
Devotees reach the
Ram-Mandap—open air theatrical arenas—in the evening, having spent the day
completing the ritual ablutions (snana), prayer (puja) and worship at the
temple (murti darshan). The microphones are often faulty, the actors hardly
professionally rehearsed, but the mood is devotional, with spontaneous public
participation in the singing, dancing and music. And when, in the midst of the
play, the actor and actress playing the roles of Krishna and Radha are brought
out in tableau (jhanki), the spectators offer monetary offerings to them,
seeing in this human portrayal the reflection of the divine.
At the famous
temple of Nathdwara, near Udaipur in Rajasthan, Krishna is worshipped as
Shrinathji—Lord of Shri. The entire worship in the temple is premised on the
assumption that the image of Krishna in the sanctum sanctorum is living. Shrinathji
is ceremonially woken up every morning—the mangala darshan—and actually offered
a light breakfast, consisting of fruits, and his favourite—butter. A little
later in the day, during the sringara darshan, he is, as part of prescribed
ritual, shown a mirror to check his appearance and a flute is placed in his
hands. The gwala darshan, where he is dressed as a cowherd, coincides with the
time when he would have taken the cows out to graze. In the afternoon, the
temple is closed for a while, for it is his time of rest.
Following the
siesta, devotees can see him being offered the afternoon meal. The last darshan
is just before he sleeps and some food is left by the side of his bed, in case
he feels hungry at night. His clothes change according to the time of the day
and season of the year. At the height of summer, he is given a ceremonial bath.
The Snana Yatra—bathing festival— is a popular occurrence. Srinathji is
lovingly placed in a silver chariot and taken out in procession.This is the
time when the mangoes have come to fruit, and an offering of 25,000 of the best
of the harvest is offered to the god who makes no secret of his love for the
good things of life. In the adjacent states of Gujarat and Maharashtra, the
monsoon sees the Jal Jhilani festival, which celebrates the bathing of the
cowherds in the rain. When the clouds gather, Krishna is set out in the open
and bathed with his young friends in the rain amidst a great deal of fun and
revelry.
Across the land
from Udaipur, at Puri, on the eastern coast, Krishna is worshipped as
Jagannath—Lord of the world. The Jagannath temple at Puri is an extremely
important centre of Krishna worship. The image of Krishna here shows definite
tribal influence and the iconography is unusual in that he is flanked by his
sister, Subhadra, and brother, Balarama. As in Nathdwara, Jagannathji is
ceremonially bathed in May or June, but what is interesting is that after the
Snana Yatra is over, the deities are kept in a sick chamber for fifteen days
out of public view as they are said to have contracted fever from bathing at
midday! The most famous festival at Puri is the Rath Yatra—the Car Festival.
Every year in June or July, Jagannathji is placed in a wooden chariot and taken
to his summer residence—the Gundicha temple some 3 km away. The chariot is
pulled by over 4000 special coolies—the kalebetiyas—who enjoy hereditary
concessions in neighbouring villages for this service. The distance is short
but such are the vast crowds that the journey can take up to three or four days.
A sea of humanity greets the eye and there is much vociferous if benevolent
confusion, and even greater devotional fervour, as each devotee seeks to
contribute to the pulling of the chariot.
The Jhoolan Yatra,
the festival of swings, is another popular celebration in Puri. In the month of
July or August, an icon of Krishna, along with Radha, is placed on a swing
gaily decorated with images of dancing girls and musicians made of paper or
metal foil. The swing is gently swayed by a relay of priests while goti puas,
young boys dressed as girls trained to dance professionally, dance to the
lyrics of Jayadeva’s Gitagovinda. In Nathdwara, a similar swinging ceremony—the
Phul Dol—takes place in February or March. The image of Krishna as
Navanitapriyaji—the child on all fours crawling with a ball of butter in his
hand—is placed on a flower-bedecked swing and rocked reverentially.
Each ritual is
wrapped in its own myth, its own *mythologized’ kernel of history encased in
its own specificities of devotion. An interesting legend relates to the
establishment of the Guruvayoor temple, deep in the south of the subcontinent,
in the lush green state of Kerala. On the eve of his death, Krishna entrusted
an image of Narayana, which he used to worship himself, to his friend Uddhava,
who in turn gave it, in safekeeping, to the Guru of the Gods—Brihaspati, who,
assisted by his disciple Vayu, brought it to its present location, where Shiva
himself consecrated the installation. Hence the name: Guruvayoor.
The murti at
Guruvayoor is considered by many to be the most resplendent. Krishna is dressed
in a robe of yellow silk, with a shining crown on his head. The disc, the
conch, the mace and the lotus can be seen in his four hands. Ornamental drops
glisten in his ears, the vanamala garland adorns his neck and the lustrous
kausthubha jewel rests on his chest. Shri, the Goddess of Prosperity, and
Dhara, the Goddess of Earthly Wealth, hold him on either side in loving
embrace. His face is in smiling repose. An unending stream of devotees throng
the temple. Hundreds of children are brought every day for their first feed of
cereal—annaprasam.
Dozens of couples
are married in its precincts daily, for it is believed that this ensures a
happy marital life. The Guruvayoor Utsava (festival) takes place in February or
March and lasts for ten days. The entire township appears spruced up for the
event—houses are white-washed, fencing and tiles repaired, and the streets
along which the procession will pass festooned with arches and ornamentation. A
distinctive feature of the festival is the avoidance of loud fire-crackers, for
these are likely to frighten Unnikrishna—the boy Krishna. The celebrations are
a visible community event, with the multitudes thoroughly enjoying the daily
engagements, culminating in a mass dip in the temple-tank, and an elephant
chase, whose din and furore and devotional ecstasy is said to have a miraculous
curative impact on patients suffering from rheumatism and paralysis.
Within the temple
structure there hangs today the photograph of the great vocalist Chembai
Vaidhyanatha Bhagavatha. It is said that in 1938 he was to give a performance
at the Zamorin’s palace at Calicut but people were amazed to see that not a
sound came from his silently moving lips. Chembai rushed to Guruvayoor and
craved the mercy of the Lord. Miraculously, his voice was restored.
But who could
confine Braj Bihari within the confines of a temple? As he had danced with
Radha in the groves of Vrindavan and, as the notes of his flute had wafted
beyond the groves to be carried along the ripples of the Yamuna, so did he
dan;e and sing and paint his way into the lives of the common folk in a hundred
enticing ways. He was Akhila Kaladi Guru — the apostle of all arts and the
embodiment of all that was beautiful. It is believed that all the arts emanated
from his dance on the hood of the serpent Kaliya. In that moment of creative
rhythm, beautiful in its frenzied control, subtle in its balance, and
unparalleled in the vigour of its impact, poetry was born, and taala, and
poetry in movement. If Shiva, in the awesome grandeur of his tandava was
Nataraja, Krishna, in the delicate seduction of his movements, was Natwara.
He is the main
theme of the Manipuri dance of the north-east, of Kathak in the north, and of
Odissi in Orissa. In Karnataka, the Yakshagana dance form celebrates his
aishvarya bhava, the heroic exploits of the Chakravartin Krishna; in Andhra,
the Kuchipudi dance style relives his daring theft of the Parijata tree for
Satyabhama; and in Tamil Nadu, he is one of the main subjects of the classical
Bharatnatyam dance. In Kerala, Prince Manavendra wrote eight dramas on Krishna,
drawing from the Gitagovinda and the Bhagavata Purana.
From the plays was
born the dance form of Krishnaattam— the dance of Krishna, a forerunner of the
more popular Kathakali. In Gujarat, the more folksy Lakuta and Dandiya rasa are
inspired by him; and, in Maharashtra, the vibrant Tamasha folk theatre depicts
with abandon his audacious dan leela. In Assam, we have the local dramatic tradition
of the Ankia nat and the immensely popular plays of Srimanta Sankaradeva, the
great saint-reformer of the fifteenth century.
Sankaradeva was a
great devotee of Krishna. His collection of poems— Kirtana Ghosh—is regarded as
the most sacred religious book by the Hindus in Assam. He wrote six dramas of
which five were on Krishna. In Bengal, the Chaitanyainspired yatra dramas are
extremely popular, and in the tribal belt of Chattisgarh, the Jhumar songs and
Rahas dance, celebrating the love of Krishna and Radha, keep improvised
gatherings enthralled the entire night, night after night.
Krishna As
God: Part – II
Krishna’s presence
in music is equally ubiquitous. In Bengal, they have a saying: Kanu bina gita
nahin (without Krishna there is no song). He is the focus of the largest
numbers of compositions in Indian classical music and his presence is even more
pervasive in the light classical music genre of the thumri, raas, hori, dadra
and charchari songs. Indeed, most thumris are written in Braj bhasha, the
language of the Krishna bhakti cult. In a way, the thumri, akin to the khayal
ang of Hindustani music, but much more relaxed and without the
self-consciousness of its more stringent classical elder, was a particularly
apt medium to relate to Krishna. Its bol was not in rhetorical Sanskrit or
stylized Urdu; its compositions reflected the simplified language of the heart,
the outpourings of musicians rather than grammarians. Thumri after thumri deals
evocatively with the pangs of separation from Krishna. Radha asks:
Bata de Sakhi, Kiun gali gayo Shyam~ (Tell me friend trough which alleyway did Shyam go?); or vexed by Shyam’s barjori she says:
Bata de Sakhi, Kiun gali gayo Shyam~ (Tell me friend trough which alleyway did Shyam go?); or vexed by Shyam’s barjori she says:
Kanha mori gagariya
phori re,
Dekho, dekho re langarva ne
kinhi barjori
(Kanha broke my earthen pot, see how the mischievous one has behaved with me);
or plaintively she implores him.
Chunanya de de mori Shyam,
Bar bar kar jorat tum son
(Give me my scarf Shyam, again and again I plead with folded hands);
or sometimes, in an ecstasy of longing, she bursts out:
Tum Radha bano Shyam
Sab dekhenge brij bama
Sab Sakhiyan mili natch nachave
Yeh hai brij ghan Shyam,
You come dressed as Radha, Shyam,
All the women will watch
And sing and dance
This is the dark as clouds Shyam.
Dekho, dekho re langarva ne
kinhi barjori
(Kanha broke my earthen pot, see how the mischievous one has behaved with me);
or plaintively she implores him.
Chunanya de de mori Shyam,
Bar bar kar jorat tum son
(Give me my scarf Shyam, again and again I plead with folded hands);
or sometimes, in an ecstasy of longing, she bursts out:
Tum Radha bano Shyam
Sab dekhenge brij bama
Sab Sakhiyan mili natch nachave
Yeh hai brij ghan Shyam,
You come dressed as Radha, Shyam,
All the women will watch
And sing and dance
This is the dark as clouds Shyam.
In the hands of
musical wizards like Faiyaz Khan, Bade Ghulam Ali, Rasoolan Bai, Siddheswari
Devi and Begum Akhtar – to name but a few-such simple lines acquired an
emotional luminosity that could be profoundly moving, full of sweetness, with a
certain sensuous pathos, and yet retaining the robustness and lack of
inhibition of their essentially folk origins.
The many forms of
Krishna, particularly his roop(form) as a child and a lover, and the many
incidents and events related to these two forms, were irresistible material for
the visual artist as well. The Bhagavata, the Harivarnsa and the Gitagovinda
were illustrated because their written content unleashed a canvas of
imagery—part imagination part fantasy—that cried out to be given visual form.
The tidal wave of output came in the sixteenth century when poets like Surdas,
Keshav Das and Bihari took the Krishna theme by storm. Although the poems of
Surdas and Bihari were favourite material for the painters, it is not
surprising that Keshav Das’s sensual eroticism was responsible for the greatest
number of illustrations.
The princely states
in Rajasthan and Himachal Pradesh were the centres of this Krishna related
renaissance in Indian painting. Krishna’s sringara roop was the dominant theme
but popular incidents of his childhood—the lifting of Goverdhan, Kaliyadehan,
the killing of Putana, and the stealing of butter—were also portrayed.
Krishna became a
living icon in the hands of these craftsmen, who embellished his image
according to local need and context, for as a personal god his profile could
change almost from district to district. In Udaipur, Shrinathji; in Kota, Shri
Brajnathji; and in Kishangarh, Kalyan Rai. But beyond his formal form as deity,
he was an ideal an image, a concept, that could he molded to suit the personal
needs of a patron and his sensitive master-artist. For instance, in the
paintings made by Nihalchand, the famous chef de atelier of Savant Singh, the
Raja of Kishangarh, Krishna looks uncannily like the latter, and Radha like
Bani Thani, Savant Singh’s widely renowned mistress. A similar process, with a
few variations in nuance was under way in the Rajput states of Mewar, Malwa and
Bundelkhand. In Himachal Pradesh, a virtual efflorescence in Krishna-inspired
paintings took place in Basohli under Raja Kripal (167895) and his talented son
Dhiraj Pal (1695-1725); in Guler under Goverdhan Chand (1744-73); and in Kangra
under Raja Sansar Chand (1775-1809). Significant work was also done inChamba,
Kulu, Mandi and Garhwal. In both the hills and in Rajasthan, this school of
painting, which gave new vitality to the Moghul miniaturist tradition,
unfortunately declined in the nineteenth century with the coming of the British
and the advent of the Company School of painting.
In other parts of
India, beyond the confines of formal or stylized art, Krishna continued to be
an inspiring motif for both devotee and artist alike. In Bengal and Orissa, he
was depicted on palm leaves, and in Calcutta, the so called Kalighat school of
paintings catered in particular to pilgrims. In Rajasthan, he was painted on
cloth in colours derived from vegetable dyes—the Pichhavai paintings—which have
acquired new found popularity in recent times. In Bihar, he was the focus of
the vibrant Madhubani folk art, and in Maharashtra and Karnataka, the Paithen
paintings specialized in projecting him in his roop as Chakravartin.
The now much in
vogue Thanjavur paintings (paintings of Tanjore in Tamil Nadu), were first
commissioned by rich patrons in the seventeenth century. Traditionally, the
artists were the Kshamyas of the Raji community. The medium was wood or glass
inscribed over with gold and silver leaf and semi-precious gems. Krishna,
particularly Navanita Krishna, was the most pervasive preoccupation of the
artists. It is a matter of some interest that Krishna was not the most popular
subject in Indian sculpture. Perhaps the less pliable mediums of stone, copper
or bronze lent themselves less to the kaleidoscopic variations of the Krishna
theme. There are, of course, a few extant pieces of the most exquisite beauty,
in both copper and bronze, of the crawling Krishna with a ball of butter in his
hand, or of the dancing Krishna—and a few surviving stone panels depicting
well-known incidents of Krishna’s life; but on the whole it is the more pliable
aspects of the Krishna myth which seem to have thrived. Stone and metal create
icons of worship for placing on a pedestal. Krishna was ready to be
appropriated, to mould himself to the flights of imagination of his followers.
He pirouetted effortlessly on an upheld musical note, leapt gracefully out of a
painting, and danced in unison to our internal mental rhythms. Peasant or
prince, lover or warrior, child or sage, his was a la carte devotional menu.
Above all, he was both the embodiment and the sanction of joy. In portraying
him, artists revelled in the sheer joyous flexibility of expression he made
possible. Hence we notice that even in secular themes, such as that of the
Baramaasa series, or the Ragamala paintings, the male figure is that of
Krishna.
Indeed, in many
respects, Krishna was not just a Hindu deity. His appeal transcended religious
boundaries or regional affiliations. Guru Nanak, the founder of the Sikh faith,
sang evocatively: ‘He Govinda He Gopal,’ and the Sikh Shabad kirtans are
replete with references to Madho and Shyam. Mian Tansen, the celebrated Muslim
court musician of Akbar, could sing with fervour: Shyam Ghanshyam umad ghumad
ayo hai (Shyam, the dark one, comes circling like the monsoon clouds); and a
panoply of renowned Muslim vocalists have continued to sing with joy and
familiarity of the dark one. Nawab Wajid Ali Shah, the talented last king of
Oudh, wrote two plays titled Kissa Radhe Kanhaiya Ka (The story of Radhe and
Kanhaiya); when staged, he used to play the part of Krishna himself. The number
of Muslims who painted on Krishna themes was significant. In the court of the
seventeenth century princely states of Mewar, the master painter who
illustrated the Bhagavata Purana was a Muslim, Sahibdin. At about the same
time, Syed lbrahim Ras Khan, wrote his Rachnavali in praise of Krishna. Its
opening lines were:
Worthy to be human,
are only those Ras Khan,
Who dwell among the cowherders of Gokul Gaon,
And blessed alone are those animals,
Taken to graze with the cows of Nanda’s barn.
Who dwell among the cowherders of Gokul Gaon,
And blessed alone are those animals,
Taken to graze with the cows of Nanda’s barn.
In Orissa, to this
day, devotees sing the Muslim poet Salbeg’s lyrics to welcome Lord Jagannath.
And the image of Krislina is a recurring theme in the outpourings of Malik
Moliammad Jaise, the author of the first great epic in Avadhi.
A certain
eclecticism, a revolt against stifling narrowness, has been an important
element of the Krishna cult. The very exuberance of Krishna’s personality
militated against a very formalized, rigid, exclusive or hierarchical structure
of worship. Ecstasy rather than dogma, fervour rather than bigotry, and bhakti
rather than shuddhi, have been the dominant traits of Krislina worship, in
accordance with the defining parameters of the Bhakti and Sufi movements as a
whole. The Bhagavata Purana had laid the basis for such an approach when it
stated categorically: ‘I believe that even a Brahmin equipped with twelve
qualities (wealth, family status, knowledge, yoga, intellect, etc.) who has
turned his face away from the lotus feet of god (Krishna) is inferior to the
chandala (outcaste) who has laid his mind, speech, work, wealth and life at
god’s feet; that chandala saves his whole family, while the Brahmin, arrogant
of his station, cannot even save himself.
Not surprisingly,
there is very little reference throughout Krishna’s sojourn in Vrindavan to
traditional Hindu society. In Vrindavan, Braj happily coexists with Bengali as
the second most important language of the area. Mathura, where Krishna was
born, was, and to some extent still is, an important area for the Jain and
Buddhist faiths. The Govindji Temple in Vrindavan, built in AD 1590, has a
Hindu elevation, a Christian ground plan and a roof of modified Saracenic
character. The musical entourage of one of the most well-known Kathak exponents
of the rasa has a Muslim vocalist, a Muslim percussionist and a Muslim
sarodist. These are random examples but they are definitive pointers to the
basic catholicity of the Krishna faith.
In India, Krishna
lives on not only as a symbol of faith, but as a reflex and unquestioned
presence in the daily lives of millions of people, a participant in their hopes
and joys, sorrows and grief, in their song and dance and music and creative
pursuits, in festivals and ceremonials, in laughter and gaiety. In a sense his
multilayered personality mirrors the harmonious schizophrenia of the Hindu
mind, which effortlessly operates at two apparently dichotomous levels—one of
make-believe, ritual, rampant mythology and love, and the other transcendent,
beyond categories, serene in the realization of the metaphysical unity of
divinity. It is not uncommon to see in a representative Hindu home a picture of
Krishna surrounded by nude women gazing passionately at him, and another
picture of him giving upadesha to Arjuna on the imperatives of quenching desire
and understanding the self within.
To a foreigner, the
diversity of godly attributes in one divine persona could well appear bizarre,
but not so to the Hindu, who, forever conscious at one level of Krishna’s
celestial status, has nevertheless joyously—even extravagantly— humanized him
within the framework of his mortal world. It is only when conscious of such a
perspective that one can understand why in the temple of Jagannath at Puri,
devotees are free to loudly abuse Krishna. It is an aggressive yet overt
gesture of proprietary familiarity. There is a personal bond of intimacy
between worshipper and deity that defies conventional logic. I have been told
that until recently, and perhaps even today in many parts of India,
particularly northern India, young widows would be given a laddoo Gopal—an
image of the child Krishna—to adopt. The image, of metal or clay, would then
become a living child and the lady would be absorbed in the daily routine of
bringing up her Gopal.
It was an activity
not very different from playing with a doll. However, significantly enough,
other members of the household would view this preoccupation as quite normal.
If the lady was busy, a visitor would be told without hesitation: she is busy
bathing Gopalji, or she is busy feeding Thakurji! Krishna seemed to enjoy this
appropriation. There is a popular story of a devotee who looked upon Krishna as
his own child, but was one day overcome by the divine status of his ward; at
that moment his feelings changed from filial love to overawed servitude; when
this happened, Krishna disappeared, reprimanding his devotee about his flawed
perspective: Krishna would be his only so long as he considered him his own.
Much in India has
changed today, and the process of transition is still ongoing. Mobility,
economic opportunity, industrialization, the widening of the political base and
the impact of the mass media, have set adrift old traditions, customs and
habits, without as yet another set of enduring beliefs to replace them. The
metamorphosis is most clearly in evidence in the bigger cities, where the ‘new’
culture is described best by the absence of cultural content, a nondescript if
more egalitarian drift whose most recognizable element is a gross and
increasingly aggressive materialism. The manner in which Krishna survives in
this new milieu is yet to be seen. generation earlier, Janamashtami was
celebrated with commitment by the entire extended family, with the children in
particular spending days absorbed in building a tableau to recreate the
ambience of the place of his birth; today Janamashtami often comes and goes
without the younger generation being aware of its advent, and certainly quite
ignorant about the manner of its celebration. The cause for this is almost
certainly because of new challenges, new goals, and the greater burden of
survival in a vastly more competitive environment.
But, it would
appear, for all of this, Krishna will survive. Perhaps it is the neurosis of
these uncertain times that the numbers of those flocking to his temples show no
signs of decrease. Or perhaps his legacy, through a process of osmosis
thousands of years old, has been assimilated so imperceptibly by a people that
it cannot be mutated without the Hindu psyche itself undergoing a major
cataclysmic change. Perhaps, with a twinkle in his eye, he has himself shown a
divine agility to change according to the times. For, are there not devotees
today in distant and strange lands—the USA, Australia, Russia, Europe and
elsewhere—who have given up their own faiths to chant reverentially, ‘Hare Rama
Hare Krishna’ and build temples in his honour and ashrams in his name that seek
to recreate Gokula and Vrindavan? And so the saga of his rasa goes on every day
(nitya rasa), through all the seasons, in spring (basanta rasa), and in autumn
(kunj rasa), and then in that full moon night in early winter, the night of the
maharasa, when in spite of ourselves, everything in the cosmos halts, to dance
once again to the magic of his eternal leela.
Om Tat Sat
End
(My humble salutations to the lotus feet of Swamyjis, Philosophic Scholars, Scholars and for the collection)
