Pradip Bhattacharya

Indologist, Mahabharata scholar

Mahabharata

The Date of the Mahabharata War

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In Vyasa and Valmiki Sri Aurobindo refers to a “recent article of the Indian Review” on the date of the Mahabharata war praising it as “an unusually able and searching (or almost conclusive) paper”.  It was Velandai Gopala Aiyer’s “The Date of the Mahabharata War” published in Vol. II, January-December 1901 of this monthly journal (Indian Review) edited by G.A.Natesan. Sri Aurobindo was obviously fully convinced by Aiyer’s arguments, because elsewhere he writes, “It is now known beyond reasonable doubt that the Mahabharata war was fought out in or about 1190 B.C.”

Aiyer had published a previous paper in the same journal fixing the date of the beginning of the Kaliyuga from four different sources:

  1. Vedanga Jyotisha — 1173 B.C.
  2. Gargacharya — a few years prior to 1165 B.C.
  3. Classical historians — 851 years before Alexander’s stay in India, viz. 1177-76 B.C.
  4. which is confirmed by the Malabar Kollam Andu commencing in August/September 1176 B.C.

Aiyer concluded that the Kaliyuga began with the winter solstice immediately preceding the commencement of the Kollam Andu, or at the end of 1177 B.C. The Mahabharata War, he proposes, was fought a few years before the beginning of the Kaliyuga.

One would like to know if any reactions to Aiyar’s research were published in the “Indian Review”. Libraries in Chennai might yield the information. An abridgement is presented in Aiyer’s own words as far as possible.] – Pradip Bhattacharya

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According to the Mahaprasthanika Parva and the Vishnu Purana, the Kali age would not affect the earth so long as it was touched by Sri Krishna’s holy feet. When the Pandavas abdicated, Parikshit must have been about 16 years old (the age of majority according to Hindu lawyers). If Kali began in 1177 B.C., Parikshit would have probably been born in 1193 B.C. and the war should have occurred towards the end of 1194 B.C.

Again, the Mausala Parva says that the Yadava race was destroyed 36 years after the war and the Pandavas left soon thereafter at the beginning of Kaliyuga. On the other hand, the Bhagavatayana Parva states that Kali began at the time of the war itself. The Ashramavasika Parva states that when 15 years had expired after the war, Dhritarashtra, Gandhari and Kunti left for the forest. In the 16th year after the war, the Pandavas visited them along with Uttara who had recently become a mother and had her child in her lap. Now, Parikshit was in the womb during the war (Sauptika Parva), hence he could not have been an infant in the 16th year after the war. Therefore, this statement in the Ashramavasika is incorrect. Rather, in the 16th year after the war the Pandavas started not on a visit to the old people, but on their last journey. There is no mention of Parikshit’s marriage, which would have occurred later. If Parikshit were really 36 years of age when the Pandavas left, why should he be placed under the tutelage of Kripacharya as stated in Mausala Parva? It would be more consistent if Parikshit was about 16 when he was crowned, and the war took place 16 years before the beginning of the Kaliyuga. This conclusion is supported by other evidence.

Kalhana Pandit’s Rajatarangini, the well-known history of Kashmir written in 1148 A.D., is the only indigenous work in India that can pass for history. Verses 48-49 of the first Taranga state:

“Misled by the tradition that the Bharata war took place at the end of the Dwapara, some have considered as wrong the sum of years (contained in the statement that) in the Kaliyuga the kings beginning with Gonanda I (and ending with Andha Yudhishthira) ruled of the Kasmiras for 2268 years.”

This Gonanda I was, says Kalhana, the contemporary of the Pandavas. The 52nd in descent from him was Abhimanyu, son of Kanishka, whose successor Gonanda III was the first of a new dynasty “which came to power 2330 years before Kalhana’s time” (1st Taranga, verses 52 and 49). In the Rajatarangini the total for the reigns from the end of Andha Yudhishthira—the last of Gonanda III’s dynasty—to Kalhana’s own time is 1329 years, 3 months, 28 days, say roughly 1330 years. Kalhana would have presumed that the interval between the end of Abhimanyu’s reign and that of Andha Yudhishthira was 2330-1330 = 1000 years.

Clearly, in Kalhana’s time it was believed that 2268 years had elapsed from the time of Pandava Yudhishthira to that of Andha Yudhishthira. Hence, Kalhana gives 2268-1000 or 1268 years for the reigns of the first 52 kings from Gonanda I to Abhimanyu and 1000 years for the 21 kings of the dynasty of Gonanda III. This was the “tradition” Kalhana refers to in the excerpt above. The latter portion may well be a later addition because Kalhana himself says it is “thought” that the 52 kings down to Abhimanyu reigned in all “for 1266 years” (verse 54, Taranga I—obviously an error for 1268 years).

However, Kalhana accepts only part of the old “tradition”, namely that 2268 years elapsed from the time of Pandava Yudhishthira to that of Andha Yudhishthira. He does not accept the part that Pandava Yudhishthira lived at the end of the Dwapara Yuga because in Kalhana’s time, as now, the Dwapara was supposed to have ended and the Kali to have begun in 3102 B.C. Kalhana relied on Garga’s verse (quoted in Varahamihira’s Brihatsamhita, XIII. 3-4) which he erroneously interpreted as meaning that Yudhishthira commenced to reign 2526 years before the era of Salivahana, in 2428 B.C. As Abhimanyu lived 1268 years after Pandava Yudhishthira, Kalhana placed him in 2448-1268 = 1180 B.C. Since Kanishka and his successor Abhimanyu lived in the 1st century after Christ, the false figures given by Kalhana for Abhimanyu and all the subsequent kings down to the 6th century A.D. can be traced to his mistaken interpretation of Garga’s verse.

Almost all Sanskrit scholars agree that Kanishka lived in the 1st century A.D., though Cunningham thought that the Vikrama era from 57 B.C. began with Kanishka, and the Saka era beginning on 3rd March 78 A.D. dates from him. Coins show that Kanishka reigned down to 40 A.D. Irrespective of whether the era of Salivahana dates from Kanishka, clearly Abhimanyu must have been reigning about the commencement of this era in 78 A.D. If so, Yudhishthira, who lived 1268 years earlier, must have begun to reign about 1268-78 = 1190 B.C. Since his coronation took place soon after the war, it must also have been fought around 1190 B.C.

Aryabhatta — whose fame spread to Arabia as Arjabahr and Constantinople’s vast empire as Andubarius or Ardubarius — was born in 476 A.D. and the first to promulgate the theory that the earth revolved round the sun, calculate the circumference of the earth and explain the eclipses. According to him, “the line of the Saptarshis intersected the middle of Magha Nakshatra in the year of Kaliyuga 1910”, i.e. 1192 B.C. According to the Vishnu Purana, the Sapatarshis were in that very same position at the birth of Parikshit who was, therefore, born about 1192 B.C. Since the war occurred at the most a few months earlier than his birth, it might have taken place about 1193 B.C.

The same result is arrived at if we consider the number of kings who occupied the throne of Magadha from the time of the war to the accession of Chandragupta. According to the Vishnu Purana — which is mostly agreed to by the other Puranas — the 9 Nandas reigned for 100 years; the 10 Saisunagas of the next previous dynasty for 362 years; the 5 kings of the still previous Pradyota dynasty for 138 years succeeding the famous Barhadratha dynasty whose 22 kings sat on the throne since the date of the war. Thus, we get 100 years for the Nanda and 500 years for the 2 previous dynasties. Very probably the same number was reported to Megasthenes. However, what strikes one most is the large average for each reign. The same Vishnu Purana gives 137 years for the 10 kings of the later Maurya dynasty, 112 years for the 10 kings of the Sunga dynasty and 45 years for the 4 kings of the Kanwa line, i.e. an average of about 12 years against 28 for the Pradyota dynasty and 36 for the Saisunaga! For the Nandas, it is scarcely probable that a father and his sons could have reigned for 100 years, especially when the last sons did not die naturally but were extirpated by Chandragupta with the help of Chanakya. The Puranas may have left out insignificant reigns, or these ancient kings may have been longer-lived than those of the post-Chandragupta period, but even then the averages are too large. It would be unsafe to deduce therefrom the probable date of the war.

In England, from the Norman invasion to the 20th century, 35 monarchs had ruled for 835 years, the average being about 23 years. From Hugh Capet to the execution of Louis XVI, France was ruled by 33 kings for 1793-987 = 806 years, yielding an average of about 24 years. 8 kings ruled Prussia from Ivan III @ 23 years. In Russia 22 monarchs up to the present Emperor Nicholas II for 1894-1462 = 432 years giving an average of about 19 years. In Japan, the present Emperor Musu Hito is the 123rd, his ancestor Jimmu Tenno having established the dynasty lasting unbroken for 2500 years, which gives an average of 21 years for this long-lived dynasty. Thus, the averages for each of the 5 foremost powers of our hemisphere are 23 for England, 24 for France, 23 for Germany, 19 for Russia and 21 for Japan. The average of these, about 22 years, may be taken as the probable duration of each reign of the pre-Chandragupta dynasties. There were 22 Barhadrathas, 5 Pradyotas and 10 Saisunagas = 37 in all from the time of the war to the Nandas, and they might therefore have reigned for 37 x 22 = 814 years.

Moreover, according to the Buddhist Mahavamso, composed by Mahanama around 460 A.D., Mahapadma Nanda, called Kalasoka in the chronicle, reigned for 20 years and had 10 sons who conjointly ruled for 22 years. Then there were 9 brothers who reigned for 22 years. Thus, the Nandas reigned in all for 20+22+22 = 64 years, a figure more likely to be correct than the Puranic round figure of 100 years. Thus, the war must have happened about 814+64 = 878 years before Chandragupta, at 878+315 = 1193 B.C.

Against our reckoning of 814 years between the war and Mahapadma Nanda’s accession, the Vishnu Purana (IV.24) gives 1015 years. This seems based on supposing a round period of 100 years from the start of the Kaliyuga to the time of Nanda’s accession and presuming that the Kali began 15 years after the war. If so, the genuineness of an interval of a round period of 1000 years between the beginning of the Kali and the coronation of Nanda is suspect. The Purana period of 1015 years for the 37 kings between the war and the coronation of Nanda yields an improbable average of over 27 years. The author of the Vishnu Purana deals vaguely in round figures, giving 100 for the Nandas, 500 for the Pradyotas and Saisunagas and 1000 years (IV.23) for the Barhadrathas, the last figure directly conflicting with the statement about 1015 years intervening between the war and the end of the Saisunaga dynasty.

This Purana also states that the Saptarshis, which are supposed to move @ one Nakshatra for every 100 years (IV.24) had moved 10 Nakshatras from Magha to Purvashada during this interval, which therefore comes to 10×100 = 1000 years. Obviously, this supposed movement was arrived at by the author not by actual observation, for such a movement is astronomically impossible, but by his deducing it from the other statement in the preceding verse that 1015 years had elapsed during this interval. The author seems first to have had in mind that the Kali began 15 years after the war and that 1000 year elapsed from the beginning of the Kali era to the accession of Nanda, and then to havae deduced therefrom the proposition that the Saptarshis which were in Magha at the time of the war had moved on to Purvashada at the coronation of Mahapadma Nanda.

In Chapter XIII of the Brihatsamhita, Varahamihira, born in 505 A.D., deals with the Saptarshi cycles and quotes Vriddha Garga: “When king Yudhishthira ruled the earth, the seven seers were in Magha; the Saka era is 2526 years after the commencement of his reign.” The translator, Dr. Hultzsch (Indian Antiquary VIII, p.66) comments, “The coronation of Yudhishthira took place 2526 years before the commencement of the Saka era, or at the expiration of the Kaliyuga-Samvat 653 and in B.C. 2448.” This agrees with Kalhana in thinking that the Yudhishthira era is different from the Kali era.

On the other hand, Jyotirvidabharana, an astronomical work attributed to Kalidasa, but which scholars place in the 16th century A.D., states that in the Kaliyuga six different eras will flourish one after another: the Yudhishthira to last 3044 years from the beginning of Kali; the Vikrama to last for 135 years afterwards; the Salivahana for 1800 years thereafter; and the Vijaya, Nagarjuna and Bali ears to be current in the rest of the Kaliyuga. The three last are fictitious. This shows that Hindus have all along thought that the Yudhishthira era commenced with the Kali. So also Aryabhatta computes by the era of Yudhishthira, which corresponds to the Kaliyuga. Therefore, it is not possible to concur with Kalhana and Dr. Hultzsch in placing the beginning of the Yudhishthira era “at the expiration of the Kaliyuga-samvat 653 and in B.C. 2448.”

What does “Sakakala” really mean? It has been proved that Garga, the author of the shloka, lived about 165 B.C. Even granting Dr.Kern’s contention that Garga lived in the 1st century B.C., it is not possible that Garga could have meant by “Sakakala” either the Vikrama samvat, which began later in 57 B.C., or the Salivahana Sakabda, which commenced still later in 78 A.D. It has not yet been proven that the Vikramasamvat era had been in use ever since 57 B.C. Fergusson, Max Muller and Weber opine otherwise. Besides the Kali or the Saptarshi era, there was in the days of Garga only one other prominent era in existence, namely, the era of Nirvana, “which,” says Fergusson (in History of Indian and Eastern Architecture, p. 46), “was the only one that had existed previously in India.” The era of Mahavira beginning in 527 B.C. might have been then in existence, but the Jain religion was only confined comparatively to a few and its era was not much in evidence before the public. The era of Buddha’s Nirvana was, on the other hand, very widely known (being the State Religion during Asoka’s time). A Tibetan work records a schism having occurred under a “Thera Nagasena” 137 years after the Nirvana’ Chandragupta is recorded to have ascended the throne 162 years after the Nirvana; the inauguration of Asoka is stated to have taken place 218 years after the Nirvana; and the Dipawanso, a history of Ceylon written in Pali verse about the 4th century A.D., makes use of the era of Nirvana in its computations. Therefore, the era of Buddha’s Nirvana, which was in current use in the time of Garga, might have been probably referred to by him.

Gautama Buddha was known by the name of “Sakya Muni” and his paternal grandfather was also known by the name of “Sakya”. The race to which Gautama belonged was often called by the name of Sakyas. R.C. Dutt says, “A little to the east of the Kosala kingdom, two kindred clans, the Sakyas and the Koliyans, lived on the opposite banks of the small stream Rohini …Kapilavastu was the capital of the Sakyas.” The followers of Gautama Buddha were often spoken of as “Sakyaputriya Sramanas” in contradistinction possibly to the Sramanas of other sects. We may therefore infer that the era of Gautama Buddha was probably known as “Sakya Kala” in those times. The era could not have been called “Nirvana Kala” as the term might equally apply to the Nirvana of Mahavira.

The shloka is written in the usual Arya metre. Similarly, the first 2 slokas of the chapter are in faultless rhythm, but the third shloka under discussion satisfies the rhythmic requirements in only the first three quarters. The last quarter, shakakalastasya… is short by one “matra”. It is inexplicable how Kalhana and other scholars could overlook such a glaring slip. As the Rajatarangini also makes this mistake, we may infer that the error might have been in existence from a very long time. The only way of correcting the error is by insertion of the letter “Y” which has been somehow omitted, between the letter “K” and “A” in the word “Saka”, correcting “Sakakala” to “Sakyakala” which makes the shloka perfect and then we have the best of reasons to suppose that Garga refers to the era of Nirvana, the epoch of the Sakyas, or of the Sakya prince Gautama, or of the Buddha called Sakya Muni. Some early copyist, better acquainted with “Sakakala” than with “Sakyakala” changed the latter into the former, which he might have thought to be the corrector form. Even without such a correction, “Sakakala” may be considered a corruption of “Sakyakala”. Thus, in any case, the era of Buddha’s Nirvana is the one most undoubtedly referred to.

The expression shadadvikpancadvi means “twenty-six times twenty-five” or 650 and not “six two five two” denoting 2526 as Dr. Hultzsch interprets. The termination “ka” denotes “so many times”, and is not an expletive that a precise mathematician like Garga may be expected to use unnecessarily. Garga computed here by the Saptarshi cycle, which denoted the lapse of every 100 years by a new Nakshatra and gave 25 years for each Nakshatrapada, into four of which a Nakshatra was then usually divided. If the Saptarshis had moved 6 ½ Nakshatras from the time of Yudhishthira’s coronation to the Nirvana of Buddha, that would be more appropriately expressed as the movement of the Rishis through 26 padas and the period denoted thereby would be put down as twenty-six times twenty-five years.

Though Max Muller offers very fair reasons for fixing the date of the Nirvana in 477 B.C., yet as Bigandet points out in his life of Buddha, both the chronicles of Ceylon and Further India unanimously agree that Buddha attained Nirvana at the age of 80 in 543 B.C. The Dipawanso computes by the era of Nirvana beginning in 544-3 B.C. Burma, Siam and Ceylon are all unanimous in giving this date and such widespread unanimity of opinion cannot be expected unless the era of 544-3 B.C. had existed from a very long time.

Garga’s statement now indicates to us that the coronation of Yudhishthira, and therefore the Mahabharata War, took place in the year 544 or 543 + 650 = 1194-3 B.C.

Almost in all parts of India the Brihaspati 60 year cycle prevails from a very long time. In commenting on Taittiriya Brahmana, I.4.10, Sayana says that this cycle comprised 12 of the ancient 5 cycles, which are so often referred to in the Vedic works and in the Vedanga Jyotisha. The sun and the moon take about 5 years to return to the same position at the beginning of a year, which gave rise to the cycle of the 5 years known as Samvatsara, Parivatsara, Idavatsara, Anuvatsara and Idvatsara respectively. As Brihaspati makes a complete circuit of the heavens in about 12 years, all the 3 heavenly bodies were expected to return to the same celestial region on the expiry of every 60 years. Because of a corrector knowledge of Brihaspati’s motions, Northern India has been expunging 1 year of the cycle in every 85-and-65/211 years so that after one such period the name of the next year is left out and the name of the one following the next year is taken to be the next year’s name. As no such practice prevails in Southern India, the current year (April 1901 to April 1902) which is the year “Pramadicha” in the North, is the year “Plava” in the South.

When the names were invented, the year of the Mahabharata War, the only famous epoch in the history of Ancient India, was named “Prabhava”, the name of the 1st year of the cycle. But the dates given by the orthodox for the war or for the beginning of the Kaliyuga do not correspond to the 1st year of the cycle. But, if we adopt the date given by Garga for the epoch of Yudhishthira, i.e. 1194-3 B.C., we find that the corresponding year of the Brihaspati cycle for that date is “Prabhava”, the name of its very 1st year.

We have suggested that the Kaliyuga began at the winter solstice of 1177 B.C. We have also seen that, barring the argument based on Rajatarangini, which gives us about 1190 B.C. for the war, our other lines of discussion point to 1194-3 B.C. as the probable date of the war. This date is further confirmed by the application of the principles of the Vedanga Jyotisha to certain statements contained in the Mahabharata itself. We may here observe that these statements are not to be explained by the astronomical calculations of modern times, for these were unknown in the days of the War, but rather by the calculations of the Vedanga Jyotisha, which, though cruder, are better applicable to them, inasmuch as it is the oldest Hindu astronomical treatise known to us and its astronomical details, as we have seen, relate to the beginning of Kaliyuga.

In the Swargarohanika Parva of the Mahabharata, we are told that Yudhishthira having observed “that the sun ceasing to go southwards had begun to proceed in his northward course” set out to where Bhishma lay on his bed of arrows. After telling Yudhishthira that the winter solstice had set in, Bhishma said, “Yudhishthira, the lunar month of Magha has come. This is again the lighted fortnight and a fourth part of it ought by this be over.” Whatever historical weight may be attached to these statements, they may be at least taken to mean that the winter solstice then occurred on the expiry of the fourth part of the bright fortnight in the month of Magha, that is, on the fourth or the fifth day after new moon. Nilakantha, the commentator, thinks that the expression tribhagashesha pakshah denotes ‘Magha Sukla Panchami’ or the fifth lunar day in the month of Magha after Amavasya, the new moon.

As according to the Vedanga the winter solstice always occurred with the sun in Dhanishtha the Amavasya referred to by the Mahabharata must have occurred with the sun and the moon in Sravana Nakshatra; and as the winter solstice occurred on the fifth day after this, the moon must have been, on the solstitial day, in or near Revati Nakshatra. According to the Jyotisha, this position could have occurred only at the beginning of the fourth year of a five-year cycle, for it was then that the moon was in Aswayuja, next to Revati Nakshatra. The difference of this one Nakshatra is due to the imperfections of the elements of the Jyotisha. Thus we may infer that the winter solstice following the Mahabharata war, and just preceding Bhishma’s death, was the fourth of the five winter solstices of a five-year cycle. The particular five-year cycle in which the Mahabharata war took place appears to have been the fourth cycle previous to the beginning of the Kaliyuga in 1177 inasmuch as we have found that the Rajatarangini points to1190 B.C., and that all other lines of discussion lead to 1194-3 B.C. as the probable date of the War. Consequently, the winter solstice shortly following the War was the fourth of the fourth five-year cycle preceding the commencement of the Kaliyuga, which began, like the five-year cycle, with a winter solstice and with the sun and the moon in Dhanishtha Nakshatra. In other words, the Mahabharata war took place a little before the seventeenth winter solstice preceding the commencement of the Kaliyuga or towards the end of1194 B.C.

To summarize the arguments above set forth:

  1. We were first enabled by the Vedanga Jyotisha to place the beginning the Kali era approximately at about 1173 B.C.
  2. After enquiring into the date of Garga and of the Yavana invasion he spoke of, we noted that he fixed “the end of the Yuga” for the retirement of the Greeks from Hindustan. From this statement we inferred that the Yuga, which ended sometime before 165 B.C, must have begun a few years before 1165 B.C.
  3. In explaining the figures given by the classical historians, we concluded that the Kaliyuga must have begun in 1177-6 B.C.
  4. The Malabar era furnished us with another authority for fixing the commencement of the Kali era in1176 B.C.
  5. We found that if the Kali commenced at the winter solstice immediately preceding the year 1176 B.C., the details of the Mahabharata would lead us to place the war at the end of the year 1194 B.C.
  6. The Tradition recorded in the Rajatarangini, enabled us to fix the date of the war about 1190 B.C.
  7. From a statement made by Aryabhatta that the Rishis were in Magha in 1192 B.C., we inferred that the war might have taken place at about1195 B.C.
  8. The average duration of the reigns of the monarchs of the five foremost powers of our hemisphere served to assist us in fixing the date of the war at about1198 B.C.
  9. From a shloka of Garga quoted in the Brihatsamhita, we inferred that the war occurred in1194-3 B.C.
  10. We also found that the first year of the Brihaspati cycle of 60 years actually corresponds, as might naturally be expected, to the date of the war as given by Garga, i.e. 1194-3 B.C.
  11. We applied the elements of the Vedanga Jyotisha to a shloka contained in the Mahabharata, which fixes the day of the winter solstice occurring soon after the war, and concluded that the war should have taken place in the latter part of 1194 B.C.

Thus we find all this cumulative evidence derived from different sources converging to the result that the Kali era began at the winter solstice occurring at the end of 1177 B.C., and that the Mahabharata war took place at about the end of 1194 B.C. In arriving at these conclusions, we had the testimony of the only historian that India can boast of who lived in the twelfth century A.D., of the greatest of the astronomers of India who flourished at the end of the fifth century A.D., of another brilliant astronomer who shone in the second century B.C., and of a versatile Greek historian who was also an ambassador at the court of the first great historic Emperor of India who reigned in the fourth century B.C. We had also the authority of the oldest astronomical work of India which claims to be a supplement to the Vedas, of an ancient era which “forms such a “splendid bridge from the old world to the new”, and of the famous sixty-year cycle. We tested these conclusions by what we may call the common-sense process based on the lists of kings contained in the Puranas. We have met and disposed of the arguments of those that give an earlier date.

So far we have been treading on more or less firm ground. But if we attempt to fix the actual days of the year 1194 B.C. when the War may be supposed to have been fought, our authority will have to be the epic itself, by itself an unsafe guide. The Mahabharata is unfortunately neither the work of one author, nor of one age. It has been recently proposed to start an Indian Epic Society mainly for sifting out the older portions of our incomparable epic. But the labors of such a Society, when brought to a successful termination, will not militate against the authenticity of the texts we are presently to discuss. Most of these belong to the war portion of the Mahabharata, which, according to Weber, is recognizable as the original basis of the epic.

We have already referred to a shloka of the epic, which states that the winter solstice, which took place soon after the war, happened on the fifth day after new moon in the month of Magha. In the very next preceding shloka, Bhishma tells Yudhishthira that he has been lying on his ‘spiky’ bed for the previous fifty-eight nights. Among Hindus it has for long been considered good for one’s future state, for death to occur in the period between the winter and summer solstices. The grand old Bhishma did not allow the arrows sticking into his body to be removed lest he might die before the commencement of the auspicious period, but rather preferred to suffer the excruciating pain, to which one with a less magnificent physique would have speedily succumbed.

The war is expressly stated in the epic (Ashramavasika Parva X.30) to have lasted for eighteen consecutive days. Moreover, in the Dronabhisheka Parva (Sections II and V), Karna is said to have refrained from taking part in the war for the ten days during which Bhishma was the generalissimo of the Kaurava army. In the last chapter of Drona Parva it is stated that Drona, who was the next Commander-in- chief, was slain after having fought dreadfully for five days. Karna led the army for the succeeding two days (Karna Parva I.15), and on the night of the next day (Shalya Parva I.10-13) after Karna’s death, the war was brought to an end. When Yudhishthira was lamenting the death of Ghatotkacha on the fourteenth night of the war, Vyasa told him that in five days the earth would fall under his sway (Drona Parva CLXXXIV.65). From these references also it is clear that the war continued for eighteen consecutive days. As Bhishma was mortally wounded on the tenth day of the war, as the war lasted for eight days more, and as Bhishma is reported to have stated (Anushasana Parva CLXVII.26-27) on the day of the winter solstice that he remained on his bed of arrows for fully fifty-eight nights, the interval between the end of the war and the solstitial day was fifty days. As a matter of fact, this very number of days (ibid. 6) is stated as the period of the stay of the Pandavas in the city of Hastinapura which they entered on the next day after the war (Stri Parva XXVII, Shanti Parva XLI and XLV. Though the Pandavas desired to pass the period of mourning which extended for a month outside Hastinapura vide Shanti Parva I.2, their intention seems not to have been carried out) until they set out on their last visit to Bhishma on the day of the winter solstice. The epic says:

“The blessed monarch (Yudhishthira) having passed fifty nights in Hastinapura recollected the time indicated by his grandsire (Bhishma) as the hour of his departure from this world. Accompanied by a number of priests, he then set out of the city, having seen that the sun ceasing to go southwards had begun to proceed in his northward course” (Anushasanika Parva CLXVII. 5-6).

After Yudhishthira reached Bhishma, the latter addressed him in these words, “The thousand-rayed maker of the day has begun his northward course. I have been lying on my bed here for eight and fifty nights” (ibid. 26-27). We may therefore conclude that the winter solstice took place on the fifty-first day from the close of the war.

On the next day after the close of war, Sri Krishna and the Pandavas paid a visit to the dying Bhishma, whom Sri Krishna addressed in the following words: “Fifty-six days more, 0 Kuru Warrior, art thou going to live” (Stri Parva XXVII; Shanti ParvaXLI, XLV and LII). One need not be misled by the prophetic nature of this expression and declare it to be of no historic value. It might well have been a fact and put in the form of a prophecy by the compiler of the epic. But it may be asked how Bhishma could have lived fifty-six days after the close of the war, if only fifty days had elapsed from that time to the winter solstice when Bhishma hoped to give up his life-breath. But the explanation appears to me to be simple enough; though the winter solstice occurred fifty days after the close of the war, Bhishma does not seem to have died on the solstitial day, when the arrows were extracted from his body but appears rather to have lingered on till the sixth day after the winter solstice. We have seen that the solstice took place then on the fifth lunar day after new moon in the month of Magha. It was on the sixth day from this, that is, on Magha Sukla Ekadasi, that Bhishma, “that pillar of Bharata’s race,” seems to have “united himself with eternity.” Tradition asserts that Bhishma died on this very day, and our almanacs even now make note of the fact and call the day by name of “Bhishma Ekadasi.” To this day, death on the eleventh lunar day of the bright fortnight of the month of Magha is held in great esteem, and next to that, death on such a day of any other month. Possibly the supposed religious efficacy rests on the memory of the day of the royal sage’s death.

As the fifty-ninth day after Bhishma’s fall corresponded to Magha Sukla Panchami, Revati or Aswini Nakshatra, the day of Bhishma’s overthrow, which took place on the tenth day of the war, happened, in accordance with the 84 principles of the Vedanga, on Margasirsha Sukla Panchami, in Dhanishtha Nakshatra; and the Amavasya preceding it happened on the fifth day of the war in Jyeshtha Nakshatra. As a matter of fact, Dr. G. Thibaut gives this very Nakshatra for the last Amavasya but two of the third year of a five-year cycle, which particular new moon our Amavasya actually is. We may therefore conclude that the war began on the fourth Nakshatra preceding Jyeshtha or in Chitra of the month of Kartica and ended in Rohini Nakshatra in Margasirsa-month.

The Pandavas tried many milder means before they at last resorted to the arbitratement of war; they even proposed to sacrifice their interests to some extent, if war could thereby be averted. Shri Krishna was the last to be sent on a mission of mediation and he started for Hastinapura (Udyoga Parva, LXXXIII.7) “in the month of Kaumuda, under the constellation Revati at the end of the Sarad (autumn) season and at the approach of the Hemanta (dewy season).” According to the commentator and also to the translator, Kaumuda is the Kartica month. As the latter half of autumn corresponds to the month of Kartica, we may be certain that the statement means that Sri Krishna left for Hastinapura in the Revati Nakshatra of the month of Kartica. His efforts at reconciliation having been of no avail, he seems to have returned to the Pandava camp in Pushya Nakshatra for, as soon as he left Hastinapura, Duryodhana asked his warriors immediately to march the army to Kurukshetra (Udyoga Parva CXLII.18), “For to-day the moon is in the constellation of Pushya”. A little before Sri Krishna’s departure from Hastinapura, he proposed to Karna, “In seven days will there be new moon; let the war be begun on that day which, they say, is presided over by Indra.” As the commentator says, “Sakradevatam” denotes the Jyeshtha Nakshatra, which is presided over by Indra. The verse, therefore, indicates that the approaching Amavasya was to happen in Jyeshtha Nakshatra. This serves to confirm our inference drawn from other texts that the Amavasya, which occurred on the fifth day of the war, took place in Jyeshtha Nakshatra. But, to say that the new moon would occur on the seventh day seems to be certainly wrong, for Krishna was speaking to Karna in Pushya Nakshatra and the Amavasya was said to occur in Jyeshtha, the tenth Nakshatra from Pushya. Probably saptamat is an error for dashamat.

The war, however, did not begin in Amavasya as suggested by Sri Krishna for, Duryodhana moved out his army to Kurukshetra on Pushya Nakshatra. The Pandavas too seem to have marched out of Upaplavya on the very same Pushya. Both the contending parties were in such a hurry to march their armies to the battlefield, because Pushya Nakshatra was considered auspicious for such purposes. Yet, it was not possible to begin the actual fighting on the very same day. Much remained to be done before the armies could meet each other in battle array. If Sri Krishna returned from Hastinapura with the answer of Duryodhana on Pushya Nakshatra it is reasonable to allow some time for the marching of troops, for the ground to be cleared, for the pitching of tents, for the divisions of the armies to be properly effected, and most of all, for the allied princes to bring on their respective divisions to the field of battle. It appears to me that all these preliminary arrangements were gone through during the interval of the five days between Pushya and Chitra, in which Nakshatra the fighting actually began. But our epic says that both the parties were prepared for battle on the day when the moon had gone to the region of Magha (Bhishma Parva XVII). The natural interpretation of the expression is that on that day the moon was in Magha Nakshatra. In that case we have to suppose that though the armies were almost ready for war in Magha Nakshatra, the first shot was not fired till after the lapse of three more days. The armies began their march to Kurukshetra in Pusha, were organized in effective divisions in Magha, and actually engaged in battle in Chitra. Or, it may be that ‘Magha’ is an error for ‘Maghava’. The expression then would mean that the moon had entered the region of Indra, that is the star Chitra presided over by Indra. If the emendation proves to be correct we have here another testimony to the correctness of our conclusion that the war began in Chitra Nakshatra.

It must be borne in mind that the epic was cast into its present form more than a thousand years after the date of the war. There are many statements in the epic which conflict with one another, a circumstance which can be accounted for only on this historic basis. One such conflicting statement occurs in the Gadayudha Parva. On the last day of the war Balarama returned to Kurukshetra from his pilgrimage to the banks of the Sarasvati, whither he had gone on the eve of the war in utter disgust with this horrible fratricidal war. He said (Shalya Parva XXXIV.6), “Forty-two days have elapsed since I proceeded forth; I left on Pushya, I have returned in Sravana.” The Epic states expressly that the Pushya Nakshatra on which Balarama went away on pilgrimage was the one (Shalya Parva XXXV.10-15; Udyoga Parva CLVII.16-35) on which the Pandavas set out of Upaplavya to the field of battle. It also certainly implies that the Sravana Nakshatra on which Balarama returned happened on the last day of the war (Shalya Parva LIV.32). If these statements are to be taken as authentic, the obvious inference is that the war, which began with the marching of armies to Kurukshetra on Pushya, came to an end in Shravana forty-two days later.

This conflicts directly with the natural inferences we have drawn from the other statements,namely, that the winter solstice occurred on Magha Shukla Panchami fifty days after the close of the war, that the war lasted for eighteen consecutive days, that the Amavasya which occurred on the fifth day of the war took place in Jyeshtha Nakshatra, and that Sri Krishna left for Hastinapura on his errand of peace on Revati Nakshatra of Kartica month and returned to Upaplavya on the next following Pushya. To avoid such a contingency two explanations of this manifestly corrupt text are possible. We have either to suppose that the statements about Balarama’s departure on the eve of the war and about his return on the last day thereof are spurious as being opposed to the united testimony of other texts, or that the verse under discussion requires a little emendation. In the former case the inference to be drawn from the shloka is that Balarama left for the Sarasvati in Pushya Nakshatra twenty-seven days before the march of troops on the next Pushya Nakshatra to the battle field and that he returned to Kurukshetra in Sravana some days before the close of the war. If, however, the shloka is incorrect, we may best correct it by changing ‘forty-two’ into ‘twenty-four’. If Balarama had left on pilgrimage in Pushya and returned on the last day of the war, that being the twenty-fourth from the day of his departure, the last day of the war would happen in Rohini, a result which is identical with the one we have already deduced from other texts.

There is one other conflicting verse which we shall briefly discuss. On the fourteenth night of the war there was a tremendous battle between the contending parties. It is hinted in the epic (Salya Parva LIV.32) that the moon rose up on that night after three-fourths part of it had expired. This is certainly a mistake; for the new moon having taken place on the fifth day of the war, the moon should have disappeared below the western horizon about an hour and a half before three-fourths of the night was over. On the evening of the fourteenth day of the war, Arjuna’s vow to kill Jayadratha having been fulfilled, the Kurus, burning with revengeful thoughts, continued the strife far into the night. The epic would have us believe that during the first half of the night a tremendous battle raged in total darkness resulting in the death of Ghatotkacha, that both the armies therefore lay down to sleep for some time, and that on the rise of the moon at about three o’clock in the morning, both the sides recommenced their fighting. It is more probable that the war continued for as long as the moon was shining and that the armies rested when the moon had set. The poet was perhaps led to make this mistake by his anxiety to render the night sufficiently horrible for Rakshasa heroes to fight with their powers of illusion.

But, barring these two conflicting statements which too may be explained away, all other texts serve to support our conclusion. We are told that:-

  1. the winter solstice happened on Magha Shukla Panchami;
  2. the tenth day battle happened fifty-eight days before it;
  3. Bhishma, who died on Magha Shukla Ekadasi, gave up the ghost fifty-six days after the close of the war;
  4. a period of fifty days intervened between the end of the war and the winter solstice;
  5. the war lasted for eighteen consecutive days;
  6. the Amavasya, which occurred soon after the commencement of the war, happened in Jyeshtha Nakshatra;
  7. the armies began their departure to the field of battle in Pushya Nakshatra; and
  8. Krishna had proceeded to Hastinapura on his mission of mediation on the preceding Revati Nakshatra in the month of Kartica.

All these point but to one conclusion, namely, that the war, which lasted for eighteen consecutive days, concluded on the fifty-first night before the winter solstice.

At present the winter solstice falls on the 21st of December. The Gregorian system, which is the basis of the calendars of all Europe except Russia, Greece and Turkey, involves an error of less than a day in 3524 years. As the war took place in 1194 B.C., or 3094 years ago or 2776 years before the calendar was last corrected by Pope Gregory XIII, we may be certain that the winter solstice which occurred on the fifty-first day after the close of the war, would have happened, as now on the 21st of December (New Style). We may, therefore, conclude that the War commenced on the 14th of October, and was brought to a close on the night of the 31st of October, 1194 B.C. Whether or not this precise date, based as it is on data furnished by the Mahabharata alone, proves to be acceptable to the critical eye of a historian, we may at least be sure that the war took place in the latter part of the year 1194 B.C.

The Doomsday Epic Condensed

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The Condensed Mahabharata of Vyasa by P. Lal, First published 1980, 3rd edn 2010 (Revised and Corrected) Price: HB Rs 600, FB Rs 400

We have in hand a gorgeously produced reprint of the 1980 Vikas edition of Padma Shri Dr. P.Lal’s condensed transcreation of Vyasa’s epic. R.C. Dutt, the first ‘condenser’ of the Mahabharata’s one lakh shlokas, chose to spare the Western reader the “unending morass’ and “monstrous chaos” of episodical matter by leaving out whatever he felt to be super-incumbent.

The result was a Tennysonian Vyasa rhythmically relating in Locksley-Hall metre his knightly tale of barons at war in two thousand English couplets.  

In the process Dutt sacrificed much that is integral to the Vyasan ethos: most of the Book of Beginnings and the Book of the Forest, and all of the Club, the Great Departure and the Ascent to Heaven books.

Here Prof. Lal has condensed the hard-core narrative of the Pandava-Dhartarashtran conflict, around which a vast collection of myths, legends, folklore, philosophy and homilies was woven to make up the great epic of Bharata. A complementary project, Mahabharata Katha, is underway, the first of which, The Ramayana in the Mahabharata, is out. Successive volumes will make available to the English-speaking world those peripheral episodes which are, nevertheless, integral parts of the Vyasan universe articulating leitmotifs that run as unifying themes linking the apparently chaotic medley of episodes.

To the modern reader who has neither the time, nor perhaps the inclination, to seek out the iridescent Ariadne’s thread to follow through the epic labyrinth, the Lalian approach is richly rewarding. Besides a valuable 67 page introduction, a family tree, a map showing India at the time of the Mahabharata, an annotated bibliography and an index to proper names, his condensation differs markedly from those of Dutt, Rajagopalachari, R.K. Narayan, Kamala Subramanyam, Meera Uberoi and Ramesh Menon in that he neither re-tells nor adds. Dr. Lal is the only condenser who also transcreates, giving the story ‘always in Vyasa’s own words, without simplifying, interpreting, or elaborating’ preferred Vyasan dialogue to straight narration and report.’

It is not his intention to narrate merely the essential story of the fratricidal war but also to communicate the ‘feel’ of the epic; that ineffable flavour which transforms a sordid account of a bloody clan-war into the Mahabharata. With this end in view, he incorporates a number of incidents which do not appear, at first glance, to have any link with the central story, e.g. the Arjunaka-serpent-Gautami episode in the 13th Book, the memorable parable of the Drop of Honey related by Vidura to Dhritarashtra in Book 11, and the repeated exhortation regarding ahimsa in this violent epic – so violent that, traditionally, it is prohibited reading for nubile women.

It is to correct the general impression that the Mahabharata is off limits to women that Kavita Sharma, principal of Hindu College, Delhi, has written her study of the royal epic women, pairing Satyavati and Amba (though the parallels are far more between the former and her grand daughter-in-law Kunti and between the latter and her daughter-in-law Draupadi), Gandhari and Kunti, Draupadi by herself and Arjuna’s wives whom she groups as ‘warrior queens’. In the last group her coverage of Alli, Pavazhakkodi, Minnoliyal and Pulandaran from the Tamil ballads is extremely valuable. One wishes that she had included the insights provided by Bhasa and Bhatta Narayana.

There are some glaring errors such as ‘Rishi Gavala’ instead of ‘Galava’ (p.4) and Vibhruvahana instead of ‘Babhruvahana’ (p.113). While discussing Draupadi, she fails to note (despite listing Hiltebeitel’s research on Rajasthani ballads in the bibliography) how the popular imagination reincarnated her in medieval times as Bela in the Alha. Puzzled by Draupadi’s silence when married off to five husbands, she proffers haphazard explanations, completely missing out that her appearance Kritya-like during a sacrifice is followed by a declaration that she will be the agent of the gods for the destruction of the warrior clans and she is called a puppet, ‘Panchali’ (her behaviour often suits that appellative). Her marriage to Yudhishthira, son of Yama-Dharma is ominously appropriate. She is the mysterious femme fatale who inveigles five Indras into being sentenced by Shiva to be reborn as the Pandavas with her as their wife to ensure that the intended holocaust occurs. The course of the epic is determined by the dark four and Kunti: Kali-Satyavati, Krishna Dvaipayana Vyasa, Vasudeva Krishna, Draupadi-Krishnaa, and Kunti. While Yamuna’s black waters link the first three, Satyavati, Kunti and Draupadi are prototypes of one another.

Superficial study of the epic is indicated when Sharma recounts Krishna saving Draupadi from being stripped where Vyasa refers to Dharma (another name for Vidura) having clothed her, the passage regarding Krishna being an interpolation consigned to an appendix in the Critical Edition.

While summarising Draupadi’s advice to Satyabhama, Sharma diligently lists all the chores of the dutiful wife, failing to note two interesting points: the complete account of income and expenditure of her husbands was in her grasp and she alone knew the extent of their wealth; she kept track of what each of the many maids attending on Yudhishthira was doing; and she took particular care never to surpass her mother-in-law in ornaments, dress and even the food taken, besides avoiding all criticism of Kunti (III.233. 38, 41).

Surprisingly, Sharma does not notice how skillfully Draupadi uses her charms to get her way time and again, particularly with Bhima and Krishna.

While her book is a sorely needed corrective and provides a popular overview of the role women play in the epic, it would have benefited considerably by reference to Sr. M.A. Hughes’ study, Epic Women: East and West (Journal of the Asiatic Society), Saoli Mitra’s Nathavati Anathavat and Katha Amrita Saman, Chitra Chaturvedi’s Mahabharat, Tanaya and Amba nahin mein Bhishmaa, the 2003 national conference on Pancha Kanya – the five virgins of India’s Epics and the 2005 MANUSHI-ICCR international panel on it in New Delhi. The bibliography contains references that have nothing to do with the subject (E.A.Johnson, Sheetan) and though dated 2006, is innocent of the most important work on the epic, Hiltebeitel’s 2001 ‘Rethinking the Mahabharata’.

The Lal condensation is distinguished by the inimitable choice of passages from the original which no other abridgement has incorporated. Thus, in the beginning of Book 12 is Yudhishthira’s lament over Karna’s death:

‘Even when Karna spoke harshly to us in the palace assembly room, my anger cooled when my eyes fell by chance on his feet. They were our mother Kunti’s feet’ And he goes on to utter words that sum up the existential angst at the root of the epic: ‘We have squabbled like a pack of dogs over a piece of meat, and we have won – and the meat has lost its savour. The meat is thrown aside, the dogs have forgotten it.’

This is precisely what the epic is about – or, at least, one of the many things it is about. This theme of a pyrrhic victory, in which the victors ‘instead of gust chew bitter ashes,’ is stressed again and again in passages omitted in other condensations: ‘Enjoy the barren world – it is now yours’, says Duryodhana at bay, bear-like at the stake surrounded by snarling, slavering Pandavas. ‘You have a world to yourself, a world without friends, horses, chariots, elephants, forts. Enjoy her.’

Yudhishthira shouts, ‘You rave like a madman’ – a desperate attempt to drown the grinning skull and the rattle of bones in lung-power. But truth will out, and it comes at the very end in Yudhishthira’s apocalyptic vision of his kinsmen in hell while his enemies loll on celestial couches.

This is the climactic episode of the theme stated un-compromisingly just before the holocaust begins when Arjuna states blandly that the war is being fought neither for avenging Draupadi, nor for ‘dharma’, but for an extremely mundane and selfish objective: land.

If, then, the epic is such a sordid affair, what lends it memorability and relevance today? It is those situations where characters are shorn of all their trappings and face the ultimate test, forced to play chess with death. Such is the dramatic moment when time stands still as Yudhishthira answers the Yaksha of the lake over the corpses of his brothers. Such is the incident where Yudhishthira, again, replies to his ancestor Nahusha crushing the invincible Bhima in his adamantine coils. Such, yet again, is that tremendous scene where Yudhishthira faces Indra and refuses to give up his canine companion for heaven.

Then there are those other intensely human episodes true for all time: the confrontation between Kunti begging Karna to join her other sons; Draupadi putting the entire peerage to shame with an unanswerable question; Draupadi’s upalambha to Bhima after Kichaka has kicked her; Arjuna facing his brothers finding Abhimanyu slain; Amba, rejected by Salva, facing Bhishma. It is woman and man in all their passionate intensity – all the blood, toil and tears that makes up this short and brutish life. And yet it is man who questions the Divine, wrestling with him, as Arjuna with Shiva physically, or intellectually as Arjuna with Krishna, till God has replies to logic with magic to stun him into submission, as Jehovah to Job out of the whirlwind. It is all this which lends this sometime-ballad of the Bharata clan its epic dimensions and eternal appeal.

The selection of incidents from the original for inclusion in this condensation is itself a feature which distinguishes it from other condensations. The choice is carefully guided by Dr. Lal’s overview of recurring themes or patterns. Take, for instance, the Gita itself, which is missing from most of the other abridgements. Lal carefully incorporates a dialogue between Draupadi and Yudhishthira in the forest which looks forward to the philosophy of nishkama karma and of following one’s dharma.

This is a passage providing rare insights into the respective speakers which readers of other condensations have missed.

The episode of the sage Brihadashva’s visit to the exiled princes appears unnecessary but on closer examination the links with the plot become clear. This sage imparts to Yudhishthira mastery in casting the dice, which is of crucial importance for maintaining his disguise in Virata’s court. It is also skillfully placed immediately after Urvashi cursing Arjuna with eunuch-hood, another boon for the period of ‘exile-in-disguise’. A valuable inclusion is Karna’s retelling of a dream to Krishna which all other condensers miss, completely in consonance with Prof. Lal’s awareness of the underlying theme of pyrrhic victory: ‘I saw you (Krishna) in that dream, busy scattering weapons of war on the blood-red earth. Then I saw Yudhishthira standing on a heap of bones, gladly licking thick sweet curd from a golden plate’.

A remarkable quality of the Lal condensation is the effortless shifting from prose to verse according to the demands of the original. The use of verse in describing Hidimba’s honeymoon, the Pandavas’ stay in the Dvaita forest, Bhima’s obtaining the golden lotus and the description of the rains, help to create and communicate the other-worldly and idyllic flavour of the original. On another unforgettable occasion Lal changes with a sure touch from prose to verse to describe Urvashi approaching Arjuna as abhisarika whose delicate nuances can hardly be communicated in prose. Vyasa also uses verse for rendering solemn ritualistic passages such as Sanjaya consoling the blind monarch, the women wailing over the corpse-strewn field, Gandhari upbraiding Krishna, and the tremendous calling-up of ghosts of the departed from the waters of the Bhagirathi in a translation redolent of the Odyssey.

Prof. Lal’s faithfulness to the original affords valuable insights into characters which other condensations miss. In the svayamvara of Draupadi, her joy at the Brahmin-Arjuna’s success vis-‘-vis her disgust at the Suta-Karna’s entering the contest reveals certain caste-snobbery. Lal carefully brings out Yudhishthira’s cussed mule-headedness in his sparing the rapist Jayadratha and in offering to surrender the kingdom if any of the Pandavas are worsted by Duryodhana in a duel. Krishna’s furious berating of such woolly-thinking is often missing in condensations: ‘It was foolish of you to gamble away our advantage now, just as you gambled everything away to Shakuni.’ Most interesting is Krishna’s inability to recreate the Gita experience when requested by Arjuna before he leaves for Dvaraka after the war: ‘I could not now recall what I said then, even if I wished. How will I get all the details right?’

There is the bland statement of Bhishma and Drona, omitted in other abridgements, explaining why they fight for Duryodhana: ‘A man is the slave of wealth though wealth is no one’s slave. The wealth of the Kauravas binds me to them.’ Then there is that solitary glimpse into Draupadi’s heart as she wails to Bhima in Virata’s court: ‘Any woman married to Yudhishthira would be afflicted with many griefs….What does Yudhishthira do? He plays dice…Look at Arjuna… A hero with earrings!

…You saved me from Jayadratha … and from Jatasura … I shall take poison and die in your arms Bhima.’

This is the source of Iravati Karve’s brilliant exposition of Draupadi’s thoughts as she lies dying and murmurs to Bhima, ‘Aryaputra, in the next birth, be born the eldest!’

It is the inclusion of such incidents and rendering them with careful exactitude which make the Lal version uniquely valuable. In addition there is the sheer readability of the transcreation.

There are, however, a number of omissions that detract from the plot interest. We are not told why the Vasus were cursed to be born as Shantanu’s sons, nor how the fish-odorous Satyavati acquires the lotus-scent which draws the king to her. There is a contradiction between pages 102 and 106 between who was born first and who was conceived first – Yudhishthira or Duryodhana. The Ekalavya episode does not mention how this rejected pupil used to practise archery before a statue of Drona. Drona’s birth is omitted though it provides insight into why he is virtually caste-less and spurned by Drupada. Page 120 conveys a mistranslation: the Pandavas do not flee to Varanavata on Vidura’s advice; they go there on Dhritarashtra’s insistence and flee from there with Vidura’s help. The killing of Baka is omitted with its remorseless scrutiny of family relationships and Kunti’s remarkable decisions as a leader. An unfortunate omission is Krishna’s Machiavellian strategy in deliberately throwing Ghatotkacha as bait to attract Karna’s infallible weapon. The atrocious killing of Bhurishravas by Arjuna and Satyaki, referred to on page 409, is another uncalled for omission.

The most critical lapse occurs on page 393 where at the end of Yudhishthira’s horse-sacrifice Prof. Lal unaccountably omits the story that the half-golden mongoose relates, making the ending of Book 14 trite and inexplicable. There is a cryptic reference on page 101 to Gandhari having once sheltered Vyasa when he was dying from hunger which is neither expanded nor found in the original. The story of Shikhandin-Amba’s birth is left out though it is one of the threads that link the Adi to the Bhishma Parva: Amba is the hamartia in Bhishma’s tragedy. The Arjuna-Shiva encounter is yet another memorable incident which has been omitted.

What is the final impression with which this condensation-cum-transcreation leaves us? It is the anguished cry of a man who has witnessed his progeny slaughter one another in insane strife:

I raise my arms and I shout- but no one listens!
From dharma come wealth and pleasure:
Why is dharma not practised?

This is the story of Vyasa and his descendants, all corrupted by that single consuming weakness – lust. With unerring instinct Lal has incorporated in his condensation a speech by Pandu which touches the core of this tragic flaw – a speech which most condensers drop – ‘Addiction to lust killed my mother’s husband, though the virtuous Shantanu gave him birth. And though truth-speaking Vyasa is my father, lust consumes me too’. The seed of lust runs through both sides of the family. It consumes Shantanu who marries a fisherwoman in his dotage, depriving his kingdom of its rightful and able heir, Devavrata. Mahabhisha is reborn as Shantanu for having looked lustfully on Ganga in Brahma’s court when the wind uplifted her dress. Vichitravirya, child of his old age, carries the same weakness and dies of sexual over-indulgence. Satyavati is a product of Uparichara’s lust. Vyasa is born of Parashara forcing himself on Satyavati mid-stream in a boat. Satyavati refuses to put her daughters-in-law through the year-long purificatory penance which Vyasa advises. They await their brother-in-law Bhishma lust-fully and, shocked at the advent of Vyasa, the union inevitably produces flawed progeny. The curse, like the Erinyes, pursues the entire family. It is the supreme irony of the epic that ultimately the Puru lineage and the dynasty Satyavati sought to found through Vyasa are extinct. No wonder Vyasa finally cries out in despair at man’s deliberate rejection of salvation and the remorseless working out of the tragic flaw ingrained deep within, driving him to destruction.

The Dialectics of Dharma and Duhkha

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Disorienting Dharma

Emily T. Hudson: Disorienting Dharma—Ethics and the Aesthetics of Suffering in the Mahabharata, Oxford University Press, New York, 2013, pp.268

In the religions in translation series of the American Academy of Religion, Hudson puts forward a challenging and radically new view of the Mahabharata (MBH), not as a great paean to Dharma, but as a carefully crafted investigation questioning the very efficacy of Dharma in resolving the existential problem of human suffering. Instead of concentrating on “disembowelling the text,” which was the earlier approach of Germanic scholarship, current Occidental scholarship on MBH treats it with respect, seeking to attend to what it has to say about itself. It is no longer considered a bewildering chaotic mass, but a literary masterpiece carrying a moral and religious message. In David Shulman’s telling words which Hudson quotes, “…it refuses to view itself as a bounded text; it is not a representation of the world; it is the world…wherever its story is told or heard becomes the Mahabharata. Thus the text never really ends nor does it begin; existence is the Mahabharata.”

What distinguishes MBH from the Ramayana is its riddling nature. Repeatedly it poses questions that are never fully resolved. Instead, they lead to new problems, right till the very end which poses the puzzle: whose is heaven and whose is hell? Most of the poseurs concern predestination vis-à-vis human effort, daiva vs. purushkara. Why is Draupadi, the heroine, referred to so often as Panchali, a puppet (of divine design)? Does following dharma lead to happiness? If not, why should it be followed? Who, or what, causes the devastation of the Kurukshetra war, which makes Sheldon Pollock call its story, “the most harrowing in world literature”? How is it a righteous war, dharma-yuddha, at all? No wonder Shulman describes it as “a coherence of doubt and ambiguous riddles.” Hudson asserts that there is an ongoing dialectic between Dharma and Duhkha (suffering), but in claiming that Vyasa brings the audience time and again “to the brink of meaninglessness and then, instead of receding from it, it toys with pushing them over the precipice,” she exaggerates.

Hudson finds that MBH stresses the necessity for passing beyond one’s individual agony to accepting the fact that suffering is a universal phenomenon. An example of this is the repetition of the account of sixteen great rulers of the past who, despite all their magnificence, died. In this, MBH is by no means alone. The same world-view is echoed in the Old English poems, “The Wanderer” and “Deor’s Lament,” with the recurring refrain, “That passed away; so will this.” Suffering stupefies the mind, which then takes wrong decisions, leading to further sorrow. The persuasion is in favour of distancing oneself from personal angst and moving on, if not to serenity, at least to stoicism. However, does this work for, say, the slaughter of Abhimanyu or of Dhritarashtra’s 100 sons? Nowhere, as Hudson asserts, does Sauti declare that having listened to MBH, one will not despair even in the worst circumstances. Actually, he celebrates the salvific nature of the work: one having faith and pursuing dharma will be freed of defects on reading MBH.

The social force behind this obsessive concern with the problem of dharma is the challenge posed to Vedic sacrifices as winning Swarga and bringing welfare in society by the renunciant doctrines emerging around the 5th century BCE (the Ajivikas, Buddhists and Jains). At the core of these were ahimsa and abandoning samsara to attain liberation. Even in these new doctrines there was a conflict between the Buddhist and Jain belief that suffering was the consequence of human acts (karma) and that of the Ajivikas who attributed it to fate (daiva). MBH engages with both issues, but provides no resolution. The central figure in this investigation into the conflict between dharma and duhkha, proposes Hudson, is Dhritarashtra, whose lament occupies the first chapter, beginning with Draupadi’s marriage and ending with Ashvatthama’s killing Parikshit in the womb.

Arguing that MBH deals with the aesthetics of suffering, Hudson necessarily deals at length with Anandavardhana’s assertion in Dhvanyaloka that the text’s predominant rasa is shanta, serenity. Underlying it is the emotion of vairagya, detachment from things of the world. He specifically cites the sad end of the Yadavas and the Pandavas. From the gambling match onwards, there is only suffering and more suffering for the Pandavas. Is Vyasa exposing the futility of human endeavour? It is this goal of attaining serenity by cultivating detachment that lends unity to the massive corpus of the text. Hudson argues that it is not the transience of material objects that is highlighted but, rather, the egotism that renders us vulnerable to grief over losses that are the inevitable result of kala, time. Hudson quotes Irish Murdoch who, in The Sovereignty of Good, ascribes our blindness to the truth of the human condition to “the fat relentless ego,” which daydreams and fantasises. For appreciating this shanta rasa, said the commentator Abhinavagupta, a sensitive audience (sahridaya) is essential that will focus not only on what the text is saying, but how it is being said. Thus, a dynamic ebb-and-flow is created between form and content. The expectations of the audience are aroused about certain characters, only to be brought up short later. This makes the audience stand back and think about the feelings that the text had aroused in them for “meta-reflection.” The model audience follows the text’s dhvani (suggestions) to fill in the gaps that it leaves, for it cannot say everything about the world.

Hudson focuses on two types of situations: where characters face dilemmas and make a bad decision owing to mental confusion; and the resultant calamity because of which they are earither incapacitated by grief from taking positive action, or take further bad decisions leading to more suffering. Dhritarashtra is the prime example of how one knows the right thing to do but repeatedly does not do it. Crises are what typify the MBH scenario, which strips away the mental constructs that prevent us from realising the truth of universal suffering. It does this by providing not positive role models, but noble characters who take bad decisions and suffer terribly. Here failures are the route to learn how to live. For instance, after Duryodhana’s humiliation in Maya’s hall, the description of his intense agony shows the Pandavas in the negative role, arousing sympathy for him as the victim. This also enables us to understand his future conduct, based upon mental confusion caused by envy of the Pandava wealth. That, in turn, leads to the wrong decision regarding the gambling match: victory at any cost becomes an obsession. Dhritarashtra’s speech at the end of the dice game focuses on the mind as the root of misfortune, for it makes the right act appear fruitless and the wrong one fruitful. Suffering breeds confusion worse confounded. Yudhishthira’s behaviour in this episode distances us from the dharma-raja. He cannot be our moral beacon through the confusion. Moreover, both Dhritarashtra and Yudhishthira state that the world is controlled by fate, which is why one sanctioned the gambling and the other accepted the summons to it.

As an instance of extreme suffering, Hudson takes up Draupadi’s predicament in the gambling match, which Nancy Falk has described as, “a sequence of the most intense insults to be found anywhere in the literature of the world.” The presuppositions underlying concepts such as “queen,” “wife,” “husband” and “daughter-in-law” no longer make sense as all the boundaries categorising them are smashed. The situation is exacerbated by the silence of the elders—learned Brahmins as well as eminent Kshatriyas—when Draupadi poses a question. This distances the audience from them as authorities on dharma. Is it the very subtlety of dharma that stands in the way? Does the silence of the elders indicate a state of serenity born of detachment, as Hudson’s thesis would propose? Or, is it the cowardice of courtiers, silent because the king does not censure Duryodhana? This silence is what creates dhvani, suggestion, in the perception of the sensitive audience. What protects a person from sudden oppression and how does one behave in such a world? If dharma does not, then why should one pursue it? Is that why Vyasa closes MBH with a despairing cry, “Why is dharma not practised?” Or, following Hudson’s suggestion, is dharma to be followed “for the sake of nothing,” analogous to the concept of doing karma for its own sake?

Hudson provides a fine analysis of blind Dhritarashtra’s paradoxical “eyesight of insight.” Indeed, as J.P. Sinha has said, Sanskrit literature does not depict the suffering of any other character at such length. Gandhari’s intense anguish is concentrated in the Stri Parva, but her husband’s extends all through the text. Further, the blind monarch is at once the agent and the victim of suffering. It is he who receives the most advice on how to overcome grief. How he responds, again, shapes the audience’s learning. Dhritarashtra states that the bewildered Duryodhana bewildered him, because of which he took wrong decisions. All along, he sees clearly what should be done, but never does. By making most of the advice about right action come to him from Vidura, who is dharma-incarnate, is Vyasa showing the futility of the dharmic way? Hudson does not comment if it climaxes in the manner of Vidura’s death, roaming naked in the forest, insane, starving to death? Or is that a slanted hit at the Jaina path?

On the other hand, Sanjaya, urges the blind king to remain calm and not despair while listening to his war-reports because one is not the agent of one’s good or evil acts, but is manipulated like a puppet by divinity, or by past karma. Here, Hudson replaces Sanjaya’s “according to others, man is free to choose his destiny,” by “some are assigned by chance,” which is tendentious, to say the least, and calls in question her assertion that Sanjaya is suggesting that human effort is “severely if not completely limited.” Sanjaya is merely putting forward the different opinions prevalent regarding human agency, one of which asserts free-will. In his reporting, Sanjaya’s responses to Dhritarashtra have a single aim, viz. to direct him away from wallowing in despair towards fortitude. Hudson commits another error on page 129 in stating that Bhishma’s fall is the source of Dhritarashtra’s grief in the Shalyaparva, whereas it is the death of Duryodhana that is the cause.

By using the narrative technique of flashback—each of Sanjaya’s war-books begins with the death of the general and then goes back to relate how it happened—all events are projected as leading inevitably to the hero’s death. The present, therefore, is rooted in the past as its future. This realisation is reinforced by the technique of switching between the result (war) and the cause (Dhritarashtra’s agency) repeatedly.

Three arguments are advanced against grieving. Sanjaya’s point is that as the king was the agent of the wrong decisions, he ought not to wallow in negative grief, but act. This fails to convince Dhritarashtra about his responsibility for the calamity. Then Vidura presents time’s destructive nature and the cycle of rebirth hinging on sensory desire. The way out is to control the mind and the self. That leads to Dhritarashtra fainting, unable to face the nature of existence. The audience can recognise themselves in these reactions to suffering. Now Vyasa steps in and tells him that since the devas had engineered this war in order to relieve the earth of its burden he should abandon despair and reconcile with the Pandavas. This is accepted by the blind monarch. Gandhari presents the contrast because her lament is not just for her sons, but also for all those who have been slain. That, Hudson suggests, is the proper response to calamity. Sorrow is a universal phenomenon, not an isolated, individual experience.

This realisation is reinforced by the doctrine of time, kalavada, which is a recurring theme in MBH, first enunciated in the very first chapter by Sanjaya. It is time that creates and destroys, sparing none. It is cyclical, implying inevitable rebirth and suffering, and brings about what is fated. It is juxtaposed with fate and the doctrine of karma vis-à-vis human effort and divinity. It causes grief and despair, which cloud discernment leading to wrong decisions. Wisdom that realises and accepts the transience of life ceases to be terrorised by the ravages of time. Hudson presents a very interesting discussion on four kinds of time: the doctrine; the sequential nature; how characters experience it and how the audience experiences it. For instance, stories merge into one another regardless of temporal boundaries. In the very first book, Pramati tells Ruru the story of the snake sacrifice which occurs three generations in the future! The narrative technique both collapses time and stretches it by reducing the tempo. These lead the audience through shock, horror and despair to cultivating distance and stoicism. Giving way to grief and rage at the ravages of time leads to acts that multiply similar situations which climax in destruction. Cultivating what Milton called “calm of mind, all passion spent,” appears to be the only solution. Otherwise, the predicament is that which overtook the serpents:

“They fondly thinking to allay
Their appetite with gust, instead of fruit
Chewed bitter ashes,”

Tasting the “bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit,” (T.S. Eliot). Hudson proposes that it is because of this that in the last book the text evinces no shock or grief at the sudden deaths of Draupadi and four Pandavas.

Where does dharma feature in this? Divinity (Krishna) appears to collaborate with time to restore dharma (the greater good), to relieve earth of its burden, to usher in the next yuga and, finally, being powerless to stop the war because of the intransigence of Duryodhana. Similarly, despite Balarama and Krishna’s joint efforts, they cannot prevent and actually participate in the fratricidal massacre of their clan. Strangely enough, Hudson does not discuss this. The question remains: how much suffering is acceptable for the triumph of dharma? MBH provides no answer. Hudson presents an excellent analysis of the final book showing how Yudhishthira’s experiences in “heaven” shatter all pre-conceptions about why dharma is practised, as he finds his virtuous wife and brothers in hell and the wicked Duryodhana in heaven! Then, the distinction between the two is revealed to be a trick. So, are we confident that, at the end, Yudhishthira is really in Swarga? We are distanced from the narrative as it ends, just as we were at the beginning when Yudhishthira, unmoved by the deaths of his wife and brothers, continued climbing up the mountain with a dog for company.

When Yudhishthira says, “This is not Swarga,” and Karna in despair exclaims, “dharma never protects,” they are referring to a paradigm in which dharma is practised for the sake of a positive result in this life and the next. Manusmriti (8.15) enshrines this succinctly: dharma eva hato hanti dharmo rakshati rakshitah (Indeed, dharma destroyed, destroys; dharma protected, protects). It is this concept that is questioned. According to Hudson, the text is suggesting that such a presumption prevents us from realising the reality that suffering is universal. From the violation of Draupadi onwards, everyone strives to find a world where dharma is meaningful despite the presence of unjustified suffering. Even divinity, in the form of Krishna, cannot stem the tide of suffering that swells to engulf his own clan and finally himself as an agent. Perhaps, Krishna is not a victim, being absorbed in yoga in his last moments?

The aesthetics of suffering reveals not what dharma is but what it is not. After all, the two key virtues that it extols, ahimsa (non-injury) and anrishamsya (non-cruelty) are both negative! Conventional ideas about dharma have to be cast aside for “a wider experience of dharma,” which “entails active participation in the presence of radical unmerited suffering.” One has to practise dharma not for any personal benefit, but for its own sake by cultivating detachment leading to serenity and liberation from the world of suffering.

Hudson’s thesis is that by creating expectations and delivering the opposite, the text creates a rupture that forces us to examine our hopes and fears, our desperation to reach a rationale for suffering so that we can avoid confronting it. Thereby a space for “meta-reflection” is created and the audience is steered towards the text’s goal, which Abhinavagupta stated is “knowledge of reality.” The greatness of MBH as a work of art inheres in it not providing a monolithic solution, but leaving the resolution open-ended in Vyasa’s closing outcry:-

I lift up my hands and I shout,

But no one listens!

From dharma come profit and pleasure;

Why is dharma not practised?

 

However, Hudson does not succeed in explaining why one should practise dharma for its own sake. If it leads to liberation from samsara, where is the validation for it in the MBH? On the other hand, does the MBH not present an existentialist view of the world where seeking a rationale for suffering is meaningless and the salvific paradigm of dharma absurd?

“Between the idea

And the reality…

Falls the shadow.”—T.S. Eliot

 

MAHABHARATA: AN EXISTENTIALIST TEXT

By

James Hegarty: Religion, Narrative and Public Imagination in South Asia—Past and Present in the Sanskrit Mahabharata. Routledge Hindu Studies Series, Oxford, 2012, 234 pages.

“The MBH presents a narrative solution to the ideological and social situation in which the Brahminical establishment found itself around the beginning of the Common Era.”

Here is a fascinating exploration of how the Mahabharata (MBH), the story-to-end-all-stories, re-constructed the significant past for the listeners and readers of its present and for its world which, James Hegarty of Cardiff University proposes, was South Asia. He explores what the MBH tried to do, how and with what success. He argues that it had a specific socio-religious and exegetical agenda, categorically placing itself above the Vedas and Upanishads as the sine qua non of learning. It constructs stories from Vedic rites (e.g. the churning of the ocean from soma pressing). In doing so it transforms ritual into itihasa (the Brihaddevata, composed by the epic’s immediate interlocutor Shaunaka, has similar features) and executes a narrative coup d’état. Just as Brahma’s Smriti, says the MBH, was abridged successively by Shiva, Indra, Brihaspati, Kavi and the seven rishis, so was the MBH from six million to successively briefer editions, the final being of one hundred thousand slokas. It also plucks Vedic figures like Indra, Atri, Surabhi, out of their context to expound new philosophical doctrines. In battle-descriptions it invariably likens the combatants to past heroes, creating an elaborate network of connections.

An obvious example of using the past to make sense of the present is the Book of the Forest, where moping Yudhishthira hears the tales of Rama and Nala. His coming to terms with his existential predicament is portrayed at the end of this book where—over the corpses of his brothers—he solves the riddles posed by Dharma-Yama disguised as a crane. It is this relevance for practical living draws the audience and readers to the MBH.

Another attraction is the repetitive debunking it indulges in. Thus, having extolled the emperor-making rajasuya sacrifice sky-high, it demolishes its empowering effect by the catastrophic dice-game that follows. Again, the potency of the much-vaunted ashvamedha is wholly undermined by the scoffing of a mongoose with a half-golden pelt (yet again Dharma). Even the merit of the much celebrated dharma-yuddha, righteous war, is questioned. The mongoose extols the poverty-stricken life of a Brahmin living by gleaning as the ideal and quotes Dharma on kings achieving salvation by selfless giving, while those holding showy sacrifices fall.

However, for this Hegarty need not have gone to the 14th book. The very first book prefaces Janamejaya’s holocaust of snakes with a harmless lizard telling the vengeful Ruru that ahimsa is the supreme dharma. The mongoose-Dharma being freed from his curse by denigrating the sacrifice does not imply restoration of the value of the ashvamedha, as Hegarty asserts. For, this book concludes with Vaishampayana telling Janamejaya that equal to sacrificial ritual are gleaning, ahimsa, contentment, good conduct, sincerity, self-restraint, truthfulness and charity. He further states that gleaning and charity are salvific for all four classes (even the Shudra who was prohibited the Vedas). The MBH was meant for all four classes as well as women to whom the Vedas were not available. Let us not overlook the significant fact that Yama-Dharma had to take birth as a Shudra maidservant’s son Vidura because of another curse, and that he is Vyasa’s mouthpiece of morality, never subject to the dilemmas plaguing Dharma’s son Yudhishthira, but whose advice is like straws in the wind (except for his alter-ego Yudhishthira). The importance of the mongoose story in social and religious contexts is seen in its recurrence in Kshemendra’s epitome of the MBH, Bharatamanjari (11th century) and Vyasa’s disciple Jaimini’s Ashvamedhaparva (c. 12th century).

Repeatedly, in the two massive tomes of Bhishma’s counsel, Vedic sacrifices of the past are critiqued. Even austerities and sannyasis are denigrated, while chaste domesticity, taking care of parents, honesty and non-attachment are held up as the paths to moksha. The MBH’s very setting is Shaunaka’s 12-year-long sacrifice against the background of Janamejaya’s snake-holocaust. Then, Yama’s 12-year-long sacrifice is the setting for the mortal birth of five Indras and Shri. Narada warns Yudhishthira that the rajasuya sacrifice heralds destructive war. In the Ramayana, Bharata prevents Rama from performing it because of this. At the end of the Udyoga Parva, Karna pictures the impending war in terms of a bloody sacrificial ritual. Then there is the over-arching image of Rudra presiding over it all, right from causing the descent of the five Indras and Shri to empowering Ashvatthama for the holocaust-at-night.

Hegarty argues that studying narrative against the background of early South Asian public imagination provides insight into the intellectual and social conditions underlying it. Modifying Marx’s description of the 18th Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte, he proposes that here every matter of concern is “transformed into narrative and debated as narrative” about both modes of governance and ways of moral living and reflect the processes of change in South Asia in late BC and early AD periods. The MBH was a deliberate intervention relating to issues of cultural power linked to current and past doctrines of belief and to processes of state formation against the Ashokan background of dharma-propagation (272-185 BC) and the Sunga campaign against it. Patanjali (of Pushyamitra Sunga’s time 185 BC?), has several references to the MBH, as does his predecessor Panini (possibly early Mauryan).

Prior to the 7th century BC (the Upanishads) and Buddhists and Jains (c. 500 BC) there is no mention of ahimsa or retiring to forest-life. In extolling these, the MBH is deliberately anachronistic, validating current ideologies by inserting them into the past, “Vedicizing” them. Other early texts and inscriptions testify to its success in this attempt. While legitimizing Brahmins, it also integrates new practices as “traditional.” For instance, instead of sacrifices, performing puja with lamps and incense, visiting tirthas, and, supremely, studying the MBH!

Hegarty makes a dubious suggestion that the tale of the Chedi king Vasu falling into a hole for having recommended animal sacrifice reveals a “regionalist agenda of denigrating the Cedis.” After all, it is with this Chedi king that Vaishampayana begins his narrative, who is favoured by Indra with a sky-roaming chariot, an unfading garland and a bamboo pole to protect the good. Further, the Queen Mother of the Kauravas, Satyavati, is said to be his daughter.

The book contains nuggets of information such as Sanskrit first appearing in inscriptions, replacing Prakrit, at the time of the Kanvas (c.73 BC); and the earliest MBH manuscript in Brahmi script being found in Kizil (Xinjiang, c.230 AD) listing the books Adi, Aranyaka, Udyoga (partly), Bhishma, Shanti, Ashvamedhika and the supplement (Harivansha), proving its circulation in Central Asia that early. The next evidence is from Kashmir in Kshemendra’s epitome in Sanskrit verse, Bharatamanjari c.11th century AD. Both lack the Anushasana Parva but include the Shanti Parva, showing that right from the 3rd century AD the epic was disseminated with considerable doctrinal material. This is evidence of deliberate composition, not compilation of disparate bardic narratives. The extensive spread of the MBH is seen in 6th century AD Cambodian inscriptions, the sculptures of Baphuon (11th century) and Angkor Wat (12th century). Eight parvas are found in Old Javanese (c. 10th century) and currently in shadow wayang puppetry. Stories from both epics and tales of Vikramaditya, Bhoja and Krishna are part of Mongolian folklore. A late 17th century Mongolian commentary, revising a Tibetan original, contains a summary of the MBH. The Japanese Kabuki play Narukami is the Rishyashringa tale. A 14th century Tibetan genealogy traces royal descent from Rupati a brother of Pandu who, after the war, went to Tibet where the people made him king. No evidence is cited, however, from Sri Lanka and Myanmar possibly because of the very strong Theravada influence. Thailand is heavily influenced by the Ramayana, not the MBH. Therefore, it seems South-East Asia, and Central Asia (Mongolia) instead of South Asia, which Hegarty proposes, was the world of the MBH.

In the Middle East, beyond Hegarty’s focus, the first Arabic summary of the MBH was by Abu Saleh (1026 AD), which was translated into Persian in 1125 AD by Abul-Hasan-Ali, keeper of the city library of Jurjan located near the Caspian seashore, for a chieftain of the Dilemites. Then there is Vidura’s parable of the man in the well that St. John of Damascus retold in the eighth century. It was Latinised in 1048-49 AD as Barlaam and Josephat, and became part of the Gesta Romanorum by the thirteenth century as Chapter 168, “On Eternal Damnation.”

Through his treatise on Sanskrit grammar, states Hegarty, Patanjali sought to codify the language and thereby restore social traditions. The same ideological agenda underlies the Manava Dharmashastra, Arthashastra, Ramayana and MBH, of which the last highlights the turbulent clashes of forces in contemporary times, i.e. the centuries following Ashoka’s passing (pace Witzel and Hiltebeitel). Bronkhorst has suggested the existence of a strong non-Brahminical culture in and around Magadha. In that context, the MBH could be “an attempt to impose, at least imaginatively, a pan-Indian Brahmanism,” writes Hegarty. He adopts Stientencron’s suggestion that the epic might have been composed in Vidisha, the last Sunga stronghold. Its nearness to Sanchi would explain the strong perception of Buddhist threat. Vidisha continued as a locus of political strife even during the Guptas. It could also have been the site for production of the dynastic histories incorporated in the Purana (vide Hans Bakker).

MBH’s open-ended narrative structure enables it to interweave commentaries and to focus on existential dilemmas for drawing audience attention and mould their thinking. Realising this helps us to comprehend its use of the past to resolve present confusion—as the Buddhist Dighnikaya does—and to appreciate its locale. The selection of Shaunaka, the Rig Vedic commentator, as the immediate audience shows that the MBH is interested in aggrandizing the Vedic past and applying it to daily knowledge. Frequently it engages Vedic figures like Indra in ideological discussions quite distant from the Vedic. Its three themes are: Brahminical triumphalism; integrating new ideologies and practices; and the existential problems of living.

Regarding “place,” Hegarty argues that the Sabhaparva accounts of the halls of gods and men reveals political and social concerns not of mythical antiquity but rather the scattered power-centres of the present. As a counterpoint, Sanjaya in the Bhishma Parva presents a detailed picture of the known world with legitimate rulers as the central authority.

Hegarty’s main argument is that the MBH transforms Vedic ritual structures into textual form, setting it deliberately in two sattras (Shaunaka’s and Janamejaya’s) and also in Yama’s sacrifice. These are rites that are repetitive and endlessly extendable. Each rite is embedded within one or many others—just like the Russian doll-like structure of the upakhyanas, complementary tales, of the MBH. The first narrative frame is provided by Sauti repeating Vaishampayana’s recital, which is the frame for subsequent tales-within-tales, of which the major ones are those of Markandeya, Lomasha and Balarama on tirthas and Sanjaya’s narration of the battle-books. Hegarty takes up the Drona Parva as a case-study of this technique of permutation-and-combination, representing it diagrammatically—a telling instance of the application of mathematical models to literature without making it unintelligible. Vidura’s recounting of the trial of Prahlada during the gambling match is analysed to demonstrate how a commentary is woven into the text.

The MBH repeatedly asserts that by reading and listening to it the audience is transformed—much as Greek Tragedy sought to do through catharsis. Indeed, that is why Anandavardhana stated that the overwhelming rasa of the MBH was shanta, quietude. This role of the MBH parallels that of Vedic rituals that sought to impose order and stability on the chaos of the first creation, manipulating the microcosm to re-form the macrocosm: “The MBH presents a parallel narrative tool for the ongoing creation and re-creation of a functional cosmos… (presenting) a narrative solution to the ideological and social situation in which the Brahminical establishment found itself around the beginning of the Common Era.” In the context of major social upheaval, it offers new options for a good life and escaping rebirth. The MBH sees itself as a rescue mission, an intervention by the gods to restore society that has become nasty, brutish and short, overrun by demonic overlords. While the MBH explicitly equates itself with the Vedas, as the fifth Veda, at the end it emphasizes the benefits it confers in daily life. Here Hegarty’s translation of the exhortation why dharma should not be abandoned, “nor on account of…ignorance” is an error as the original is “lobhad,” “on account of greed.”

Part of the narrative technique is the repetitive interjection of vocatives (“O Brahmin,” “O Raja”) which refer to the audience, not to anyone in the tale, thus indicating the context of the narration. In particular, the repetition of “O best of Bharatas” helps to stress the “overarching dynastic and narrative continuity.” These vocatives act as signals to the audience within and without the text to interpret the material being presented in the context of their own lives. Thus, each narration is a performance too and the speeches within each often pose ironic questions. For instance, Kanva forecasts perpetual imperial hegemony for Bharata’s dynasty, yet his speech is reported in Janamejaya’s sacrifice, long after that dynasty was almost wiped out. Both Janamejaya and Sauti’s audience would be wondering what went wrong. Moreover, the current Kali Yuga began soon after the Pandavas died. So, the same question becomes relevant for all audiences since Shaunaka and his companions. The picture Markandeya paints of Kali Yuga for Yudhishthira is that of post-Mauryan South Asia, current for the audience of the MBH: “much of the Mahabharata is intended to provide a space within which to articulate a new series of understandings of what it means to be human…The war is one way to clear the ground of this.” In contrast, the Ramayana never seeks to address the problematic present, and keeps to its recital of things past.

What is of great interest is the manner in which the MBH questions its greatest revelations. Thus, despite the Gita and the many upanishadic exhortations of Vidura, Krishna is cursed and dies an inglorious death, as does Vidura. It is not only the glory of dynastic history that is questioned, but even philosophical solace and the power of the Purushottama himself. The last four books of the MBH relentlessly focus on loss and grief, discounting the salvific messages of the Shanti and Anushasana Parvas. The cultivation of equanimity is urged, but how feasible is it in the context of all the suffering? The final book cites moral failings as the cause of the death of Draupadi and four Pandavas. The final reconciliation comes only after Yudhishthira reaches heaven, and there too with some difficulty.

The MBH narration proceeds both horizontally (developing in linear fashion) and vertically (emboxing stories within one another), thus offering the audience a variety of ways of interpreting the material in terms of the varying contexts of the narrations. For instance, while the story of Nala is aimed at consoling Yudhishthira, for Janamejaya and Shaunaka its happily-ever-after ending rings hollow, as they know what happened to the Pandavas. It is because of this ambiguity and irony in its narration that the MBH is very much “a modernist text”, very existential indeed.

Dharma, originally ritual activity, is portrayed in the context of social norms in the MBH, taken to a crisis in the gambling match. The MBH repeatedly situates ritual activity in social contexts to tease out the implications of human conduct vis-à-vis dharma. Rites were no longer meaningful only for preserving cosmic order, but had to be meaningful in terms of social conduct: “if the Dharmashastras are …a commentary on life as a special of ritual, then the MBH is the revelatory account of a past and a place conceived of in these terms.” Hobbes’ insight is so applicable to what happens in the MBH: “For the laws of nature (as justice, equity, modesty, mercy, and, in sum, doing to others as we would be done to) of themselves, without the terror of some power to cause them to be observed, are contrary to our natural passions, that carry us to partiality, pride, revenge and the like.”

Tales such as those of the Sadhyas and the swan stress self-restraint, serenity and, above all, the intention behind an act as salvific, which resonates with Buddhist doctrine. Hegarty provides several examples of such Buddhistic parallels from the Dighnikaya which sought to incorporate and supersede Vedic knowledge, as does the MBH. The emphasis on avoiding violence is a message for the ruler from an audience aware of the human cost of the imperial Mauryan impulse. There is emphasis on domestic puja and humble gifts in the post-war book of instructions, turning daily worship into a type of sacrificial rite. These are still practised in all Hindu communities. While innovating, the MBH carefully embeds these in a Vedic context, thus offering a Brahminical synthesis of new ideologies in the late BC and early AD period.

Hegarty analyses the Sabhaparva to show that here not only does Maya, instructed by Krishna, construct the hall to reflect the abhipraya, intention, of gods, demons and men, but the parva has a plan of its own. Yudhishthira’s very entrance “is a model of Brahmin-centred conservatism.” Further, there are references to yavana-Greeks and their kings pointing to political contexts relevant to audiences outside the text. Heterodox beliefs are condemned as a vice, and a mini-Arthashastra is presented on norms of governance. The description of divine halls contains the seed of the rajasuya rite, which is the imperial vision of conquest of the four quarters aimed at by this parva. The paradigm of Brahma’s hall being at the centre surrounded by those of the lords of the quarters (lokapalas) is mirrored by Yudhishthira in the Indraprastha hall at the centre of the conquest of the four directions (by his four brothers), whose peoples are enumerated at length, including Rome and Antioch! Interestingly, while rishis are found in all divine and human halls, only one king, Harishchandra, has a place in Brahma’s hall. Atheists and Greeks are absent from the divine halls, which contain only Vedic and post-Vedic figures. The conservative agenda becomes quite clear.

However, the destruction the rajasuya brings in its wake seems to wipe out the triumphant galactic picture of the Sabhaparva. We find that at the beginning of the war, in the Bhishmaparva, Sanjaya presents a geography of the earth concentrating on hare-shaped Jambudvipa, mentioning Romans, Greeks, Chinese and Huns, i.e., the world as known at the time of composition of the MBH, not when the Kurukshetra war had occurred. No foreigners exist in the other regions. The four yugas are said to pertain only to Bharatavarsha. Through the lists and descriptions, the war is focussed upon “as the cusp of the problematic present,” which is Janamejaya’s time. The region at the northern extremity ruled solely by Prajapati has only one dharma, contrasted with the many in Bharatavarsha, along with many disputing kings and foreigners. The assurance that listening to this account makes a ruler healthy, wealthy and wise is demolished by the war that follows.

Moreover, there is the intense personal tragedy of Vyasa himself. Not only does he witness the destruction of most of his grandchildren (Pandaveyas and Dhartarashtras), but also of all his four sons (Pandu, Dhritarashtra, Vidura, Shuka). The culminating irony is in Vidura, Dharma-incarnate, starving to death, wandering madly, filth-covered, in a forest. No wonder that Vyasa’s final outcry is the anguished query:

“With arms uplifted I shout, but no one listens!

From dharma flow profit and pleasure.

Why is dharma not practised?”

 

Consistently, the MBH appears to subvert the visions it creates. As T.S. Eliot wrote,

 

“Between the idea

And the reality…

Falls the shadow.”

 

Hegarty is the first to bring out what makes Kurukshetra such a significant place. It is Prajapati’s main altar; the dwelling of Takshaka, assassin of Janamejaya’s father; where Shantanu’s son Chitrangad was slain; the residence of the asuras Sunda and Upasunda; where Bhishma fought Parashurama; where Skanda was anointed general of the gods; where Sudarshana and Oghavati conquered death.

Similarly, of critical importance is the forest of Naimisha, featuring as a major tirtha created by the turning back of the river Sarasvati at the end of a twelve-year rite performed by ascetics. Here Yama held a rite during which the five Indras were cursed; here Yayati’s grandsons sacrificed; and here the MBH is narrated. Tirthas mark great past events, are sites of major rites and where Puranas are composed, many of which are narrated in Naimisha, Kurukshetra and other tirthas. Descendants of MBH characters become interlocutors in these. Both Kurukshetra and Naimisha are linked to the Sarasvati, which is one with Vedic knowledge and ritual. To this, the MBH adds the statement that gods visit tirthas while asuras do not. Visiting tirthas, even listening to their origin tales, earns merit manifold to that from sacrifices. The pilgrimage spots are also located in the four quarters, paralleling the rajasuya conquests. Superior to both tirthas and sacrifices, it is asserted emphatically, is studying the MBH, which contains tales of visiting tirthas. In this manne,r the MBH integrates religious ideas and activities preceding it, and establishes new paradigms in the current socio-cultural and political scenario.

For establishing the influence of the MBH on South Asia (actually, South-East Asia) over the first twelve centuries AD, Hegarty selects epigraphs of the Guptas and thereafter. These monarchs compared themselves to the epic heroes and the descriptions of their conquests use terms reflecting the world-conquest goal of the MBH. Land grants refer to Vyasa’s pronouncements and the samhita of one lakh verses. So, in the 5th century AD the size of the MBH was almost what it is today. They emulate the reciprocal relationship between king and Brahmins depicted in Yudhishthira’s gifts to them. Both epics are looked up to as models for kingly conduct. Some, like the Chalukyas, trace their descent to epic figures like Drona and Kartavirya Arjuna.

This influence is, of course, is more widespread in literature. Hegarty finds the richest engagement with the MBH in Kashmir. Retellings of the MBH begin with Kshemendra’s in the 11th century AD. Then come numerous adaptations of episodes, more from the MBH than the Ramayana. Elsewhere, Bhasa’s plays bring out not the triumphant imperialism of the epigraphs but the human tragedy of war, thus focussing on what makes the MBH “modern” in its appeal. Hegarty studies Kashmir’s Nilamata Purana (c. 6th to 8th century AD) to show how, beginning with a question from Janamejaya, it follows the MBH’s imperial agenda as also its integrative approach towards new ideologies by making Buddha an avatar of Vishnu in the 28th Kaliyuga. However, in doing this is it not following the centuries earlier Vishnu Purana?  Like the MBH, the Nilamata sacralizes new tirthas and makes an innovation by stressing the holiness of images of deities. The Nilamata is to Kashmir what the MBH is to Bharatavarsha. Imagining Kashmir’s past in ways similar to the MBH, the Rajatarangini (12th century AD) also projects an existential sense of transience and instability and explicitly states its aim to be the cultivation of serenity (shanta rasa). Kalhana makes explicit much that is implicit in the MBH with respect to present situations: “For Kalhana, the MBH captured something essential about the predicament of being human, be this in the exalted past or in the more mundane present.”

One wishes that sculptural representations from the MBH had also been touched upon to bring out what aspects were considered significant. The epilogue deals with fresh re-construction of the past in the MBH tele-serial—introducing ideas of democracy and nationhood—but loses out by being aware only of the Chopra version, not the different approaches seen in versions by Sanjay Khan (2001) and Siddharth Tewary (2013). Nor is he aware that the script for the Chopra serial was by a Muslim, Rahi Masoom Reza (available in English translation), which lends it a unique dimension, and that in the repeat telecast the government, for political reasons, excised the initial episode in which Bharata disinherits his unfit sons, thus proving the modernity of the MBH. One expected a comparison with Peter Brook’s interpretation. Hegarty surprisingly refers to Vajpayee as “Bihari Vajpayee.” His immersion in Sanskrit ought to have provided an awareness of Indian names.

All in all, the book is an extremely stimulating read, laying out a rich repast of new insights into the relevance the MBH had for the time of its composition and continues to have even today as an existential, modernist text.

Pradip Bhattacharya

DRAUPADI AND HER PANCHALA

By

Neera Misra & Rajesh Lal (eds): Draupadi and her Panchala, B.R. Publishing Corporation, pp. 187, Rs.2250/-

The Draupadi Dream Trust held an international seminar to highlight the character of Draupadi and research about her land, Panchala. This book, edited by the trust’s chairperson Neera Misra, who is from Draupadi’s birthplace Kampilya, and Air Vice-Marshal Rajesh Lal collects 11 papers on Draupadi and 12 on various facets of Panchala in Hindi and English. What is of importance is material drawn from the rare “Kampilya Mahatmya” where Draupadi is an avatar of Parvati. There are a large number of colour plates and illustrations that make this a valuable repository of data.

Hiltebeitel’s paper on Draupadi is a valuable contribution resolving the controversy over whether her laughter spurred Duryodhana’s vengeance. Examining the recensions of the Mahabharata, he shows that the initial account only has Bhima, Arjuna and the twins laughing at Duryodhana’s discomfiture in the palace of illusions. It is Duryodhana who, while complaining to Dhritarashtra, adds Draupadi and Krishna as also taunting him to get him to join in the conspiracy of the dice game. It is Villi’s Tamil Mahabharata that has Panchali clapping her hands and laughing. The crowning insult of “Andhey ka betaa andhaa” (the blind man’s son is blind) was invented by Dharmavir Bharati in his play, “Andhaa Yug” and popularised by the Chopra TV serial.

Possibly the most rewarding research in this book is by Indrajit Bandyopadhyay who plumbs the depths of what is meant when the term “Shyaamaa” is applied to Draupadi. He ranges far and wide across the epics and the Vedas, including Anandavardhana’s concept of dhvani. He brings out its multiple meanings and resonances to show how Krishnaa-Draupadi stands at the centre of the Krishnas who mould the epic narrative: Krishna-Dvaipayana-Vyasa, Vasudeva-Krishna, Arjuna-Krishna. However, while doing so his enthusiasm leads to convoluted interpretations of wheels-within-wheels not all of which are easy to follow.

The organisers are to be complimented for bringing together eminent novelists to speak on Draupadi. Pratibha Ray, author of Yajnaseni, the autobiographical testament of Draupadi, for which she became the only woman to be awarded the Moorti Devi Puraskar by Bharatiya Jnanpith, provides sensitive insights into her interpretation. Sujata Chaturvedi summarises the insights of Chitra Chaturvedi in her Hindi novel Mahabharati depicting Draupadi as a fiery upholder of women’s rights and a profound bhakta of Krishna. Unfortunately, this excellent novel has not been translated into English. Narendra Kohli, renowned for his recreation of the epic in Maha Samar (Hindi, 8 volumes), stresses the need to go back to the original text for the proper perspective. He, too, notes that Duryodhana lied to his father about Draupadi taunting him and points out that she never demanded Duhshasana’s blood to wash her hair (as Neera Misra claims in her paper), nor desired Karna. P. K. Balakrishnan’s And Now Let Me Sleep (summarised in Kavita Sharma’s paper), on the other hand, has her die realising that Karna protected her and her children. Kohli interprets the emergence of Draupadi and Dhrishtadyumna from the sacrificial fire as starting a new life—that of vengeance for their father’s humiliation. He is the only participant to mention the critical role Kunti plays in the Pandavas’ fight for their rights.

Haripriya Rangarajan wrongly asserts that Draupadi was known as Parsati after her mother. Drupada’s father was called Prishat, after whom Draupadi was called Parshati. Nor has Hiltebeitel written three volumes on the cult of Draupadi, but only two. Shri is not the epitome of sattvik quality but of rajasic and Draupadi is never depicted in sattvic form in the epic. Why Narhari Achar’s paper on the date of Draupadi’s svayamvara has been included is unclear. He states that astronomical information is non-existent and whatever dates he proposes “are at best guesses.” He bases his calculations on one “Raghavan”, providing no references. The editors have not rectified this omission. Ramola Kumar’s “Draupadi Communicates” that ends the section on Draupadi, rehashes what is very well-known. She does not even attempt a critique of how the TV Mahabharatas and Peter Brook’s film portray Draupadi. It would have been rewarding to read what Mallika Sarabhai and Shaoli Mitra have to say about their experiences of portraying Draupadi on stage.

Neera Misra draws twelve lessons from the Kampilya Mahatmya and the epic about what Draupadi signifies. She has the soul-force of Parvati; she is pure, radiant, constant; she converts challenge into opportunity; the stripping shames the men not her; she was the victim of the war, not its cause; she was a dedicated ardhangini; she upheld dignity of labour (serving Virata’s queen); her friendship with Krishna empowers her (the folklore of her binding up his bleeding finger is cited); progressive men believe in gender equality (but how does Krishna saving the Pandavas from being cursed by Durvasa show this?); she balanced her husbands equally; she was compassionate, as in sparing Ashvatthama; finally, she is a role model to women today in overcoming challenges to stand tall.

The section on Panchala is by a host of archaeologists, historians and numismatic experts led by Dr B.B. Lal who excavated Hastinapura in 1951-52 finding a Painted Grey Ware settlement of around 800 BCE that had been destroyed by flood in the Ganga, as the Puranas state. King Nichakshu relocated to Kaushambi, where degenerated PGW has been found. On an ad hoc estimate, Lal puts the Kurukshetra War at 900 BCE. However, he makes the usual mistake of stating that the epic originally consisted of 8,800 verses, whereas that is the number of riddling slokas mentioned by Sauti. Ahichchhatra, Kampilya, Kanauj, Atranjikhera and Sankisha have been excavated turning up ochre coloured pottery, black-and-red ware, black slipped ware and painted grey ware with as many as 46 combinations of line and dotted decorations. Dr B.R. Mani suggests that the Rig Veda’s Battle of Ten Kings between five Panchala clans and Sudasa occurring on the Ravi led to a movement eastwards to Panchala by the Krivis who came to be known as Panchals. Bhuvan Vikram presents a detailed analysis of artefacts found in Ahichchhatra along with two large ziggurats which might be temples. It is regrettable that since they were excavated in the 1940s no further investigation has been done. O.P.L. Srivastava studies a coin of Damagupta carrying three Panchala symbols which are unidentified.

Panchala was famous for its pure Vedic pronunciation, its resident Galava having developed different styles of recitation. A.K.Sinha’s paper shows it was the seat of materialistic as well as spiritual Upanishadic philosophy expounded by great intellects like Yajnavalkya, Pravahana Jaivali, Pratardan, Gargyayana and Uddalaka (c.1000-700 BCE). The original Kamasutra was written by Babhravya of Panchala.

Panchala, one of the 16 maha-janapadas, was swallowed up by Magadha’s Nandas and Mauryas. In the pre-Kushana (150 BCE-150 CE) and post-Kushana phases till 350 CE, 22 kings ruled Panchala as copper coins reveal. Thereafter, it came under Gupta rule, followed by Harsha and Gurjar Pratiharas till the end of the 10th century. Ahichchatra is where Parshvanath attained kaivalya. Sankisha has Ashoka’s elephant capital where Buddha descended to earth from heaven.

Recently T.P. Mahadevan has shown that in the 5th century CE a group of Purvashikha Brahmins moved from Panchala to South India carrying the northern recension of the Mahabharata and moved to Kerala whence the recension in Malayali script emerged. Another group, the Aparashikhas, followed them during the Chola period, creating the recension in Grantha and Telegu scripts.

Neera Misra presents a detailed account of Kampilya including the excavations by an Italian team (1997, 1999) that revealed that the plans for the Drupada Kila and Dholavira coincide remarkably. The Kila was dated as post-Mauryan with Kushana restoration. It was deserted around 1st century CE as the Ganga shifted. Further excavation is needed to explore the PGW and NBW settlements that have been found. The justification for this has been established by IIT Kanpur’s GPS survey.

The state of Uttar Pradesh has adopted as its emblem the revolving fish pierced with an arrow which was the test for winning Panchali. The assertion that the Panchala area comprised all of this state does not account for the rival kingdom of Hastinapura and the Yadava oligarchy of Mathura. Nor did Ashvatthama ever rule in Ahichchhattra as Abhay Singh asserts.

This is undoubtedly a stimulating volume compiling important research and insights which is somewhat marred by erratic use of diacriticals and printing errors. The editors would do well to take greater care in future enterprises.

http://epaper.thestatesman.com/1722756/8th-Day/8th-July-2018#page/2/2

Why is the Ramayana more popular than the Mahabharata?

By

Sukumari Bhattacharji: The Popularity of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata—A Comparative Analysis. Translated by Tanika Sarkar and Somdatta Mandal. Anustup, 2018, pp. 109, Rs.300/-

The late Sukumari Bhattacharji was one of the rare Sanskrit scholars from India who was equally at home in English. Her The Indian Theogony has been a major reference work for decades and Legends of Devi is a delightful retelling. Possibly her most fascinating Bengali book is a study of why the Ramayana is more popular than the Mahabharata (1996). She asserts, “What we claim as Indian civilization today has The Ramayana at its root and not The Mahabharata.” Unfortunately, till now her trenchant and illuminating analysis has not been available to Indologists all over the globe.

Professor Bhattacharji always wrote to the point, was never guilty of verbiage or of pulling punches. Her professed Marxist bent does not vitiate her incisive and penetrating insights in this book. In the slim compass of just 87 pages she not only provides a parva-wise summary of the world’s longest epic in 15 chapters, but also investigates the elements that make the Ramayana more appealing than the Mahabharata. A splendid achievement, for anyone interested in our epics this is the finest overview. It steers the reader deftly through what Oldenberg called “the monstrous chaos” of the Mahabharata.

The matrix birthing the two epics, according to her, is the crisis of values during the Kushana times (1st-2nd centuries A.D.) with the emergence of small kingdoms and new clans leading to creation of the mahakavyas, the Kamasutra, Manusamhita and some Sanskrit Jataka tales. These dealt with practical issues of the paramountcy of filial duty, familial bonds and loyal friendship, enduring long suffering for the sake of vows etc. The Shanti and Anushasana Parvas are the text needed for the empires that emerged between the Maurya and the Gupta periods. Old values are revised and codified in a collective effort. Bhishma’s advice never to trust a woman “is an attempt to poison men against women” for all time, as post-Gupta society relied on male domination and Shudra servility.

Simultaneously there is Bhishma’s statement, “Nothing is greater than Man,” which Bhattacharji takes to heart as the concluding message of the Mahabharata. Animandavya curses Yama the god of death and Gandhari curses Krishna. “No higher justice governs the world…it depends on mortal beings to ensure justice.” The Ramayana, having no such revolutionary statement, is much more like a fairy-tale, replete with supra-normal events and characters which appeal powerfully to the general public as “Values of domination and subordination come decked out in supernatural mysteries, in a fairy-tale appeal.” With hardly any grey areas, all relationships being simple and linear, “It saves the reader from self-searching and self-doubt.” Above all, it is “suffused with lyrical qualities.” Hence, accepting the protagonists as models poses no problem.

Conversely, the Mahabharata mirrors an age and its peoples, prominently featuring crises of conscience and focusing on the annihilation of entire lineages. The grey areas are pervasive, each episode having complex resonances. Faced with the clash between ends and means people find it deeply disturbing. Bhattacharji cites Shakuntala publicly pouring scorn upon her husband as an example of what readers would have difficulty in accepting. That is why Kalidasa deprived his heroine of this fire. Again, Vyasa himself is a product of rape but there is no condemnation of the rapist rishi. Bhishma tells Draupadi that what the powerful do is considered dharma, i.e. might is right. Such concepts are difficult to digest. Finally, Vyasa’s poetry is far more intellectual than Valmiki’s lyricism, which also detracts from the popularity of the Mahabharata.

Does the reluctance to fight displayed by Yudhishthira and Arjuna reflect the belief in ahimsa propagated by Jains, Buddhists and Ajivikas from the 7th century BC when, according to Bhattacharji, the composition of the epic began? Here, again, the audience faces a dilemma without any clear answer. Confronted with complex problems and ambiguities in life, people long for simple solutions. The Mahabharata creates those very complications, questioning the prevalent belief system, which is why it loses out to the Ramayana in popular appeal.

While discussing Valmiki’s epic, Bhattacharji cannot resist the occasional quip, e.g., how could the two brothers carry adequate weapons for the Lanka battle; men did not have to prove chastity as a masculine equivalent did not exist in Sanskrit; shudras and chandalas were considered subhuman. In the Mahabharata, Arjuna’s mental paralysis is dissipated by “a magical performance” stunning him—and the audience—into submission. Magic, not logic, carries the day! Never has the Gita been accorded such short shrift!

Very perceptively Bhattacharji chooses to discuss Vidura’s parable of the man in the well which, she asserts, is composed after the concepts of Nirvana (Buddhist) and Moksha (Upanishadic). Despite death being the only reality, the persistence of desire keeps life precious as a positive experience although “negation found strong resonance in a class-divided society with a large oppressed population.” She overlooks that the Mahabharata calls itself the Veda for women and shudras too and that this parable found its way into the Bible as the tale of Barlaam and Josaphat. The Ramayana neither presents such conflicts nor does it take us to such great depths.

The Sauptika Parva is omitted from the survey without any explanation. There is a puzzling statement (p.19) that the Ramayana, being unsure of Sita’s chastity, installs Bharata at the end instead of Lava or Kusha. Actually, in the text the brothers and the subjects drown themselves with Rama in the Sarayu, before which Rama installs his sons to rule over northern and southern Kosala. In view of Bhattacharji’s pronounced feminist stance (the first fall and death en route Swarga was of Draupadi because she was a woman, p.63), it is intriguing to find no reference to the mutilation of Ayomukhi (ear, nose, breasts chopped off) and Surpanakha (nose and ears sliced) by Rama and Lakshmana. She asserts (p. 41) that as Kaurava bards sang the events of the Kurukshetra war, it is a partisan narrative making a great hero out of Karna. However, Karna is not a Kaurava at all but Yadava Kunti’s illegitimate son. Further, Rama does not refuse Guhaka’s hospitality because he is chandala (p. 19) but because, having taken to asceticism, he would live only on fruits and roots, as he himself explains.

Bhattacharji declares that the Mausala Parva is interpolated being full of supernatural events, yet she admits that they construct an inevitable sense of waste. She fails to substantiate that it is “not inherently related to the epic” and admits it reflects the wider perspective of destruction caused by war. The uneasiness it creates is the key to its effectiveness. Similarly, she dismisses the entire Bharata Savitri as irrelevant (p.62) although it ends with Vyasa’s remarkable query which remains a riddle for us all: “From Dharma come wealth and pleasure. Why is Dharma not practised?” Here the translators mistranslate “phalashruti” (the benefits of listening to the epic) as “hearsay.”

Bhattacharji, like her colleague Buddhadeb Bose in his The Book of Yudhishthira, establishes Yudhishthira as the epic’s hero the reader’s attention being focused only on him at the end. A deity (Krishna), being superhuman, cannot be the protagonist. Yudhishthira upholds Bhishma’s utterance that nothing is greater than man and would put aside Kshatriya creed in favour of ahimsa. Only a man can show other men the way out in crises. In the Mahabharata a greater idea of virtue and justice is at work. The Ramayana presents no complications over heaven and hell. Its idea of duty is rectilinear. Even in killing Bali and Shambuka, Rama suffers no moral pangs. Towards the end, the Mahabharata says twice that kings have to go to hell, giving no reason (this is from the section Bhattacharji has already rejected, yet she cites it approvingly!). No solution is presented to the clash between a king’s duties and that of humanity. The Ramayana does not perplex or mortify the reader—we are told to behave like Rama. The Mahabharata alone has the protagonist debate with death itself, proving the truth of human worth through all suffering and failures, confronting them and sacrificing the self for the greater good of society. It does not ask us to behave like Krishna to whom it assigns an ignominious death, while sending Yudhishthira triumphantly to Swarga in his mortal frame. Yudhishthira becomes the hero, repeatedly perturbed but achieving a stable world-view at the end.

Devoting an entire chapter to the enigma of Bhishma, she correctly points out that non-involvement characterizes him starting with aloofness during the three year long war in which a Gandharva killed his step-brother Chitrangada. Bhattacharji notes the similarities with Rama who abdicated for his father’s marital bliss. However, Bhishma never asked his father for the boon of death at will (p. 72). Shantanu, gratified, gave that to him on his own. Unlike Vibhishana who has no qualms about aiding Rama against his kin, Bhishma constantly dithers, making it difficult for the reader to respond to him. He chooses death being unable to resolve the conflict. The Mahabharata does not aim at popularity, “it is precious only to the reader who is split with mental agony…”

Bhattacharji cannot reconcile Draupadi as Lakshmi having sons from five gods as husbands instead of Vishnu. Further, “The social question of chastity remains unanswered.” However, this is resolved in the story of the five Indras and Shri cursed by Shiva to take mortal birth and further in the tale of Draupadi’s earlier birth. Though Bhattacharji says there is no hint of a personal relationship between Vyasa and his son Shuka, this is elaborately described in the Mokshadharma Parva. She states that animal sacrifice is intrinsic to Vedic rites, overlooking the Mokshadharma Parva where for asserting this Raja Uparichara is cursed by Agastya to fall into a hole. Agastya and his fellow sages advocate offerings of grains, not flesh.

With two translators plus an editor, one expected consistency and correctness in the spelling of names, particularly as the author was a distinguished Sanskritist. “Hanumana” (pp.17, 18, 96) should be “Hanuman”; “Jujutshu” (pp.61, 84) should be “Yuyutsu” as on p. 76. There are some egregious errors which editorial notes should have covered. Thus, Drona does not say to Ekalavya: “give me your fingers” (p. 25) but asks for his thumb. Vyasa does not restrain Duryodhana from attacking Pandavas in exile (p.81). Satyavati never insists that her son should inherit the throne, nor does she obtain the vow of celibacy from Bhishma (p. 26). On p.72 the author correctly ascribes these to the fisherman-chief.  Chitrangada is never termed “a sinful man” (p. 27). Drupada was not “the king of Vidarbha” (p. 34) but of Panchala. Karna never “made an obscene gesture with his hand on his thigh” to Draupadi (p. 42). That was Duryodhana’s doing. Bhattacharji states the Pandavas knew krityas had formed Duryodhana below his waist with flowers (p. 46). They had nothing to do with it. It was Parvati who formed him thus. Duryodhana undertook a fast unto death not at the end of the Virata Parva (p.93) but early in the Vana Parva. Gandhari did not birth “a round stone” (pp.49, 53) but a stone-like lump of flesh. Krishna was never king of Mathura (p. 53).  In Draupadi’s svayamvara. Shalya failed to string not “his” bow but the bow for the contest (p. 45).  “Bhima tried to crush his head with his left foot but desisted” (p. 46) is incorrect, as he did do so. The reasons for the deaths of Nakula and Sahadeva have been transposed (p.63). Nakula fell not for pride in his wisdom, nor Sahadeva for his narcissism, but exactly the other way about. Yuyutsu fought on the Pandava side instead of not participating (p.76).

Over all it is a fine translation. The rendering of “Shreya” and “Preya” as “the best and the desired for” is particularly happy. We are grateful to the two translators and the publisher for making available this very important study to the English speaking world after over two decades. It is a great pity that her Women and society in ancient India remains out of print. Hopefully, the publisher will bring this out too.

Pradip Bhattacharya

A shorter version of this review was published in the 8th Day Literary Supplement of The Sunday Statesman dated 24th June 2018.