EVIL IN THE MAHĀBHĀRATA

EVIL IN THE MAHĀBHĀRATA

MEENA ARORA NAYAK

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For Daddyji
Contents

Acknowledgements
Note on the Text
Glossary

Introduction
1. Nāgas and Asuras: The Origin of Evil
2. The Ethical Framework of the Mahābhārata
3. Dharmakṣetra and Adharmakṣetra: Framing the Kṣetra
4. Dharmakṣetra and Adharmakṣetra: Delineating the Kṣetra
5. The Ideal of Dharmayuddha and its Practicability
Conclusion: Questioning the Tradition of the Mahābhārata

Bibliography
Index
About the Author
Acknowledgements

My deepest gratitude to Dr Indrani Sanyal for mentoring me and for

spending hours with me on the phone—long distance—discussing the
ethical arguments. This book would not have been possible without her
help. My warmest thanks to Dr Beverly Blois for his unshakeable faith in
me. I also want to thank him for inviting me to help organize three India
Institutes funded by the National Endowment for the Humanities. Not only
was this a very special privilege and honour, but these India Institute studies
helped me gain a deeper understanding of the historical basis of Hindu
mythology. And finally, I must thank my dear friend and colleague Bridget
Pool. When I worried that I would not have enough time to work on the
book, she made it simple for me by aligning my teaching life with my
writing life.
Note on the Text

TEXTS CITED
The Devanāgrī Edition of the Mahābhārata (Calcutta), translated by M.N.
Dutt and edited by Dr Ishwar Chandra Sharma and Dr O.N. Bimali (Parimal
Publications, Delhi, 2006), has been employed for most of the book, with
occasional cross-references from J.A.B. van Buitenen’s English translation
(Books 1–5) of the Critical Edition (University of Chicago Press, 1973–8).
Additionally, all Gītā references are from Bhagavad Gītā As It Is, translated
by Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupāda (The Bhaktivedanta Book Trust, Los
Angeles, 1983), unless otherwise noted.

ABBREVIATIONS USED
AV Atharva Veda
BG Bhagavad Gītā
BP Bhāgavata Purāṇa
Mbh Mahābhārata
RV Ṛg Veda
TB Taittirīya Brāhmaṇa
VaP Vāmana Purāṇa
VP Viṣṇu Purāṇa

TRANSLITERATION AND TRANSLATION

Names of characters and technical terms are in the standard transliteration
employed by J.A.B. van Buitenen in the Critical Edition, except in
quotations from other authors; in which case, the spelling is as used by
these authors. The exceptions are the ślokas from the M.N. Dutt text; while
Dutt uses simplified transliteration, the present work employs the standard
for the sake of consistency. Also, the English translation of ślokas quoted in
the book are an adaptation of M.N. Dutt’s translation.
Glossary1

ācār conduct; behaviour; manner of life

ādarśa ideal, exemplar
adharma unrighteousness; immoral; opposite of dharma
Adhvaryu Vedic priest responsible for the physical details of
the sacrificial site (for example, measuring the altar
space, building the altar, etc.)
agni fire—sacrificial, digestive; also, god of fire
agyātavāsa living incognito
ahiṁsā nonviolence
akrodha lack of anger
akṣauhiṇī an army unit consisting of 21,870 elephants, 21,870
chariots, 65,610 horses, and 109,350 foot soldiers
amāvasya new moon; start of the lunar month
aṃśa portion; part
an-ārya not Aryan; considered outside the Aryan fold
anuśāsana administration; discipline
āpad emergency situation
apsarās celestial nymphs of great beauty, often associated
with Gandharvas
ardharatha half a warrior; Bhīṣma’s insult to Karṇa
arghya offering to an honoured guest, normally of water in
which rice, curd, milk, honey, etc., is mixed
artha material wealth and prosperity
āśrama one of the age-based four stages of life for a Hindu
—studentship, householder, retirement, and
 renunciation; also mode of life related to varṇa
asura celestial being; opponent of the gods
Aśvamedha a Vedic horse sacrifice
avatār descent of a deity on earth; reincarnation of a
celestial being; for example, Viṣṇu
bhakta devotee; worshipper
bhakti devotion; worship
bhrātadharma dharma and duty of a brother towards his siblings
brahmacarya first stage in the four āśramas of life—that of
celibate studentship
brahmaṛṣi a sage who has divine powers and has studied the
Vedas
Brahmāvarta the holy land; the heartland situated between
Sarasvatī and Dṛṣadvatī rivers
brāhmin member of the varṇa that is considered highest in
the order of the caste system; priest
chakra disc; Kṛṣṇa/Viṣṇu’s weapon (Sudarśana Chakra)
daivya fate; divine power
dakṣiṇā fee paid to a brāhmin for services
dāna charity
dānava same as asura; a class of beings constantly in battle
with the gods
daṇḍa punishment
dānavīra generous; munificent; a title of Karṇa
dāsa/dasyu someone in servitude, an-ārya, later seen as quality
of śūdra
dayā mercy
deśa place; region; country
devabhūmī the land of the gods
dharma morality, righteousness, duty
dharmaśāstra doctrine; a body of precepts codified by dharma
laws; book of ethical laws
Dvāpara second of the four great ages or yugas, with an
 environment of half dharma and half adharma; the
second best throw in dice
dvija twice-born; the three upper castes in the caste
system
dyūta gambling, especially with dice
Gandharva celestial musicians
guṇa strain; quality; attribute; in Sāṃkhya philosophy, the
character or nature of a being or thing is determined
by the proportion of three guṇas—sattva (goodness,
harmonious) rajas (passion, activeness), and tamas
(darkness, chaos)
hiṁsā injury; harm; violence
Hiraṇyagarbha golden foetus; Brahmā, who is born from a golden
egg
Hotṛ Vedic priest, reciter of invocations in a sacrifice
itihāsa literally, ‘thus it happened’; tradition; history
kāla time; suitable situation
Kāla Great Time; celestial manifestation of time
Kali asura; personification of Kali Yuga
Kālī goddess; dark form of Pārvatī; consort of Śiva
kalpa aeon; a day of Brahmā consisting of 1,000 yugas
kāma desire; sexual desire
karmayogi practitioner of karma yoga; one who performs
austere action
kāvya poetic composition
Kṛta Yuga the first and most evolved of the four great ages;
constitutes an environment of total dharma and no
adharma; also the best throw in dice
kṣatriya member of the varṇa that is considered second in
the order of the caste system; warrior
kṣetra field; sphere
kṣetrajñāna knowledge of the field
laukika worldly; temporal; customary
māyā supernatural power; illusory; magic
māyāvi one who has magical powers; magical
moha attachment; delusion
niṣkāma karma desireless action
nīti polity; ethics; statesmanship
nivṛtti a life of contemplation, ceasing from worldly acts
(as opposed to pravṛtti)
niyati destiny; fate
Plakṣavatarana manifestation of the cosmographic continent of
Plakṣa (peepul tree). Various Purāṇas describe the
world as divided into seven dvīpas (islands or
continents) Jambūdvīpa, Plakṣadvīpa, Śālmalidvīpa,
Kuśadvipa, Krauñcadvīpa, Śākadvīpa, and
Puṣkaradvīpa. These are concentrically separated by
seven oceans of saltwater, sugarcane juice, wine,
ghee, curd, milk, and water respectively. In ancient
times, India was referred to as Jambūdvīpa, which is
in the centre.
pāśa noose; Varuṇa’s weapon to catch and punish
miscreants
patidharma dharma and duty of a husband towards his wife
patnīdharma dharma and duty of a wife towards her husband
piśācas class of demons who were flesh eaters
prakṛti in Sāṃkhya philosophy, the creative power of the
material world consisting of the three guṇas (as
opposed to puruṣa); energy as personified by Śaktī
pralaya apocalypse; total annihilation
pravṛtti active life (as opposed to a life of nivṛtti)
prema love
priyavācana kind words
purāṇa a work dealing with ancient Indian history, legend,
mythology, and theology
Puruṣa primeval man; soul of the universe (as described in
the Puruṣa-Sūkta hymn of Ṛg Veda); in Sāṃkhya
 philosophy the animating principle; the world spirit
as passive in relation to the creative force of prakṛti
puruṣārtha the four goals of life—dharma, artha, kāma, and
mokṣa
puruṣkāra human effort (as opposed to daivya)
putradharma dharma and duty of a son towards his parents
rājadharma the dharma of a king; a king’s duties towards his
kingdom and subjects
rājaṛṣi a rāja or a king who has attained high spiritual
knowledge
Rājasūya ceremonious ritual of consecrating a king
rākṣasa malignant and demonic being; demon
ratha warrior
ṛṣi sage; one who has attained spiritual wisdom through
rigorous training
ṛta cosmic, divine, human order in Vedic times; also,
law that governed these
sadācāra rightful behaviour
sadasya member of sacrificial assembly
sahasracakṣu a being with thousand eyes
śaktī power; energy; personified as goddess
samprajñāna mindfulness; clear comprehension
samudra manthana churning of the ocean (a creation myth)
Saptasarasvat confluence of seven Sarasvatīs
sarovar lake; tank
sarpasattra snake sacrifice
śāstra scripture; a book of knowledge regarded as divine
authority
Śāśvatadharma dharma of eternal liberation
śatru an enemy
satya truthfulness
śiṣtācāra cultivated behaviour; good and proper conduct
śiṣtas those who cultivate and practise good and proper
 behaviour; refined
śloka song; stanza; verse line in the Anuṣṭubh metre most
commonly used in Vedic and classical Sanskrit
poetry
Smṛiti a body of sacred brāhmanical tradition as
‘remembered’, rather than revealed (as opposed to
Śruti)
soma elixir of immortality; ambrosia
śreyas excellent; auspicious; facilitates in securing
happiness
Śruti the instituted tradition of the Vedas; literally,
something that is heard; hence the Vedas are
accepted as ‘heard’ revelations
strīdharma dharma of a woman or wife
śūdra member of the varṇa that is considered lowest in the
order of the caste system; menial worker
sūta member of charioteer class; bard; of mixed race
svārthatyāga selflessness
svayaṃvara a custom by which girls of royal families could
choose their own husbands from an assembly of
suitable men
tamas/tamasic the quality of darkness (a guṇa in philosophy);
ignorance; one who displays these qualities
tapas asceticism
tējas fiery energy; irradiating
tīrtha place of pilgrimage
Tretā Yuga second of the four great yugas; constitutes three-
quarters of dharma and one quarter of adharma
trivarga three (of four) goals of puruṣārtha—dharma, artha,
and kāma
Udgātṛ One of the four chief Vedic priests in a ritual
sacrifice (the other three are Hotṛ, Adhvaryu, and
Brāhman); the priest who chants the hymns from the
Sāma Veda
Uttaravedī upper altar area of a sacrificial site
vāhana vehicle
vaiśya member of the varṇa that is considered third in the
order of the caste system; merchant, tradesman,
agriculturist
vajra lightning; diamond; having the indestructible and
irresistible properties of both; Indra’s weapon
varṇāśrama mode of life related to class/caste; one of the key
dharmas. See also varṇa and āśrama
varṇa caste; colour; classification on the basis of these
vidhi ordinance or rite
vidhi aparādha fault or error in the performance of a rite
yajamāna one who performs sacrifices
yajña ritualistic sacrificial ceremony
Yakśa spirit deities of nature associated with fertility and
wealth
yoga yoke; connect; a meditational practice through
which the individual soul can be united with
supreme spirit
yuga an age of the world; period of time

1 Words in italics are independent entries in the glossary.

Introduction

MYTH AND ETHICS

In most Hindu cultures, ethical ideas are generally not derived from theistic
commands of an omnipotent God (unlike in Abrahamic cultures). In these
theistic models, the original good is God and the original evil is his
antithesis, which means that God is the authority who formulates normative
ethics and who guides moral behaviours. Hindu ethics, on the other hand,
are based on the Śrutis, and they are interpreted and understood through the
Smṛitis, which establish ethical values as traditions; traditions, in turn, guide
customary law and moral behaviours. Moreover, traditions inferred from
myths in the Smṛitis are inculcated by śiṣtācāra and sadācāra—moral
conduct that exemplifies the actions and behaviours of characters who
symbolize goodness in mythological texts such as the Mahābhārata.
However, this delineating of ethical traditions through myth creates
some of the problems of evil in Hindu cultures, because these traditions
misrepresent myth. The myths of the Mahābhārata are layered narratives in
which truths of the human experience are embedded—truths that tell of
life’s perfections as well as its imperfections. Therefore, these myths
include experiential values of both morality and immorality, which are
explored in the actions, behaviours, and relationships of the mythical
characters, and in the moral and immoral choices these characters make.
Consequently, in the Mahābhārata, no character is just an archetype of good
or evil, and his or her behaviour cannot be held up as an exemplar of these
polarities. The Mahābhārata calls itself the ‘book of rules for the conduct of
mankind’, and it is a true reflection of the human experience (Mbh 1.1.41).
However, the tradition of good versus evil that has been educed from the
Mahābhārata portrays divine apotheoses and mortal heroes as being
representative of a priori good—even though they commit morally
questionable acts. But when these ‘good’ characters are examined in the
context of praxes and real-world behavioural paradigms, they are revealed
as morally flawed, and their actions, too, are often a consequence of those
flaws. By deifying these characters, tradition has created a potential for
people to emulate their moral deficiencies.
Furthermore, not only have Hindu ethical traditions limited empirical
proof of morality and immorality that can be found in texts like the
Mahābhārata, but also, these traditions have resulted from an exploitation of
myth’s protean nature. By virtue of its ability to evolve and incorporate new
and changing meanings, myth is open to interpretations of deśa and kāla,
and also to interpolations by śiṣtas. But this fluid nature of myth has been
exploited by śiṣtas, who have used the moral imperatives of the mythical
characters ‘to mobilize support for [their own] ideological position’ (Thapar
1989: 4). For example, in the Mahābhārata, tradition mobilizers of varṇa
ideologies have evoked the characters’ varṇāśrama dharma obligations to
establish the predominance of one varṇa over the other. They have also
interpreted myth from a perspective that has aggrandized their own position
in society. This is especially so in the case of brāhmins, who have portrayed
themselves in the myths as elevated beings worthy of the reverence given to
the gods. This exploitative use of the Mahābhārata’s myths has resulted in
customary laws that continue to cause pain and suffering for many people in
Hindu society. Moreover, these misrepresentations of myth have the
potential to cause immoral behaviours in ordinary people, who generally
follow customs and traditions without questioning their moral worth.
Unfortunately, the myths of the Mahābhārata are rarely ever examined free
from the influence of these biased perspectives.
Added to this pitfall of śiṣtas misusing the shifting and emulative nature
of myth is the fact that the Mahābhārata houses the Bhagavad Gītā. This
justifies the Mahābhārata’s view of itself as a spiritual guide that ‘dispels
the ignorance of man’ (Mbh 1.1.86). However, there is a disconnect
between the narrative of the Mahābhārata and the metaphysics of the soul
that the Gītā teaches. In actuality, the conduct of the people in the narrative
is rarely guided by the liberating doctrine of the Gītā. Instead, the
characters, including Kṛṣṇa himself, and those that are influenced by him
and his Bhagavad teachings, actually pursue pravṛtti goals of trivarga
(dharma, artha, and kāma) rather than puruṣārtha, which includes the
nivṛtti ideals of mokṣa. In fact, aside from the peripheral story of Vyāsa’s
son Śuka, who achieves mokṣa, and Yudhiṣṭhira’s occasional courting of the
idea of mokṣa, there is little evidence in the Mahābhārata of mokṣa dharma.
Moreover, even the spiritual message of the Gītā, which is given to Arjuna
as a legacy for everyman, is lost in the narrative, so much so that this very
character declares to Kṛṣṇa in the Anu Gītā, after his ‘ignorance is
[supposedly] dispelled’, that he has forgotten the lessons he learnt (Mbh
14.16.6). Therefore, while the Gītā constitutes a doctrine which can be seen
as a guide to transcendence, its inclusion in the Mahābhārata seems to serve
little purpose; neither does it influence the actions and behaviours of the
characters, nor does it guide them on the path of mokṣa. Yet the
Mahābhārata has been established in the Hindu mind as a dharmaśāstra—a
text whose good characters are necessarily guided by both the ethics of
dharma and the liberating truths of mokṣa.
The ordinary Hindu, who probably never reads the voluminous text of
the Mahābhārata, never learns that its Gītā tradition and its narrative
tradition don’t cohere. Instead, this Hindu tries to see a continuum between
the desire-based karma of trivarga and niṣkāma karma of the Gītā, between
the mores of individual dharma and Kṛṣṇa’s ultimate dharma, between the
theodicy of Kṛṣṇa as a theistic divine and his moral evil in the non-theistic
context of the narrative. This Hindu then, aspiring to the truths of the Gītā
and yet emulating the pravṛtti behaviour of the mythical characters, is not
able to reconcile these contradictions. If this Hindu were able to address the
ambiguities of this Smṛiti’s traditions, he or she may be better equipped to
comprehend its ethics. Also, acknowledging the discrepancies of the
tradition may facilitate a questioning of the ethical and moral problems in
the text itself that have created a potential for evil. Consequently, this may
lead Hindus to re-examine their own dharmas according to their own human
impulses and natural inclinations.

VALUE PLURALISM
When, around the 5th–3rd century BCE, the era of Śruti literatures—the
original mythos—passed, and the fixity of the cosmological order contained
in them became transformed into protean logos of the Smṛti, itihāsa texts
that explained and interpreted the truths of the Śruti through myth gained
authority. The Mahābhārata emerged at this time, still touting the normative
codes from Śruti literature, but in a new construct that included the
ritualistic injunctions of the Vedas, the metaphysics of eschatology and
liberation of the Upaniṣads, and pravṛtti myths and narratives of everyday
life to which ordinary people could relate.
In addition to being an amalgamation of a variety of value systems, this
new literature gained credence as a scriptural and popular text, because its
authorship was attributed to an elevated being who was connected to the
human world. Case in point: the Mahābhārata’s authorship is attributed to
Vyāsa,1 who is not only an aṃśa of Nārāyaṇa, but he also corresponds to
Brahmā in his triple role of representing brāhmanical orthodoxy, creating
and disseminating the Vedas. Additionally, he acts as grandfather to both
the Pāṇḍavas and Kauravas, just as Brahmā is the progenitor of both the
devas and asuras (Sullivan 1999: 81). Hence, it is no wonder that this text
was seen as a new kind of creation—the fifth Veda—created by Vyāsa, just
as Brahmā created the world. This divine and human connection continued
in the text’s recensions, and, in later interpolations, its scribe became
Gaṇeśa—a god whose main attributes and functions are directly connected
to the wellbeing of mortals.2
There are also secular aspects to the Mahābhārata. Firstly, many of its
myths and stories were adoptions from the folklore of non-Aryan tribes
with whom Aryans were forming exogamous relationships. And secondly,
this narrative was recited not by the elite brāhmins (as was the case with the
Śrutis), but by bardic sūtas, who were so much of the hoi polloi that often
they were even outside the caste system, because they had hybrid
bloodlines. However, while the Mahābhārata demonstrates temporality and
fluidity and makes people active collaborators of custom, factors that make
the tradition dynamic and alive, it fails as a moral guide. Instead of bridging
the gap between the text’s different value systems—of the Vedas, Kṛṣṇa
theism, puruṣārtha, and tribal and secular beliefs—with a cohesive moral
code, it leaves moral lacunae that are open to interpretations.
Its inclusion of Vedic precepts creates the impression that Vedic ideals
are in alignment with theistic morality and dharma ethics; this is not so.
While the Vedas do constitute an ethical system, they are non-theistic,
amoral, ritualistic texts that, through the injunctive practice of sacrifice,
unite the cosmological and temporal worlds. This Vedic aesthetic natural
order—ṛta—appears ethical; hence it is seen in accord with Mahābhārata’s
ethics. However, in the Mahābhārata, while the aesthetic order of the Vedas
still exists to a certain extent, the idea of ṛta is no longer relevant, and the
Vedic vidhi of sacrifice is transformed into the trivarga of puruṣārtha.
This desire-oriented concept of puruṣārtha is a new form of ethics and
ritual activity that, while ensuring material order, is not binding (as ṛta was),
because its pursuit is an individual obligation. Additionally, while dharma,
the overarching guiding principle of puruṣārtha, appears to be like ṛta
(because it suggests symmetry between individual effort and divine
operations), in actuality, it subverts the order of the divine and cosmic
worlds to a wholly earthly scheme. This secularity gives the system a
moralistic character, but it also makes it more susceptible to evil than the
Vedic system. Vedic ṛta, although amoralistic, was absolute, all
encompassing, and all inclusive; and it was kept incorruptible by Varuṇa of
the sahasracakṣu, who threatened punishment with his pāśa to anyone who
broke the order. Dharma, on the other hand, while being normative and
pertaining to the whole society, also invests the values of right and wrong in
each individual’s action, thought, and behaviour, and it determines right and
wrong from the consequence of these behaviours. Therefore, dharma is
individualistic, in both consequentiality and accountability; this is where the
problem occurs, because individuation not only creates malleable values,
but also a scope for opportunism. When a code of conduct is an individual
obligation, and an individual is accountable only to himself, the powerful
can manipulate the values of right and wrong to suit their purpose. The
Mahābhārata is a perfect example of this vulnerability, because all its
characters commit adharmic actions but justify them with their own
interpretation of dharma.
Moreover, the multifariousness of this text necessarily perpetuates a
multitude of experiences and moral behaviours, each of which is not only a
different interpretation of dharma, while it also does not correspond with
the ethics that normative dharma delineates. Therefore, one of the basic
problems in the text is that there is a dichotomy between ethics and
morality, because what ought to be done is not what is actually done by its
characters. While a foundation of ethics is provided through the ideals of
puruṣārtha; morality is made an individual obligation,3 and it is practised
differently by its moral agents, based on their own interpretation of good
and evil.
The Mahābhārata also includes normative codes of varṇa, dharma,
karma, and mokṣa, which allow for even more flexibility of ideas. While
different varṇas have their own prescribed actions and behaviours,
following an ethical hierarchy in which each varṇa adheres to a different set
of morals and rules, the concept of mokṣa caters to various levels of
spiritual development, evoking even more individualism. Additionally, this
multitude of behaviours is made more complex by the fact that there is no
regulative standard that establishes rightful and wrongful conduct; each
moral and immoral action of the characters is its own measure of good and
evil, based on the situation. Moreover, the theory of karma, which could be
regulatory, is not only minimally utilized in the text, but also, when it does
come into play, it is impaired by other factors, such as divine intervention
and fate.
Adding to the problems of ambiguity in the Mahābhārata is the ideal of
dharma itself. This ideal overarches all beliefs and systems that the text tries
to integrate into the governing order of puruṣārtha, or, more accurately, the
trivarga of dharma, artha, and kāma. However, dharma is tractable and
constantly in danger of allowing moral slippage.
Hence, the Mahābhārata accommodates many values that do not cohere,
with the result that the text is an assortment rather than a unified guiding
system.

KURUKṢETRA AS DHARMAKṢETRA
Kurukṣetra, the field of war in the Mahābhārata, is established in the Hindu
mind as a dharmakṣetra that dates back to the Vedas. It is a devabhūmī
which has been attributed with a number of reverential aspects from the
time of the Ṛg Veda. Explaining this piety, O.P. Bharadwaj (1991: 60) says,
‘The fabric of Indian mythology is woven around gods most of whom are
associated with Kurukṣetra in one way or the other. Manu gives the name of
Brahmāvarta to the heartland of Kurukṣetra … and the oldest Vedic works
place the earliest religious and political activities in this region. It is
generally agreed that the bulk of the Vedic literature was composed here.’
In addition, the holiest of rivers, the Vedic Sarasvatī, in her seven forms,
appears as the Saptasarasvat in Kurukṣetra (Mbh 9.38.1–26). And there is
evidence that even the Vedic Dṛṣadvatī flowed close to the city of
Hāstinapura (Bharadwaj 1991: 47). Also, according to Vāmana Purāṇa, it
was in the Sannihati Sarovar in Kurukṣetra that Hiraṇyagarbha was born,
from which creation resulted. This is the Uttaravedī of Brahmā (Bharadwaj
1991: 60), and a dip in this sarovar on amāvasya is believed to bestow the
merit of a thousand Aśvamedhas. Moreover, the Taittirīya Āraṇyaka,
describing the geographical parameters of the land, calls it the sacrificial
altar of the gods (quoted in Bharadwaj 1991: 60), and, according to the
Vāmana Purāṇa, this is where King Kuru tilled the field to create the
boundaries of Kurukṣetra. The myth that accompanies this act of King Kuru
further establishes the reverence of the land: when King Kuru decided to
till, Indra came to ask him what he intended. Kuru’s response was that he
would sow the seeds of meditation, truth, forgiveness, charity, yoga, and
righteousness in this field to make it a true dharmakṣetra. When Viṣṇu
asked him what he would use as seed, King Kuru replied that the seeds
were in his body. Then he extended his right arm and Viṣṇu cut it up into a
thousand pieces. Subsequently, the king offered up his left arm and then his
head so that the ‘seeds’ could be extracted, and Viṣṇu, satisfied that the
king’s vision was true, granted him the boon that the land of Kurukṣetra
would be exactly as he envisioned it (VaP 22.22–37).
Altogether, there is no doubt that Kurukṣetra holds tremendous religious
and dhārmic importance for Hindus. In fact, even Buddhist texts validate
the significance of the region. For example, referencing the Vinaya of the
Mūlasarvāstivādins,4 Bharadwaj (1991: 75) explains that Buddha, too,
made at least one journey with Ānanda, his first cousin and principle
disciple, through Hāstinapura and westward, because he was aware of the
city’s import. And in the Mahābhārata itself, the sanctity of Kurukṣetra is
more than evident. It is called the tīrtha of Plakṣavatara, that is, ‘the gate of
heaven’ (Mbh 3.129.13–14).
In addition to Kurukṣetra and its surroundings5 being sanctified land, the
battlefield of Kurukṣetra is acknowledged many times as a veritable
dharmakṣetra; even the warriors of the Mahābhārata proclaim it such:
Dhṛtarāṣṭra calls it the ‘holy field of Kurukṣetra’ (Mbh 6.25.1), and Karṇa
calls it the ‘altar for the sacrifice of weapons’ where each attribute of war
and the warriors will be an ingredient of the sacrificial ritual (Mbh
5.141.29–31); hence, Kurukṣetra is ‘the holiest spot in all these worlds’
(Mbh 5.141.53). Considering these testimonials, it is natural for Hindus to
believe that any battle fought in this field would be for dharma’s sake, and
that victory, too, would undoubtedly be dharma’s. Thus, the orthodox Hindu
cannot conceive of any transgressions of dharma to have occurred in
Kurukṣetra, especially perpetrated by the Pāṇḍavas, who are perceived as
virtuous dharma heroes.
However, perhaps a popular legend that is often told to explain why the
Kurus chose the battlefield of Kurukṣetra to fight their war is the one that
tells the true story of not just the war that occurred there but also the
environment of Kurukṣetra: When the envoys of the Pāṇḍavas and
Kauravas were seeking a suitable battlefield which would accommodate
eighteen akṣauhiṇī of soldiers, they petitioned numerous kings for their
land, but no king agreed, because they foresaw the massacre that would
occur. But then, returning to Hāstinapura, the envoys saw a farmer tilling
his field in Kurukṣetra. As he irrigated it, a levee broke and, despite all his
efforts, he could not fix it. The farmer then grabbed his young son, who was
playing close by and, killing the boy, he secured the levee with his dead
body. When the envoys witnessed this incident, they knew that they had
found the battlefield they sought, because this field of Kurukṣetra was
obviously cruel enough to bear the burden of a war where blood would turn
against blood and all dharma codes would be breached.6 And they were not
wrong, because the Mahābhārata is a testament that the war which occurred
in this dharmakṣetra was indeed one in which blood turned against blood,
and dharma was flouted and used for personal agendas.
The story of the farmer in the field of Kurukṣetra is a legend found
mostly in oral narratives, but legends have a way of capturing and
expressing the truth that official chronicles may not want to acknowledge.
Perhaps the story of the farmer is true, and perhaps, the people of
Kurukṣetra were aware that a land that sanctions blood-letting, even if it is
to right a wrong, can hardly be called a holy land. In fact, perhaps, this was
the message that the earliest narrative traditions of the Bhārata War
contained—that the war which took place on this land was one in which
there was a total breakdown of dharma on both sides, tantamount to a father
killing his son for his personal gain. But, instead of decoding this message
to teach people the moral dangers of such behaviour, the brāhmins, who
formalized the myth to ensure their own hegemony and to aggrandize their
own status as keepers of dharma, validated the battlefield as dharmakṣetra
and concretized the war as dharmayuddha. Or, perhaps the real culprit that
misled people into believing the sanctity of Kurukṣetra was the metaphor of
Kṛṣṇa as the divine charioteer, guiding everyman’s chariot of mortal life
through the proverbial life-field of Kurukṣetra. This metaphor of Kṛṣṇa
became such a panacea that it not only cured the wounds delivered in the
battlefield of Kurukṣetra, but it also continues to absolve people from
accountability of their immoral actions.

ARYAN IDENTITY AND ‘THE OTHER’

Since the focus of this study deals with Aryan society in epic times, it is
important to explain who the Aryans of this era were. Also necessary is an
interpretation of Aryanism, because part of the proof to the argument that
there are problems of evil in the Mahābhārata that have impacted Hindu
traditions rests in the perspective about who or what is Aryan.
For this work, which pertains to the epic Aryans and their societal
norms, the debate about whether the Aryans were indigenous to India or
migrants is only peripherally relevant. In addition, it is not important to
determine what the original home of the migrant Aryans (of the standard
view) was; therefore, this study will not go into the details of the debate.
However, it is necessary to state which view is supported here, because in
order to present arguments about epic Aryan society and its ethics and
morals, it is necessary to establish whether the legacy of the Aryans was of
a continuous race from the earliest times, or whether their ‘race’ and its
racial biases were a product of later developments in the society they
formed. This book accepts the standard view for a number of reasons, main
among them being the language theory, which propounds that the Sanskrit
of the Vedas belongs to the Indo-Aryan group of languages with which it
shares etymological roots.7 Perhaps the greatest proof of Aryan migration is
the closeness of Aryan language and culture to Indo-Iranian.8 Also, the
Mitanni records from the upper Mesopotamia kingdom of Mitanni show a
similarity between the Indo-Iranian branch of language and rituals and
Vedic culture.9
The standard view language theory discounts that ‘Aryan’ was a name of
a race. Rather, it proposes that the Vedic Aryans were those who could be
distinguished linguistically as speaking a specific language—Sanskrit—as
opposed to any of the Dravidian languages. These people referred to
themselves as Aryans. Consequently, because of their distinguishing
linguistic traits, at some point, they also began to see themselves as having
a culture distinct from people speaking a different language.
However, as these Aryans migrated eastwards and westwards, they also
adopted language and culture traits of the indigenous people, the non-
Aryans. Giving one such example, Kosambi (1965: 81) cites the case of the
Vedic king, Sudāsa of the ten king confederacy, son of Divodāsa, and points
out that dāsa or dasyu was a reference to non-Aryan (not slave), yet it is
curious that ‘so early a name of an Aryan king should end in dāsa’.
Kosambi also suggests that this means ‘there was some recombination
between Aryan and non-Aryan soon after 1500 BCE’. This assimilation
becomes even more significant in light of Kosambi’s insight into Sudāsa’s
background. He was chief of a tribe that bore the name Bhārata, or perhaps
a special branch of the Bhāratas called the Tritsus. (It is common
knowledge that the modern official name for India is Bhārata.) Kosambi
also says that these Vedic Bhāratas ‘were definitely Aryans’. It is evident
that even at this early stage, there was clear cross-cultural flux, with the
Aryans adopting loanwords and practices from the autochthonous people
and the Dravidians becoming Aryanized.
These non-Aryans, the dāsas or dasyus of the Ṛg Veda, were not dark-
skinned (tvacam kṛṣṇām), on which the racial theory is based, as Romila
Thapar (2005: 125) suggests; but this ‘dark skin’ may be a reference to a
name of an asura. Also discounted is the ‘anās’ (nose-less) theory, a word
which many scholars, including Thapar, now see as an-ās (without a
mouth)—speechless—meaning, not knowing the speech of the Aryans, the
speech of the Vedic hymns. Thapar (2005: 123) also points out that the
negative probably, and simply, was a reference to the cultural difference: the
non-Aryans did not perform the rites of the Vedic Aryans and did not
believe in their deities.
In the standard view, the Aryan incursion into India is grouped
linguistically into three categories: Old Indo-Aryan (Vedic), Middle Indo-
Aryan (MIA) (5th century BCE to 100 CE), and New Indo-Aryan (NIA) (post
1st century CE.) The Mahābhārata falls into the cusp of Old and Middle
Indo-Aryan. Within this time, Sanskrit was incorporating the spoken
dialects of the region, as defined by Pāṇini’s Aṣṭādhyāyī (Mehendale 2005:
48),10 and it was influenced by Prākṛta and Pālī; this became classical
Sanskrit. However, there was a distinction between people who used
saṁskṛta, the ‘refined’ speech, and prākṛta, the ‘natural’ and
‘unsophisticated’ speech (Mehendale 2005: 49). But, by the time the epics
were composed, much of the population was linguistically Aryanized. In
fact, there was almost a clear bilingualism, which Thapar (2005: 124) says,
was ‘a mixing of at least two distinctive language systems, the agglutinative
Proto-Dravidian and the inflectional Indo Aryan’.
However, notwithstanding the assimilation of Dravidians with the
Aryans, other significant elements were distinguishable in the society that
was formed by Aryans who migrated to the Doab. These elements in the
Aryan definition also came to mean people with certain behaviours and
characteristics. Madhav Deshpande (2005: 79) gives the following
characteristics of the people who called themselves Aryans at the time of
the Ganges civilization, which was probably between 1100–600 BCE:

1. A person who speaks the Aryan language as his first language is—
linguistically speaking—an Aryan.
2. A person who considers himself to be a member of an Aryan (cultural)
community and is accepted to be so by the other members is—culturally
speaking—an Aryan.
3. A person who is a member of a group defined to be an Aryan on the basis
of some physiological characteristics is—biologically speaking—an
Aryan.

As Aryans began to realize a cultural identity, the idea of Aryan

śiṣtācāra also began to form. In his Vyākarana Mahābhāṣya, Patañjali
(6.3.109, quoted in Mehendale 2005: 48) talks about the ācār of the people
who lived in the region, calling them śiṣta—people who lacked greed and
arrogance, hypocrisy, folly, and anger. This ideal śiṣtācāra defining the
Aryans was, perhaps, the product of long-standing prejudices against those
who observed different practices and remained an-Aryan (perhaps by
choice), and this mindset is quite evident in the Mahābhārata. For example,
speaking with contempt about a non-Aryan character, Karṇa tells Śalya,
‘They are ignorant of the Vedas and void of knowledge. They do not
perform yajñas nor can they help others in them. They are fallen and many
of them have been begotten by śūdras upon other caste girls; the gods
never accept gifts from them.’ Karṇa also names the races that were
considered non-Aryan: Prasthalas, Madras, Gandharvas, Arattas, Khaśas,
Vasātis, Sindhūs and Sauvīras, Bāhilkas, Kāraskaras, Mahiśkas, Kurandas,
Kerals, Karkoṭakas, and Virakas (Mbh 8.44.34–47). Not only were the non-
Aryans denigrated but also, at this time, Aryans began to fear a mixing of
races. For example, Arjuna tells Kṛṣṇa in the Gītā that he does not want to
be involved in the large-scale killing of kṣatriyas, because it would cause a
mixing of races which would cause society to crumble (BG 1.39–46). As is
evident from these examples, by this time, Aryanism had changed from
being related to a language group to a people whose actions and customs
defined their identity. Hence, ‘Aryan’ was fast becoming a race.
Aside from creating demarcations about what constitutes proper Aryan
behaviour and what does not, epic society also became progressively caste-
based. While the caste system created biases which resulted in many
problems of evil, such as inequity, impunity of the high-class brāhmins, and
perpetration of abuse and violence against lower castes and women, it was
only one aspect of epic Aryan society. Aryanism, as a whole, became the
hallmark for a superior ‘race’, thus also proscribing all outside the fold as
the ‘other’. Mahābhārata myths are testimony to these problems of evil, and
as the text’s formalization was passed down as tradition, so were these
problems. Then, in the 8th century, during Mohammad ibn Qasim’s 712 CE
Arab invasion, when the people of India (or Al-Hind, as it was termed in
pre-Islamic Arabia) were identified as per their religion, and the term
‘Hindu’ was used for people who ‘lived by the book’ (Sharma 2002: 5),
‘Hindu’ came to represent all people who believed in Aryan ideologies.
This gave shape to a new social system, but this society also inherited the
problems that already existed, which became an integral part of Hindu
ethics, and they remain so till today.

HISTORICAL CONSTRUCTS
Although no scientific, archaeological, or historical record to date has
proven that a war such as the 18-day war described in the Mahābhārata
occurred, numerous references and accounts in oral traditions and extant
written texts prove that many of the clans mentioned in the epic existed;
there is also a distinct possibility that certain events that could have shaped
such a conflict may have occurred.
While the Indian perspective of astronomical dating, which is based on
the theory of the four yugas, places the text in 3102 BCE, the most plausible
dates of the epic’s composition are 9th century BCE to 1st century CE,
because the socio-political environment of this time was similar to that
described in the epic. According to historians, such as D.D. Kosambi,
Romila Thapar, A.L. Basham, etc., around the 6th century BCE, forests were
cleared in the Ganges valley, and an agrarian system came into existence,
which led to the creation of monarchies (such as the Kuru kingdom) that
derived their revenue from agriculture. Also, at this time, another form of
political entity came into being—the republic—which was a ‘reaction to
Vedic orthodoxy’ of the monarchies (Thapar 1996: 48). Among these
republics, Thapar (1996: 48) names the tribal republic of the Yādavas (to
which Kṛṣṇa belonged).
Other factors that attest to these dates are literary evidence of
monarchical sacrificial rituals, such as Rājasūya and Aśvamedha, which
were prevalent at that time (Thapar 1996: 54), and also place names. For
example, around the time of the Buddha’s death in 486 BCE, the city of
Takṣaśilā, which was probably part of Gāndhāra, is mentioned as being a
centre of learning and trade (Basham 1995: 48). In the Mahābhārata,
Takṣaśilā is the city from which Janamejaya returns victorious when he
learns how his father, Parikṣit, was killed by Takṣaka (Mbh 1.3.162). This,
then, leads to the snake sacrifice.
It is also most likely that the Mahābhārata was composed over a period
of many centuries, and that many authors added their insertions in it. The
epic itself indicates at least two separate recitations—first by Vaiśaṃpāyana
and then by Ugraśravas, and even between these two, the epic swelled from
2,400 verses as Bhārata to over 100,000 as Mahābhārata (Mbh 1.1.101–7).
The epic reflects varying, and sometimes contradictory, interpolations, and
an exploration of these can provide insights into the historiography for
specific events and practices. For example, there is evidence in the Śāntī
Parva of Arthaśāstra’s Daṇḍanīti, which is considered a 4th-3rd century BCE
composition. Some of the ethical and societal ordinances are also
reflections of other texts, such as the Dharmasūtras. However, since these
texts themselves spread over a period of six centuries (P.V. Kane as quoted
in Olivelle 2000: 9), it can be said that the epic was still in the process of
evolving during these centuries, because it reflects fluctuating proprieties as
mentioned in the dharma texts. For instance, as the attitudes regarding
women got stricter from Gautama to Vasiṣṭha, so did this treatment in the
Mahābhārata: Gautama counts a sonless man’s wife as one of the
beneficiaries of his property after his death (Olivelle 2000: 187,
Gautamadharmasūtram 28.21), but Vasiṣṭha lists women as property,
putting them in the same category as ‘a pledge, a boundary, property of
minors, an open deposit, a sealed deposit, and the property of the king or
Vedic scholar’ which always belongs to the ‘owner even if they are used by
someone else’ (Olivelle 2000: 413, Vasiṣṭhadharmasūtram 16.26). Perhaps
these gender-debasing standards are what account for Draupadī’s treatment
as property in the dice game. Therefore, her subsequent questioning of the
status of women was really a questioning of these conventions established
in the dharma texts. Olivelle (2000: 7) even mentions that
Vasiṣṭhadharmasūtram contains discussion of ‘land of the Āryas’ and ‘legal
assembly.’ Therefore, considering the dates of Vasiṣṭha’s Dharmasūtra
(300–100 BCE), it can be said that Draupadī’s role in the dice game was an
interpolation, and, more than likely, it may have occurred closer to the latter
date, because standards must be in vogue for a while before people begin
questioning them.
Many elements of the Mahābhārata, from geographical to civic and
political to economic, also have a historical grounding. For example, O.P.
Bharadwaj in his Ancient Kurukṣetra (1991: 61) lays out a geographical
context that validates the history of the Kuru rāṣtra. Referencing Taittirīya
Āraṇyaka, he describes the territory: the region between Gangā and Yamunā
was Kuru proper, with its capital at Hāstinapura (near Meerut); the area
between Sarasvatī and Yamunā was Kuru Jāṅgala, and the north of Srughna
was Uttara-Kuru. Hence, he says, the Kuru kingdom’s heartland comprised
the Sarasvatī-Dṛṣadvatī doab. Therefore, it can be assumed that if the Kuru
rāṣtra existed, then the ideologies of the Kurus, as described in the epic,
must also have been a way of life for a people who lived in the heartland of
India. For example, Bharadwaj (1991: 108) states that Karṇa’s
denouncement of the Madras territory as ‘defiled’ may have been based in
fact, because after the Yāvanas’ influence, Madras was pervaded by many
social customs, such as drinking wine and eating beef, considered
‘reprehensible’ by orthodox Aryans.
Other historical proof about certain political practices reduces the gravity
of the Pāṇḍava exile. D.D. Kosambi (1965: 88) points out that in the early
tribes in Aryan society, the lowest unit within a tribe was a grāma, with its
own official or grāmani. And if two grāmas were in conflict because of
some intrigue, the chieftain would drive out one in forced exile in order to
preserve peace. If peace-keeping is seen as a reason for the Pāṇḍava exile,
then it reduces the blame and evil intent with which the Kauravas are
maligned.
Economic imperatives of the time also provide more proof that events in
the epic may have actually occurred. Historians like Kosambi and Thapar
give a historical basis to the burning of the Khāṇḍava forest which, they
say, was to clear out the area for farming. Kosambi emphasizes a reference
to such heavy forest burning in the Śatapatha Brāhmaṇa (before 700 BCE),
and Thapar (2004: 135 & 143) suggests that before this, only light jungles
were burnt for agriculture. The purpose of this vast burning could also have
been to extract iron ore, whose uses were just being discovered. These
speculations have credence because, in the context of the epic, the palace
that was built for the Pāṇḍavas by Māyā, after the burning of the Khāṇḍava,
is described to be full of new innovations in both design and material, and it
is possible that the newly discovered iron ore was used in parts of the
palace that seemed ‘magical’ or full of māyāvi creations—definitely an
innovation that went beyond the simplicity of agrarian living.
 Another matter of discussion among historians and scholars of the
Mahābhārata has been whether there really was a war or not. Kosambi
(1965: 8, 91 & 92) suggests that this fight may actually have occurred
during the time of the Ṛg Veda, and the war in the Mahābhārata is a
retelling; albeit an exaggerated one. He points out references to the
Bhāratas in the Ṛg and suggests that they were an Aryan tribe, who, with
their tribe leader, Sudāsa, defeated ten kings, some of whom were also
Aryan. However, he thinks that the Mahābhārata was probably a small
battle between neighbouring tribes, because production at that time would
not have supported large-scale armies. Additionally, identifying main tribes
of that era, he avers that the Bhāratas were enemies of the Pūrus (who were
also Aryan), and the original settlement in Hāstinapura was of a small, old
Vedic Pūru tribe. Other scholarship is conflicted on whether this war is a
reference to a war in Ṛg Vedic times, and also whether this was a small
battle or a full-fledged war. For example, Thapar (2010) not only thinks that
this was a war, but she also says that in the dasharājna (the battle of the ten
rajas) described in the Ṛg, ‘some of the clans from the Vedic corpus such as
the Bhāratas, Pūrus, Yadus and Kuru-Pāñcālas reappear in the Mahabharata
as lineage ancestors of the epic protagonists’. Also, in Thapar’s view
(2010), there is all possibility that not only was there an event such as the
Mahābhārata war, there were also warriors such as Yudhiṣṭhira, Arjuna, and
Vāsudeva; because, Pāṇini, in the 4th century BCE, refers indirectly to
grammatical constructions associated with these words. Sharad Patil (1976:
71) too does not see the Great Bhārata war as a ‘small battle’ between two
tribes, but he also does not see the battle as being the same as that of the ten
kings described in the Vedas. He says that in the Ṛg Vedic battle, ten tribes
participated, with about 10,000 troops (RV 7.18.4–25). But the
Mahābhārata conflict was substantially bigger; we know that it lasted for
18 days, and at least 18 tribes participated in it; therefore, the number of
warriors that participated could have been close to 18,000.
If there was an actual war, whether great or small, who were the
warriors? From scholarly accounts, it seems that, quite likely, some of the
actors portrayed in the Mahābhārata were actual warriors, because their
names are also referenced in other literatures. Bharadwaj (1991: 62–68)
mentions at least six references to the Kuru ancestry in Vedic literature, and
also points out that some of these refer to Kuru-Pāñcāla enmity, which is
quite evident in the Mahābhārata, starting from Drona and Drupada’s
rivalry, and ending with the death of all the remaining Pāñcālas in
Aśvatthāman’s night raid. However, while the Pāñcālas may have existed,
the Pāṇḍavas were, most likely, fictitious. Ruth Cecily Katz (1990: 50–51 &
261) says that Aśvatthāman’s destruction of all the Pāñcālas during his
night raid casts doubt on the existence of a clan of Pāṇḍavas, because
Draupadī’s own sons die in this raid, and they are referred to as
Draupadayas, but there is not one reference to their patrilineal names (as the
Pāṇḍavas are sons of Pandu). Katz (1990: 38, 51 & 261) also suggests that
the Pāṇḍava heroes were probably created by the authors to be
superimposed on existing warriors. She argues that throughout the epic
there is an attempt to connect the Pāñcālas with the Pāṇḍavas by creating
parallels. For example, there is a double leadership of the Pāṇḍava army—
the Pāṇḍava, Arjuna, and the Pāñcāla, Dhṛṣṭadyumna. Also, the Pāñcālas,
Yudhāmanyu and Uttamaujas protect Arjuna’s chariot wheels. To add to the
parallelism is also the fact that the Pāñcālas were five tribes, as is the
number of Pāṇḍavas. This artificial grafting becomes even more obvious
because the Pāñcālas are completely wiped out in the Sauptika Parva, and
Draupadī is left with no progeny, which makes her marriage to the
Pāṇḍavas meaningless.
Other scholars also make similar speculations: J.A.B van Buitenen
(1973: xxv) points out that Janamejaya is mentioned in the Śatapatha
Brāhmaṇa, along with his brothers, Ugrasena, Bhīmasena, and Śrutasena,
as having performed an Aśvamedha. Even in a late section of the Atharva
Veda, Janamejaya’s father Parikṣit is glorified, and ‘his descendants are
known as the “vanished dynasty”’. Similarly, there is evidence of various
Kuru names in both Buddhist and Vedic literatures, but there is a noticeable
absence of the names of the Pāṇḍavas.
Asko Parpola (2002: 362), on the other hand, does not discount the
existence of the Pāṇḍavas; he says that they were foreign raiders who may
have arrived in the area of the Doab between 800 and 400 BCE. He suggests
that they may have been Iranian, and he supports his view with examples
such as their polyandrous marriage, which he cites from Herodotus as a
practice belonging to the Massagetae Iranians. He also bases his argument
on their fair complexion, especially of Pāṇḍu and Arjuna. (Other scholars
see Pāṇḍu’s ‘paleness’ as a skin disease.) Also, citing Weber, Parpola points
out that the Pāṇḍavas are mentioned in the Buddhist texts, but are called
‘marauders’ roaming over a wide area in North India.
On the other hand, one of the few scholars who does consider the
Pāṇḍavas as part of the Kuru clan is Bankim Chandra Chatterjee (1991: 18).
He offers a logical explanation: the Pāṇḍavas were called Kurus, just as the
Kauravas were, because they both belonged to the Kuru clan; that is why
they were never referred to as Pāṇḍavas, and just like there is no mention of
Dhṛtarāṣṭṛa, there is no mention of Pāṇḍavas. Chatterjee also says that it is
possible that when war broke out, it was between the Kurus and Pāñcālas,
and the Pāṇḍavas fought with the Pāñcālas because of their marital
connection. This would also explain why Bhīṣma and Drona fought with
the Kauravas instead of the Pāṇḍavas, who they favoured, because their
allegiance was to the Kuru kingdom.
However, no matter who the Pāṇḍavas were, one element of their
presence in Mahābhārata seems to stand out: they were superimposed on a
heroic narrative. But why? To give them the credibility of real heroes? To
convey superlative standards of warriorship? To serve some other purpose
that was over and above a tale of war between tribes? Perhaps the reason
for the Pāṇḍava overlay on the epic was to sow the seed of change.
Considering the historical socio-religious climate at this time, using the
most accepted dates of the epic’s earliest compositions (9th–5th century
BCE), it is clear that brāhmanical practices were losing popularity,
heterodoxies were rife, and various cults were struggling to establish
supremacy or to co-exist. In this atmosphere of flux, what was to become of
a system that had existed as supreme for centuries? The keepers of that
system needed a unifying factor to bring about a social change—something
that would bring all these differing ideas under one umbrella, allowing them
to counter the threatening heterodoxy, while retaining leadership. The
unifying factor had to be familiar yet different—trustworthy, divine warrior
heroes, who not only had a seamless connection to past heroes and
divinities, but who also incorporated all new changing beliefs—heroes who
had faith in orthodoxy, but who were practitioners of the new, changing
morality. Obviously, hero gods, such as Indra, who had once awed people
with their violence and treachery, would not do, because these gods had
now been rejected in a society becoming more morally and socially
conscious. Besides, people were too familiar with these gods and their
exploits, their attributes, and their specific type of divinity. What was
needed was something and someone new, someone about whom people did
not have preconceived ideas—new heroes and new gods. Thus, the
Pāṇḍavas and Kṛṣṇa were the new kids on the block. D.D. Kosambi (1965:
95) explains how this brāhmin strategy worked to ensure the survival of
society: discordant groups such as ‘late-Vedic Aryans, Nāga food-gatherers
of the forested divide, and Krishna’s neo-Vedic cattle herders could together
form a more efficient food producing society [especially since iron ore was
still hard to come by] if they stopped fighting each other … So the myths
had to coalesce.’ Hence, with ‘acculturation’ in the original battle lore of
the Mahābhārata, society was brought together.
Furthermore, to sustain the social change in this atmosphere of
fragmentation, a special adhesive was necessary. That adhesive was the
Kṛṣṇa factor. The reason why the idea of Kṛṣṇa worked is simple: it is
common knowledge that if a change has to be lasting and sustainable, the
very psyche of people has to change—attitudes, beliefs, behaviours, ways
of life, and ways in which people relate to the transcendental—and such
changes can be concretized by an individual so charismatic that others
cannot help but follow him. This individual must be able to touch the very
core of people, the core which connects them not only to their own
humanity, but also to their divine. People are constantly seeking the divine,
whether within themselves or outside of themselves, because this divine is
what allows them to make meaningful relationships and to transcend their
mundane existence. And if an individual (like Moses, Jesus, Muhammad,
Buddha, or Kṛṣṇa) can show them a path to the divine, they can be
converted to a new way of thinking and living. However, these conversions
are most effective when a system, rather than being completely destroyed
and recreated, is allowed to transition from the old into the new,
assimilating both idea-sets. If people are made to feel that what they
believed and practised was wholly wrong, they are more likely to reject the
new idea; therefore, the old must be allowed to continue to exist, but in a
better and improved form. Hence, in the Mahābhārata, in the context of a
changing society, the orthodox Vedic beliefs and gods were not denounced;
rather they were moulded into a new system. In other words, the new
system was a reincarnation of the old. Sukumari Bhattacharji (2000: 291)
explains how
[t]he totem-worshipers, the animists, the hero-worshipers, all had to find their respective places in
this Neo-Brāhmanical religion. This could only be done by acknowledging them as manifestations of
one fundamental theophany. With the idea of metempsychosis accepted on human level, it needed but
one-step of sublimation to transfer it on to the divine, and thus unite the different cults and people
into one fold harmonizing their faiths.

Thus, the unifying force was the belief in reincarnation on both the divine
and the human levels; hence the idea of Kṛṣṇa being an incarnation of an
older god, Viṣṇu, caught on, and it resulted in the new cult of Kṛṣṇaism.
Kṛṣṇa’s history is complex and paradoxical, and there is much scholarly
speculation about his background. But there is no doubt about his evolution
into supreme godhead. In other words, regardless of whether scholars
believe that there really was a Kṛṣṇa or not, history shows that the idea of
Kṛṣṇa definitely existed and evolved, making him a supreme god. The
Kṛṣṇa phenomenon was the amalgamation of the old and the new, the
Aryans and the indigenous, and it was very much a part of people’s lives
during the composition of the Mahābhārata. In fact, his stardom was so
pervasive that even the Vedic philosophical systems capitulated to it.
It is clear that Kṛṣṇa’s rise to supremacy was a consequence of and an
attempt to amalgamate divergent trends, but it is still not clear how this was
connected to the itihāsic story of the Pāṇḍavas that was also prevalent at
this time. Was Kṛṣṇa’s ascendency a functionary of the eulogized war story?
Did the two develop individually and then were merged by the authors? Or
was the Vṛṣṇi leader truly a part of the war? And if he was, did his cultish
fame add credence to the story, giving the Pāṇḍavas the necessary edge they
needed? Or, perhaps the Mahābhārata was simply the perfect field in which
to sow the seeds for a new kind of fruition. Whatever the case may be, one
significant element that comes across as not just the connective, but also a
catalyst of social change is the Nara–Nārāyaṇa connection. This
interrelation establishes both Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna as the chosen ones to lead
the change, and it is key to understanding why the changes became so
pervasive and popular. This partnership soldered mortal and divine—Kṛṣṇa
as the divine and Arjuna as a representative mortal. ‘Kṛṣṇa does not fight
but leads the warriors, supplies the motive, the urge and the impelling force
… This image of Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna was so effective aesthetically, and so
satisfying philosophically that the hazy concept of the god–man pair was
transmuted into a concrete archetype in Nara–Nārāyaṇa which explains the
power of the Kṛṣṇa–Arjuna image’ (Bhattacharji 2000: 294).
The impact of all these collaborations—between Aryan and non-Aryan
ideologies and between warrior heroes and the Kṛṣṇa concept—was
immense, like a force of nature that forever changed the relationship
between mortal and divine. However, while it gave people a vision of
themselves as divine, it also created a maelstrom that took everything into
its tumultuous fold—the foundation of order, societal codes, and normative
values.
This book takes into account all the above mentioned factors of the
Mahābhārata that contributed to creating problems of evil in Hindu society.
It reinterprets and examines mythological tales to show how certain groups,
such as the asuras and the nāgas were persecuted as ‘the other’. It provides
an ethical framework of the epic and investigates how the ambiguous
traditions of dharma were manipulated to sanction with impunity actions
and behaviours of inequity, prejudice, and violence. It analyses the concepts
of dharmakṣetra and adharmakṣetra through the myths of the main
characters who define the kṣetra and fudge the lines between good and evil.
And, finally, it examines the practicability of dharmayuddha to show how it
became a credo of dangerous paradigms.

1 The most common scholarly perspective of Vyāsa is that he is mythical, because his existence is
difficult to prove. Scholars also believe that the Mahābhārata is a product of multiple authors and
editors; hence its author, Vyāsa, is symbolic because that name means ‘division’ or ‘divider’
(Sullivan 1999: 1).
2 The earliest iconography of Gaṇeśa dates to the Gupta period (4th–5th century CE). His yakśa
and nāga characteristics suggest that he may have been of pre-Aryan origin, but it was his
transformation as Gaṇapati that awarded him a place in the Purāṇic pantheon (Bhattacharji 2000:
183). One of Gaṇeśa’s main appellatives is Vighneśvara, meaning remover of obstacles; hence he is
also invoked as the god of good beginnings. The Critical Edition does not recognize the scribe
Gaṇeśa as part of the original Mahābhārata; the story of how he became a scribe is only mentioned as
a footnote.
 3 Ethics and morality are distinguished based on three factors: (1) the roots of the two words:
‘ethics’ whose Greek root translates into ‘ethos’ and means the accepted general customs, beliefs,
and practices of a whole culture or society; and ‘morals’, whose Latin root translates into ‘mores’ and
means behaviours that embody an unquestioned system of practices (Oxford English Dictionary). (2)
the general understanding that arises from the etymology of the words, and which suggests a subtle
difference between them is that ethics is the philosophy and ideology behind a code of conduct for a
whole society, and morality is how individuals in the society adopt this code of conduct in their
actions and behaviours. Hence, while ethics is what ought to be done; morality is what is done. And
since Hindu values are attribute-based and experiential, the praxes of ‘what is done’ is distinct from
the theoria of ‘what ought to be done’. (3) The Mahābhārata, while suggesting in its didactic chapters
that a unification of ethics and morality would be ideal, portrays through its characters that moral
practices can be different from ethical obligations.
4 Vinaya texts are canonical Buddhist texts that lay out the framework and monastic rules for the
sangha or community of monks. They are based on the Vinaya Pitaka (‘basket of disciplines’)
scripture. Mūlasarvāstivāda was one of the early schools of Buddhism in India, and the
Mūlasarvāstivāda Vinaya is dated to about 2nd-1st century BCE. It is used in the Tibetan tradition.
5 In the Vedic age, the Kuru region extended up to the Sutlej in the northwest and beyond the
Ganga in the east. In later times, Kurukṣetra gradually shrank and came to ‘denote first the Sarasvatī-
Dṛṣadvatī doab and more recently only the Thanesar tīrtha complex’ (Bharadwaj (1991: 11).
6 This legend is found in almost all local publications that are available at any tourist site in
Kurukshetra.
7 For example, words related to birds, fowl, plants, cows, and horses are similar.
8 Second century linguistic Indo-Iranian records show similarities to the Indo-Aryan language,
which has been established as the source of Avestan and Vedic Sanskrit. Many of the significant
words of ritual and worship are similar. For example, hoama (soma); daeva (deva—a word used in
Avestan for ‘evil spirit’); ahura (god, which is possibly the asura of the Vedas). Scholars also point
out that the word, ‘Iran’ is directly derived from ‘the country of Aryas’—airyanam or āryānām
(Mehendale 2005: 46–61).
9 Most cited is the 1360 BCE treaty of the Hittite king with the Mitanni king, in which there is
mention of gods who sound very much like the Vedic gods Indra, Mitra, Varuana, and Nastasya.
10 M. A. Mehendale explains how Patañjali refers to Pāṇini’s definition of this territory in his
Vyākaraṇa Mahābhāṣya in answer to the question: kaḥ punar āryāvaṛtaḥ (What is Āryāvarta?) He
names the territory of Ādarśa, which has been identified as Kurukṣetra, in the west. Kālakavana
(identified as Allahabad) is in the east, Himavat in the north, and Pāriyātra (Vindhya) in the south.
1
Nāgas and Asuras
The Origin of Evil

The two key agents that can be considered pivotal to the concept of evil in
the Mahābhārata are the nāgas and the asuras—the former, mostly
recipients of evil meted out by the Aryans, and the latter, ostensible
perpetrators of evil against the Aryans. Both of these are the subjects of
various myths and myth cycles in the epic, which have been misinterpreted
to create faulty traditions of good and evil.
The evil meted out to the nāgas is often underplayed, not just in the epic
itself but also in scholarly studies on the epic. Perhaps this is because the
majority of the nāga myths are only in the Ādi Parva and comprise the
‘false’ beginning of the epic, which is seemingly unrelated or, at best,
peripheral to the main frame story of the war.
These myths appear to simply be a collection of folkloric side stories
about serpents that loosely link to create a minor climactic event that results
in King Janamejaya organizing a yajña to sacrifice all serpents. Most of
these myths, that is, stories of Upamanyu, Utanka, Ruru, Dundhuba, Kadrū,
and Vinatā, are tales in which nāgas are either condemned or cursed for
alleged infractions. Finally, a critical curse kills Rājā Parikṣit. This curse is
uttered by the brāhmin boy, Śṛngin, who curses the king to be bitten by the
serpent king, Takṣaka.
Consequently, Parikṣit’s son, Janamejaya, vows to avenge his father’s
death by exterminating all serpents in a sarpasattra. Innumerable serpents
are sacrificed in the fire, but the yajña is eventually halted by Āstīka—the
son of a brāhmin father and a serpent mother—to save the serpent race.
Takṣaka, the chief alleged culprit, escapes, along with all the remaining
serpents, and so ends this ‘false’ beginning of the epic with a simple
declaration by Sauti that he has narrated this story to dispel the fear of
serpents (Mbh 1.58.28). And that is that.
Immediately after this, Śaunaka requests Sauti to narrate the actual
Bhārata, the story of the war, which has already been introduced as
synopsis in the Anukramaṇikā Parva, prior to the serpent stories.
This structure of the epic—the inclusion of a second beginning that
seems unrelated to the main story—is a curiosity. But the question is: are
these nāga stories narrated only to alleviate the fear of serpents of the great
sages attending Kulapati Śaunaka’s twelve-year sacrifice in Naimiṣāraṇya?
Or does this introduction mean something more?
Some Greek writers, such as Onesikratos, describe the Gangetic Plain as
a land of serpents; hence, it is possible that these reptiles were a real danger
to the Aryans (Vogel 1995: 1)1. Therefore, Sauti’s effort to create a
conducive atmosphere before settling down to relate the long account of the
war is quite plausible. Or perhaps Sauti simply narrates the snake lore to fill
in the breaks between ritual activities, as was the norm for lengthy sattras.
However, the occasion of the sarpasattra and the manner of its execution
negate these simple assumptions. This sarpasattra was conducted when
Vaiśaṃpāyana told the story of the Great War. Also, this sattra did not
follow the normal practices of yajñas of similar nature. Śrauta sarpasattra,
as explained by Baudhāyana in Sāṃkhyāna Śrautasūtra, ‘wins worlds, sons,
and cattle, and whoever performs it is not harmed by serpents’ (quoted in
Minkowski 1989: 414); but Janamejaya does not perform his sattra for any
of these reasons. His desire is to exterminate the serpents and bring about
an apocalypse.
Considering these antecedents to the sarpasattra, its inclusion in the
Mahābhārata’s introduction seems to have significance beyond a mere
‘filler’ story. Moreover, the mythical elements, metaphors, and analogies of
the snake sacrifice, and the individual serpent myths that lead up to the
sacrifice, are too vivid to have been mere preventative practices to dispel
the fear of serpents. In fact, these metaphors are so deeply reflected in the
myths of the rest of the epic that this event can be seen as a prototype of the
whole Mahābhārata. What occurs in the rest of the epic mimics the
elements of the sarpasattra, not only in terms of how the characters behave,
but also in the way that the two frame stories are structured and organized.
Minkowski (1989: 417) suggests that there is an interrelationship between
the Mahābhārata’s frame story and the sattra, which has a ‘Vedic heritage’.
He says, ‘It has been shown that the Mahābhārata’s frame story makes use
of a technique of sustained embedding. Vedic rituals, and especially sattras,
are composed following an analogous technique. That is, the recursive
system of organization is to the yajña what embedding is to the
Mahābhārata’ (Minkowski 1989: 417).
Additionally, the framework of a yajña gives the snake sacrifice a
ritualistic and pervasive significance; so much so that the epic’s own
‘dominating theme [of] vengeful, apocalyptic practices’ (Minkowski 2007:
391) is based on the genocidal strategies described in Janamejaya’s yajña.
Furthermore, the snake narrative, as a whole, is like a metanarrative for the
epic, because it capsules the story of the Mahābhārata. This ‘fake’
beginning is so significant, in fact, that D. D. Kosambi (1965: 93) says, ‘It
is much more important than has been realized…The Mahābhārata as it
now stands is not primarily the account of the great war but of the great
yajña [the snake sacrifice]’.
The sarpasattra yajña and the treatment of the nāgas by the Aryans is
indicative of evil practices in Aryan society. This is apparent in the
framework of the nāga sacrifice and also in the individual myths within this
framework. The basis and consequence of nāga persecution can be traced to
the Ṛg Veda, in which there are many references to Aryan usurpation of the
wealth of the nāgas. Then, the transformation of the nāgas in the Smṛti
literatures, especially as it is delineated in the Mahābhārata, makes them
more of a metaphor for the concept of ‘the other’. Hence, the persecution
against them is more symbolic; but, together, these factors have contributed
to myth-based traditions of discrimination and subjugation.
Unlike the nāgas, who are victims, the asuras in the Mahābhārata are
portrayed as perpetrators of evil because they are assumed to embody the
quality of evil. However, it is important to note that the appellative ‘asura’
is not used in the Mahābhārata for everyone who displays this quality. The
main perpetrators of evil in the Mahābhārata are postulated to be the
Kauravas, specifically Duryodhana, and the main cause for his culpability is
attributed not so much to his qualities of asura-ness but to his essential
nature of being an asura; hence, his equivalency to evil is established as a
priori. Duryodhana’s actions are considered those of an asura because he is
born an asura (although in a non-asura family), and everything he does to
oppose the Pāṇḍavas is deemed as evil, hence establishing the Pāṇḍavas as
the diametrically opposing, a priori good. Asura, then, is the negative pole
of the polarity of good and evil, and, for this reason, for Hindus, ‘demons
are dangerous by definition regardless of intention’ (O’Flaherty 1988: 98).
However, these absolute claims of good and evil (asura = evil and deva =
good) cannot be presumptive, because, in Hindu mythology, evil itself is
indeterminate; it is neither an absolute value nor is it an unethical one.
Therefore, the term, as an epithet or as an adjectival, is a misnomer,
because, in actuality, the asura is not even part of the ethical framework of
the Mahābhārata, let alone a perpetrator of evil. If, on the other hand,
‘asura’ is to be seen as a stand-alone term, denoting debased or unethical
behaviour, then every character in the Mahābhārata (including the divine
Kṛṣṇa) is an asura at some point or another.
In actuality, the word ‘asura’ cannot be considered as a part of the good
and evil paradigm; the misconception creates many ambiguities in moral
and ethical codes. Hence, applying this term to people (such as
Duryodhana) to describe their ‘evil’ actions warps the moral–immoral
equation of not just those characters but also, by comparison, of the good
characters. The very etymology and definitions of the word explain how it
suffered degradation from the earliest Ṛg Vedic times to the Mahābhārata.
Although the word is as old as (if not older than) the Ṛg Veda, its meaning
underwent many changes. Each change, while adding a new perspective,
retained an association—through myth and allusion—to the preceding
meanings, many of which were non-ethical. Hence, it cannot be considered
simply in its stand-alone definition, as indicated in the Mahābhārata.
Furthermore, the concept of asura in various asura myths in the
Mahābhārata can be interpreted to show that the asuras were a part of Aryan
society and not representative of an a priori. However, because of the
debasement of the word ‘asura’, they ‘fell’ from grace. This fall created a
mythos of evil for which they were held responsible, and, consequently,
victimized.
 To understand this metaphor of persecution that both the nāgas and the
asuras create, it must be determined who or what were the nāgas and the
asuras—were they real people or simply an Aryan concept of symbolic
evil? However, even if they were a mythical construct, the very idea that
their victimization becomes archetypal speaks of a culture in which evil
became systemic.

THE NĀGAS
Who are the Nāgas?
The question of whether the nāgas were a real people or only a symbolic
idea of the Aryan concept of evil must be dealt with before any causative
problems of evil or flaws in the epic tradition can be defined. Records from
early Kashmir indicate that there were tribal people—Nāgas—who were
aboriginal inhabitants in that region; it is quite possible that some of the
first encounters of the second wave of Aryans (who were moving westward
from the Indus Valley) with the indigenous people may have occurred in
Kashmir. Citing the Nīlmata Purāṇa, R.L. Raina (1993: 24) suggests that
the ‘Aryans penetrated into Kashmir from the southern routes, while the
valley was already inhabited by the Nagas and the Pishachas, who did not
see eye to eye with each other’. Raina gives evidence, dating back to 2400
BCE, of indigenous settlements in Kashmir in Burzahom, 16 kilometres east
of Srinagar. He explains that Aryan advance into the valley did not go
unprotested in the beginning, but, as time passed, the Aryans assimilated
the local traditions. He also gives an example of ‘Chandradeva, the first
enterprising Aryan settler, who had to accept all the conditions laid down by
the Naga chief Nila’ (Raina 1993: 24). D.R. Bali also cites from Nīlmata
Purāṇa to explain that the people in Jammu and Kashmir had a Nāga
connection. He gives the example of a Nāga chief exiled from Kashmir to
Jammu, who was allotted rulership of Mount Usiraka in Jammu by
Kashmir’s Nāga king, Vibhunga. As evidence, Bali (1993: 29) mentions
that, in the Śiva temple of Sudh Mahadeva in Jammu, a broken triśūl has
been found with the name ‘Vibhunga’ inscribed on it in Sanskrit. It is
believed that this triśūl is from 1000 BCE (Sudh Mahādeva),2 which was
around the time when the Aryans were settling in the area.
 J. Vogel (1995: 215) also connects the Nāgas to kingship in Kashmir and
suggests an association between their historiography and mythology. He
cites an example of the illustrious Rājā Lalitaditya of Kashmir, who boasted
of belonging to the line of Nāgarāja Karkoṭaka, a serpent king mentioned in
the Mahābhārata as a devotee of Baladeva, who himself is considered a
reincarnation of Śeṣa Nāga. This perception, that nāgas were actually the
Nāga tribe and that they were not only indigenous to Kashmir but were also
related to demi-gods, is furthered by R.L. Raina, who points out that ‘nāga’
in Kashmiri means ‘a water-spring’, and each spring has a tutelary deity in
the form of a nāga. ‘This is a distinct feature of the Kashmiri Nagas and it
may lead us to suppose that the Nagas [were] settled around water springs
in mountainous valleys’ (1993: 23).
In fact, the popular folk legend from the Rājataraṃgiṇī about Kashmir’s
formation not only situates Nāgas in Kashmir but also credits Kashmir’s
very creation to the relationship between nāgas, ṛṣis, and gods. According
to this legend, the Nāgas lived in Lake Satisar. When a demon called
Jaladeo (perhaps an Aryan enemy), began to harass them, their father, Ṛṣi
Kaśyapa, did penance and acquired Viṣṇu’s help to dewater the lake and
destroy the demon. The Nāgas called this land Kaśyapa-mir (which
corrupted into Kashmir). Thus, all this evidence, whether it is folkloric or
archaeological, suggests that Nāgas were not only real people, but also
indigenous inhabitants, and may have been natives of Kashmir.
Aside from determining the humanness of the nāgas, this evidence also
strongly suggests the reason why the Vedic Aryans could have borne
animosity towards the Nāga people, and it indicates the crimes they could
have committed against them. It can be surmised that the Aryans, migrating
to areas that were already inhabited, desired to acquire the resources of the
land but the indigenous people opposed the incursion. Therefore, the
Aryans seized what they desired by whatever means possible.
Scholarly evidence not only suggests that the Aryans were emigrants,
but also validates the culpability of the Aryans as that of a foreign
community usurping the wealth of the original inhabitants. No matter the
perspective—migrationist or indigenous Aryanist—the inflictions that the
Nāga people suffered at the hands of the Vedic Aryans is quite evident;
thus, it can be said that the basis of injuring nāgas was established long
before the Mahābhārata’s snake sacrifice, in which King Janamejaya tried
to exterminate them. In fact, as Christopher Minkowski (2007: 386) says,
the story of the snake sacrifice has ‘more Vedic precedent than the Bhārata
story itself’.
This early Aryan–Nāga enmity over the earth’s resources of land and
water is not difficult to believe, especially in the context of the migrationist
view, because the Aryans, as new arrivals to the land, needed these
resources for their survival. The enmity turned to violence that the Aryans
perpetrated against the Nāgas, because the Nāgas proved to be a daunting
enemy, and this practice of persecution became the bedrock for later
interpolations and myth-making. Sukumari Bhattacharji (2000: 256)
explains:
Enemy chiefs … can withhold the water supply to an invading enemy and thus virtually create the
conditions of a siege (for the invader) …. In later mythology cosmic interpretations were given to
what was perhaps originally a military situation. This became [Indra’s] cosmic function, when his
military prowess had ceased to retain the former glory because the invaders were already settled in
the land. Once they had become a peacefully settled agricultural people, the memory of early warfare
became transmuted to suit the needs of the day’.

Bhattacharji (2000: 253) equates asuras and nāgas in the context of Vedic
Indra’s battles. However, this synonymy discounts the evidence which
indicates that, unlike the Nāgas, the asuras were either one of the five Aryan
tribes or, at least, within the Aryan fold. It is also important to note that, in
epic times, the terms nāga and asura were not at all equivalent. In fact, in
epic literatures, nāgas gain ascendency, while the asuras suffer degradation.
Perhaps the reason Bhattacharji and other scholars see an equivalency of
nāga and asura is because of the Vedic asura chief, Varuṇa, and his
association with water, rivers, and māyā—aspects that were also related to
the serpents. After Varuṇa’s degradation from being the divine asura and
keeper of ṛta in the Ṛg Veda to simply lord of waters, he lives with his
consort, Varuṇī, beneath the waters, where he is surrounded by serpents of
all variety—the most notorious and the most pious, such as Takṣaka,
Airāvata, Padma, and Vāsuki—who pay homage to Varuṇa in his
underwater palace (Mbh 2.9.1–14).
It is also possible that the animosities the Aryans bore the asuras and
Nāgas came to be seen as equivalent, because both were a threat to the
Aryans. Hence, in Vedic literatures, they were both seen as practitioners of
an-ṛta which, in Vedic Aryan vocabulary, was an evil against them. As
Briffault (quoted in Patil 1974: 33) explains, ‘power in egalitarian primitive
society is intrinsically an evil thing; it is synonymous with power to harm’.
Using Briffault’s perspective, it can be said that the Vedic Aryans saw
the Nāgas as ‘evil’, because they seemed to have power equal to Aryan
divines. Case in point is Vṛtra, possibly a Nāga, who matched Indra in
strength and surpassed him in wealth. Jaan Puhvel (1989: 50) calls Vṛtra a
‘monstrous adversary‘, and his explanation of the word ‘Vṛtra’ lends
meaning to the adversarial relationship between Aryans and Nāgas.
Puhvel (1989: 50) states that ‘Vṛtra’s name is an original abstract noun…
from the same root [“vr” meaning “to confine” or “to restrict”] that yields
Varuṇa, thus literally “Confinement”, and then actively “Confiner,
Obstructer”. Monier-Williams (2005: 922) also defines ‘vṛtri’ as one who
‘keeps back or wards off’ or an ‘expeller’. Puhvel (1989: 50–1) goes on to
explain that ‘confinement’ can be for good or evil, just as māyā, which both
Varuṇa and Vṛtra use. Since Varuṇa uses it to maintain ṛta, his māyā and
‘confinement’ can be considered for good, whereas Vṛtra’s māyā and
confinement is to bring evil. Puhvel’s explanation of the etymology of Vṛtra
and Varuṇa can be used to arrive at a new understanding of Vṛtra. It is
possible that Vṛtra was not the name of a single Aryan enemy but a generic
name to refer to the quality of someone who ‘confines’ a desired object, is
powerful, and hence a threat. For example, in the famous Indra vs. Vṛtra Ṛg
Vedic myth, although Vṛtra is not specifically defined as a nāga, his
‘shoulder-less’ (RV 1.32.5, O’Flaherty 1981: 150) and ‘encircling’ (RV
4.18.6, O’Flaherty 1982: 142) characteristics could simply have been a
metaphor to describe him as similar to a serpent who coils around
something he wishes to protect or confine.
The idea that Vṛtra was a name used for someone powerful, perhaps a
chief of a Nāga tribe, is further evidenced in other Vedic hymns, in which
nāgas oppose the Aryans in the way Vṛtra does. For instance, in the Ṛg
Veda, many of Indra’s battles to release the waters are against Ahi—a term
that has cognate Greek forms ‘Ophis’ and ‘Echis’, meaning serpent
(Bhattacharji 2000: 255). As an example, in the following hymn, Indra
slays Ahi to cleave the waters from the mountain.3
I will declare the manly deeds of Indra, the first that he achieved, the Thunder-wielder. He slew the
Dragon [Ahi], then disclosed the waters, and cleft the channels of the mountain torrents.4 (RV 1.32.1)

And in this hymn, Indra once again slays Ahi to free the seven rivers.
Who slew the Dragon [Ahi], freed the Seven Rivers, and drove the kine forth from the cave of Vala,
Begat the fire between two stones, the spoiler in warrior’s battle, he, O men, is Indra. (RV 2.12.3)

In these hymns, Ahi could have been a term used to refer to the nāgas,
whose chief was the ‘confiner’ or Vṛtra, who opposed the Aryans’
acquisition of water and was a ‘roadblock on the path of Aryan progress’
(Puhvel 1989: 50). His elimination was necessary for Aryan prosperity. In
addition, Puhvel (1989: 50) states that the good and evil of ‘confinement’,
too, depends on who is jailed and who is the jailor; hence suggesting that
while Indra may have been fighting Vṛtra for Aryan interest, Vṛtra, who
became the Aryan victim, may have been represented as the evil criminal
because he opposed Aryan interest by holding back the water, and his
power threatened to bring harm to them.
The case that the Nāgas were seen as evil by the Aryans, because they
were powerful and not easy to subjugate, can be strengthened by examining
the metaphor that snakes may have created in the Aryan mind. The Aryans
may have known snakes in their own land of origin. J. Vogel (1995: 6)
points out that the word ‘nāga’ is Indo-Germanic in origin, which, from a
migrationist perspective, suggests that the Aryans already had a vocabulary
for snakes. In addition, the Aryans may have also encountered venomous
snakes in India; therefore, when they met powerful human adversaries who
they felt reflected the attributes of the reptiles that were baneful to their
existence, they saw an equation. This then may have contributed to the
Aryans creating myths, not only about enemy Nāgas but also about their
own gods, who they invested with powerful qualities similar to or superior
to the nāgas so that they could combat the foe. For example, in some Ṛg
Vedic hymns, Vedic Agni is given snake-like qualities. ‘He [Agni] in mid-
air’s expanse hath golden tresses; a raging serpent, like the rushing tempest’
(RV 1.79.1).
Coomaraswamy (1935: 278) points out that this fire is ‘more correctly,
Agni ab intra as Ahi Budhnya, Śuṣṇa, the “flesh-eating, man-hurting”
(kravyāt …puruṣa-reṣaṇah) Agni of Atharva Veda 3.21.8–9, against whom
we have the prayer mo aham ṛṣam “may I not be hurt” in RV 10.18.13.’
Perhaps the bite that the venomous serpents delivered, which, in some
instances, was capable of delivering instantaneous death, was seen by the
Aryans as lethal as Agni’s flesh-eating. For the Aryans, Agni’s heat was a
result of his tējas, and they may have felt that the serpents possessed the
same tējas (Vogel 1995: 15).
The Nāgas also may have been seen to possess qualities that were
beyond Aryan comprehension—qualities that bordered on divine mysteries.
For example, Sukumari Bhattacharji (2000: 149) suggests that the Nāgas
probably lived ‘on the other side of the forest,’ or it can be surmised, from
Ṛg Vedic hymns, that they lived beyond water bodies. In other words, the
Nāgas lived in places that were hard for the Aryans to traverse. These were
probably dense forests and deep water bodies that the Aryans were afraid to
cross, but the Nāgas, who were more familiar with the lay of the land, were
able to not only cross but also disappear into these areas after executing
surprise attacks. This ability to disappear is what the Aryans equated with
the serpents that vanished into the earth after delivering a death bite and
becoming ‘invisible’, and this was, perhaps, the most mystifying, because it
suggested a quality of māyā or illusion. In the Aryan mind, this was a
divine attribute, albeit of a dark nature; therefore, in their myths, both
Varuṇa and Indra were made to possess māyā—an attribute, which,
significantly in earlier hymns, meant wisdom, extraordinary or supernatural
power, and later came to mean illusion, unreality, deception, fraud, trickery,
sorcery, witchcraft, and magic (Bhattacharji 2000: 35).
Another cause of envy bordering on awe may have been the Aryan belief
that the Nāgas had the secret to immortality, because the serpents, who the
Nāgas resembled, were able to cast off their skin and live in a new body,
thus giving the impression of immortality. And the Aryans wanted to
possess this secret. In fact, a hymn in the Ṛg Veda compares a serpent
gliding out of his skin to a stream of soma, the elixir which was seen as a
means to attain immortality:
Sing forth to Pavamana skilled in holy song: the juice is flowing onward like a mighty stream. He
glideth like a serpent from his ancient skin… (RV 9.86.44)
Vogel (1995: 14) gives another example from the Tāṇḍya-mahābrāhmaṇa
of how the serpents’ ability to discard their skin made them equal to the
deathless Ādityas:
By this sacrifice, verily, the serpents have conquered death; death is conquered by those who will
perform this sacrifice. Therefore, they cast off their old skin; and having cast the same, they creep out
of it. The serpents are Ādityas; like unto the splendor of the Ādityas is the splendor of those who
perform this sacrifice.

These qualities that rendered the snakes immortal, full of tējas, and māyāvi
are what made the Nāgas not only more powerful than the Vedic Aryans but
also more wealthy, because they possessed treasures that were beyond
material assets. All this power and wealth is what the Aryans desired to
‘steal’ from the Nāgas so that they could empower themselves and their
divines.
Conversely, these were also qualities that, perhaps, came to be seen as
evil, because they made the Aryans feel threatened, and, consequently,
inferior. Therefore, to overcome this sense of inferiority, they not only
attacked the Nāgas and stole from them, but they also hailed their own
actions as victories. And to expiate the wrongfulness of their actions, they
attributed them to divine help. For example, in the following hymn from the
Rg Veda, Indra is praised for helping his worshippers kill their enemies and
win riches:
For success in this battle where there are prizes to be won, we will invoke the generous Indra, most
manly and brawny, who listens and gives help in combat, who kills enemies and wins riches. (RV
3.31.22, O’Flaherty 1981:154)

And, in this following myth, Indra helps the worshippers overcome

weakness so that they can subdue the enemy:
We call on thee, King. Mighty amid the Gods, Ruler of men, to succor us All that is weak in us,
Excellent God, make firm, make our foes easy to subdue. (RV 6.46.6)

Aryan envy of the Nāgas may actually have destroyed the Nāgas and their
way of life and, in a broader sense, may also have brought about the end of
the Indus Valley Civilization. D.D. Kosambi (quoted in Thapar 1995: 101)
states, ‘The decline of the Indus civilization is attributed to the Aryans who
destroyed the agricultural system by breaking the embankments’ (which
were perhaps, created by the Nāgas), which action, he maintains, ‘is
symbolically referred to in the Ṛgvedic descriptions of Indra destroying
Vṛtra, and releasing the waters’.
Scholars like Promatha Nath Mullick and M.N Dutt (1934: 35) suggest
that the Nāgas may have been deities of the indigenous people, and the Ṛg
Vedic killing of Vṛtra by Indra could have been a symbolic killing between
divines. This usurping is even more destructive than the material theft of
land, water, and wealth, because it strikes at the very edifice of cosmic
order—a society’s connection with the mythic divine. Thus, Aryan actions
destroyed not just the land and its resources, but also, perhaps, a belief
system about which we may never learn.
There is much speculation about the pre-Aryan, indigenous theology of
the Indus Valley people and whether the solarity of the Aryan male divines
may have supplanted the lunar Earth/Mother goddess and possibly also a
male nature god.5 The extant literature from those early times is only
Aryan, since the Indus Valley seals are yet to be deciphered, and it
eulogizes mostly solar male gods. This indicates not only a one-dimensional
gender-biased pantheon, but also that the Aryans negated the gods of the
indigenous people (so as to install their own cosmology and the supremacy
of their own divines).
In the Mahābhārata, too, there is no real evidence of Nāga deities or the
Nāga cosmos, or even the Aryans’ persecution of the Nāgas, except in the
snake sacrifice. It is also not clear whether there were actually humans
belonging to the Nāga race in epic times, because in the myths of the
Mahābhārata, the nāgas appear both as humans and as serpents, and since
myth-making is most often symbolic and metaphoric, it is hard to determine
whether the stories in the myths are about Nāgas who were human, about
humans who were serpent-like in appearance and/or attributes, or about
serpents who were human-like. A good example of this ambiguity is the
story of Śeṣa Nāga in Ādi Parva (Mbh 1.36.1–24): Śeṣa Nāga, unlike the
other sons of Kadrū, who are of ‘wicked hearts’, is a virtuous and pious
ascetic, practising great penances. When Brahmā sees him ‘with knotted
hair, clad in rags, his flesh, his skin and sinews dried up [looking like a
snake]’, he asks him what he is doing and why. Śeṣa tells him that he wants
to discard his body so that he is not associated with his younger brothers.
Brahmā then gives him a boon that he will hold the earth steady ‘for the
good of all creatures’, and he directs Śeṣa to go underneath the earth
through a passage that Earth herself will forge for him. Śeṣa enters a hole in
the earth and, going to the other side, takes on the duty of keeping the earth
steady. Clearly, in this myth, Śeṣa’s appearance, after he spends years in
penance, becomes like a serpent’s, and the fact that he is able to burrow into
the earth is a serpent’s characteristic. This myth suggests that Śeṣa is a
human being with serpent-like qualities, which in turn suggests that there
may have been a Nāga race—or, at least, a brethren community of Nāgas—
a people that may have had physical attributes that resembled serpents. But,
on the other hand, the fact that Śeṣa is born to Kadrū, the mother of
serpents, creates ambiguity about his humanness.
Another example of this cryptic nature of nāga reference in the
Mahābhārata is provided by Śiva and his association with nāgas, but this
becomes integral to the portrayal of his divinity. For example, Śiva’s
Paśupata weapon is a serpent. When Arjuna, in his dream, visits Śiva to ask
him for this weapon so that he can destroy Abhimanyu’s killer, he and
Kṛṣṇa see a ‘terrible serpent’ and another ‘foremost of serpents possessing a
thousand hoods…vomiting terrible flames’ (Mbh 7.81.13).
When Arjuna and Kṛṣṇa praise Śiva, the two serpents assume the form
of a bow and arrow (Mbh 7.81. 82). In addition to using serpents as
weapons, Śiva is Nīlakaṇṭha because he swallows the deadly poison
Halāhala during the churning of the ocean (Mbh 1.18. 41–2), and since
poison is the tējas of serpents, by swallowing it, Śiva takes this tējas within
him and becomes one with them. Thus, in these myths, although the human
element of nāgas is missing, it can be inferred that the serpents were either
themselves deities of a community whose divinity Śiva assumes or that Śiva
himself was a divine for a people who were nāga-like; that is why Śiva
embodies their most powerful and transcendent qualities.
This equation that Śiva has with the nāgas could be one reason why he
was considered ‘other’ and, thus, outside the fold of the epic pantheon until
much later, as suggested in the Śiva-Sati myth of Dakṣa’s sacrifice.
This concept of ‘the other’ is also the nature of nāgas in Vedic myths,
and this otherness became the metaphor of evil in the Aryan mind, which
ultimately became nāga legacy in the epic and is portrayed in the serpent
myth cycle and the snake sacrifice. This legacy, along with their assets,
were the reasons for their near annihilation in a sacrificial ritual, through
which the sacrificers hoped to acquire the wealth and destroy ‘the other’.
How possession through extermination can be accomplished with a ritual
sacrifice is explained by Mircea Eliade. He says that a sacrifice is a ‘taking
over’ or an establishing of a new ‘fixed point’ or a sacred space:
‘possession of a territory…becomes legally valid through the erection of a
fire altar consecrated to Agni…; the space of the altar becomes a sacred
space’ (Eliade 1959: 32). He further explains that ‘the erection of an altar to
Agni is nothing but the reproduction—on the microcosmic scale—of the
Creation (Śatapatha Brāhmaṇa 1.9,2,29, etc.). Hence the erection of the fire
altar—which alone validates taking possession of a new territory—is
equivalent to a cosmogony’ (Eliade 1959: 33). This ‘taking possession’ of
the nāga world is not only the key motif in the entire nāga myth cycle in the
Mahābhārata, it also signifies a real-world societal paradigm.

INTERPRETING EVIL IN NĀGA MYTHS

Utanka and the Usurping of the Nāga World
There are a number of myths within the framework of the snake sacrifice in
the Mahābhārata that depict Aryan persecution of the nāgas, but the myth
which makes this Aryan usurpation of the nāga sacred space and cosmos
most evident is the myth of Utanka (Mbh 1.3.1-187). This is an elaborate
myth with many layers, each one yielding immense meaning and lending
credence to the argument that the nāgas’ world was wrested by the Aryans.
This myth is also rich with symbolism that suggests many problems of evil,
but its main focus is how the nāgas are the ‘other’ and their world was one
that the Aryans hoped to control and subjugate, or, as Mircea Eliade (1959:
32) says, to ‘cosmocize’ in their own traditions. Eliade also states that this
‘taking possession’ is given a divine quality to justify it, because ‘the
cosmocization of unknown territory is always a consecration; to organize a
space is to repeat the paradigmatic work of the gods’.
In the Utanka myth, a key symbol of this cosmocization is the stick that
Utanka uses to dig a hole in the ground where Takṣaka has disappeared with
the gold earrings Utanka had obtained from King Pauṣya’s queen to give to
his guru’s wife as his guru dakṣiṇā. This stick represents a sacred pole.
Explaining the meaning of this stick/pole, Eliade (1959: 33) says that one
way to cosmocize the territory is to plant a sacred pole to establish the fixed
point, and it is around this point that the territory can be anointed. The
prevalence of cosmocizing a territory with a pole is so significant in
creating a new sovereign order that even the Kuru dynasty in the
Mahābhārata is established through it: Indra gives Vasu, king of Cedi, a
bamboo pole to erect, so as to ‘protect the honest and peaceful’, and Vasu
plants it and worships Indra (Mbh 1.63.15). This is the fixing of a new
cosmic order, and this order is the orientation for the Kurus: Vasu’s semen,
spilled from his desire for his wife, Girikā, is swallowed by an apsarā in the
form of a fish who then gives birth to twins—a boy, Matsya, and a girl,
Matsyagandhā, who later becomes Satyavatī—and Satyavatī becomes the
matriarch of the Kuru family (Mbh 1.63.37–78). Thus, the Kuru cosmic
universe is created by connection with Indra, and then the order is sustained
by the passage that is created from the planting of Indra’s pole, which
creates a bridge between the worlds.
Therefore, this pole not only sustains the cosmic order, but it is also
instrumental in building a bridge to the ‘other side’, which can be either the
much-desired world of one’s own divine above or the underworld of the
abhorred ‘other’ below. Eliade (1959: 33) also explains that the sacred pole
must be kept intact in order to channelize the communication between the
worlds; the pole’s destruction would lead to catastrophe and chaos.
In the Utanka myth in the Mahābhārata, the stick that Utanka is using
breaks; this heralds a loss of Aryan sacred space and order, but Indra
immediately replaces Utanka’s broken stick with his thunderbolt—a sacred
pole of energy. Hence, Indra not only prevents the ‘chaos’ (in the Aryan
construct) which could have resulted from Utanka’s broken stick, but he
also creates a divine bridge to the other side. Descending through this
bridge, Utanka becomes instrumental in Aryanizing the other side. Thus,
this myth is about the invasion of the ‘other’s’ sacred space by the Aryans
and the establishment of their own symbolic cosmogony. The point where
Takṣaka has disappeared into the ground after stealing the earrings is the
‘fixed point’ or ṛta of the Nāgas, and Utanka digging the stick at this very
sacred fixed point is the usurpation of the others’ cosmic order by creating
an Aryan world.
 When Utanka’s stick breaks and Indra intervenes with his thunderbolt, it
becomes the perfect symbol of Aryan hierophany, and through its piercing,
the other side is consecrated. Hence, what Utanka finds on the other side are
parallels in time and space to the Aryan world above: Dhāta and Vidhāta,
who are weaving a cloth with threads of black and white to represent the
universe and the beings that inhabit it; six boys, representing seasons,
turning a wheel that has twelve spokes marked by twenty-four divisions to
mark the lunar changes; even a parallel Indra wearing a black cloth to
display the truth and untruth of the world. Indra is able to invade this world,
and his purpose is also clear: when he grants Utanka control of this world,
he consecrates it with the agni he creates from his horse’s nostrils. In fact,
the horse Indra is riding is Uccaiḥśravas, a form of Agni himself, and the
fire that Agni emits is the sacrificial fire to destroy the nāga world and
replace it with Indra’s Aryanization.
Hence, by sacrificing the nāga world in the consecrating flames of Agni,
Indra and Utanka threaten to not only replace the nāga cosmos with an
Aryan one, but also to exterminate the nāgas, unless the creatures of the
other world comply with Utanka’s demand of returning the gold earrings
that Takṣaka has stolen. Sure enough, Takṣaka returns the earrings to save
his race, if not their way of life.
What is even more significant about the Utanka myth is that it echoes
every other genocidal sacrifice in the epic: the burning of the Khāṇḍava in
which Arjuna and Kṛṣṇa slaughter every creature living in it; the demolition
of earth caused in the churning of the ocean; and, most importantly, the
carnage of the Bhārata War. Although the latter two annihilations are not
consecrated by a fire altar; both of them can be seen as sacrificial: the
churning of the ocean is made a sacrifice by the planting of Mount Mandara
as a sacred pole, and the Bhārata War is a ‘sacrifice of weapons’, complete
with the symbolism of officials like adhvaryu, udgātṛ, hotṛ, and sadasyas,
and items like the sacred ladle, ghee, mantras, and kuśa grass (Mbh
5.141.30–46).
What the Utanka myth reveals about the epic Aryans is that even as they
emerged from the atheistic, amoral Vedic system into a dharma-based,
theistic society, they carried with them tendencies that the new dharma
construct would classify as evil, such as extreme violence, as perpetrated in
the cited incident. While such actions in Vedic times were absolved by the
ṛta of ritual sacrifice; in the epic period, when sacrifice was replaced by
vidhi and individual actions became a matter of personal accountability, this
violence became an immoral act of adharma. It also thoroughly violated the
new, evolving general ethics of ahiṁsā that the epic continually touts.
Moreover, considering that in the narrative’s sequence, the snake sacrifice
occurred after the Great War, the evil of hiṁsā against the nāgas becomes
even more inexcusable because, by this time, the ideals of non-violence had
already been incorporated into Aryan societal codes. Therefore, not only
did the paradigm of the Utanka myth promote violence against the ‘other’,
it also resurrected evil practices that the system had already expunged.

Vinatā and Kadrū: Subjugation of the Feminine

Another myth that is not only archetypal but is also replete with mythical,
symbolic, and sociological evil is the frame myth in the snake sacrifice
cycle of Kadrū and Vinatā and their wager (Mbh 1.14.17, 21–35, and 37–
58). One of the key symbolic interpretations of this long myth is that of
wresting power from a feminine divine and/or an Earth Goddess to give to a
‘new’ male god, thus creating prototypes of cosmogonic annexation and
female suppression.
According to the Great Goddess theorists, (Marija Gimbutas, Johann
Jakob Bachofen, Sir James Frazer, et al.), the serpent was one of the
significant symbols of the Earth Goddess, because its natural inclinations
represented many of her attributes, such as her unending natural cycle (of
menstruation). This was considered equivalent to immortality, and was
mirrored in the snake’s shedding of skin, which in turn embodied the
cyclical and triple nature of creation—birth, death, and re-birth—as
opposed to the linearity of the life and death of male gods. Another such
element was the snake’s ability to live in three realms: burrow in the
ground, swim in the water, and live on land, which symbolized the triple
role of archetypal divine triad. Also, and most importantly, since the Earth
Goddess was constantly present with man—in the animals he hunted and
the earth he tilled—and he communicated with her at his own level of
existence—literally and figuratively—similarly, the serpents’ earth-/water-
bound existence exemplified this close relationship.
 In the male-god era, on the other hand, the intimate relationship between
humans and divine severed, because the divine was no longer in close
proximity to them; he became distant, represented as a fearsome being
living somewhere above and, of course, only the males claimed to know the
secrets of reaching him. One of these secrets was flight (since the gods were
up and above, flight represents man’s transcendence to reach divinity). In
the snake sacrifice myths, the king of birds, Garuḍa, is a symbol of this
transcendence.
As male power became dominant, the Great Goddess and her symbol,
the serpent, were declared threatening demons and they were ousted from
power and relegated to the underworld. There are many examples of
degradation of the serpent Earth Goddess in world mythologies: for
example, the Norse Jörmungandr; the Greek Ophion; and the Judaic and
Christian Serpent in the Garden of Eden.
Another degradation of the mother goddess and condemnation of her
symbols can be deduced from the archetypal symbol of the moon. The
moon was associated with soma, which, by virtue of being an elixir of
immortality, was connected to the goddess, and consequently, to the
serpents. Heinrich Zimmer (1972: 60) reasons how this inter-symbolism
came about: the heat in India was often life threatening, and the moon was a
refreshing element. Also, since the moon controlled the waters and water
sustained life, it was naturally Amṛta (a-mṛta—not dead). Thus, dew or
water was soma, and the moon was its cup. Earth goddess theorists also
suggest that the moon may have been one of the earliest symbols of the
goddess, its waxing and waning representing women’s monthly cycles.
However, after the linear traditions of the male god became the norm,
the lunar divinities were associated with darkness and relegated as
‘demonic’, while their godly attributes were usurped by the solar gods. A
good example of this is the Vedic dark goddess Nirṛti who, scholars believe,
was a pre-Aryan earth goddess associated with the moon. Shard Patil (1974:
32) suggests that not only was Nirṛti a pre-Aryan goddess, but she was also
highly auspicious in pre-Aryan society. He gives an example of the non-
brāhmanical records in the Kalpa-sūtra of Mahāvira’s passing on the most
auspicious night of the new moon called ‘Devānandā surnamed Nirṛti’.
However, when the Aryans adopted Nirṛti, they made her, her symbols, and
her rituals a dark juxtaposition to offset their own goddesses of light (who
only played a minor role in Vedic cosmogony) so that they could ensure
their own male ascendency. Hence, while Aditi was made the mother of the
Ādityas, Nirṛti was relegated to dark designs of death and calamity. One of
the main reasons for slandering the lunar earth goddess was that she
possessed soma or immortality, and she was also the goddess of fertility. (In
the Ṛg Veda she is married to Soma, who is called the king of plants [RV
10.97.18].) According to the Śatapatha Brāhmaṇa, the new moon is the
occasion of the marriage between Earth and the king of soma, who is the
moon, and since the old moon dies and a new one is born, it is said that
within death is immortality (Patil 1974: 37). Thus, the Aryans degraded the
earth goddess and wrested the soma from her to give to their own solar god.
The Great Goddess theories may be conjectural, but in the Vinatā and
Kadrū myth, all of these elements of earth mother and her persecution are
vividly apparent. Kadrū, by virtue of being the mother of serpents, can be
seen as an earth goddess, who the Taittirīya Saṃhitā refers to as ‘Sarpa-
rajnī’ (cited in Patil 1974: 52).
Monier-Williams (2005: 248) defines Kadrū as tawny brown (the colour
of the earth), and points out that according to the Brāhmaṇas, she is ‘the
earth personified’. In addition, Monier-Williams describes ‘kadrū’ as a
brown soma vessel, and says the word is related to legends about bringing
down soma from the heavens. Kadrū is even referred to as ‘Surasā’ in the
Rāmāyaṇa (Śrīmad Vālmīki-Rāmāyaṇa 1.144–51), a word that is defined by
Monier-Williams (2005: 1234) as ‘juicy,’ ‘well-flavored,’ ‘full of moisture’.
All these meanings unquestionably make Kadrū the earth goddess and
possessor of soma.
On the other hand, Vinatā is called Suparnī, mother of Suparna, another
name for Garuḍa (Mbh 1.33:7, 24), a word for which Monier-Williams
(2005: 1227) gives many meanings, all related to ‘beautiful wings’ or ‘large
birds of prey’. Vinatā is the mother of Garuḍa and Aruṇa, both of whom not
only have the ability to fly, but are associated with solarity; hence, they
represent the male god. Aruṇa is half-formed, because Vinatā breaks his
gestation egg prematurely, but he flies to the sky to be the sun’s heralder
(Mbh 1.16.18–23); Vinatā’s second son is Garuḍa, who, immediately after
birth, not only has the ability to fly (Mbh 1.16.24)—and hence knows the
secret of transcendence—but also becomes Vishnu’s vāhana. Additionally,
he is given the boon to be ‘the eater of snakes’ (Mbh 1.34.15). Aside from
representing male power, Garuḍa is so empowered that he has to reduce his
tējas so as not to burn the world in his divine agni (Mbh 1.24:2), thus
displaying the condescending arrogance of the male divine who is
benevolent to the world. Hence, Garuḍa is equated to Viṣṇu himself, who is
a solar god and the embodiment of supreme maleness, divinity, and
benevolence.
However, contrary to the male divine’s seizure of the feminine divine’s
eminence in the serpent myth in the Mahābhārata, it is Kadrū who enslaves
Vinatā through treachery for five hundred years. She coerces her serpent
sons to braid themselves in the white tail of the divine horse, Uccaiḥśravas,
so that she can win a wager against her sister. Most likely, the years of
Vinatā’s slavery signify the time it took the Aryans to replace the feminine
divines of the indigenous people with their own solar male gods (the
number of years can be considered mythical time). Moreover, the fact that
Kadrū accomplishes Vinatā’s bondage through devious means shows that
the Aryans, who, aside from having a male-dominated pantheon,
communicated with their gods through male brāhmins, considered the
dominance of the feminine divine perverse and threatening. Thus, it is not
surprising that when Garuḍa seeks to release his mother from enslavement,
the result is the elevation of male gods and catastrophe for female power: In
this myth, soma is guarded by two ferocious serpents in Indra’s heaven,
which clearly indicates that in the Aryan mind, the earth goddess knew the
secret of immortality, or the knowledge of life, death, and renewal, and she
guarded this secret fiercely. Therefore, to gain access to this soma, Garuḍa
fights the serpents, and, shredding them to pieces, steals the soma (Mbh
1.33.1–10)—clearly a violent act of destroying the pre-eminence of the
goddess to claim possession of her attributes.
To compound this violent theft, the goddess is alienated and made to
suffer grave indignities. This is described in the myth when, on his way to
earth, Garuḍa carves friendships with the male divines, Indra and Viṣṇu,
and exchanges boons with them, thus not only strengthening the power of
the male, but also creating a sort of exclusive ‘males only’ private club.
And when Garuḍa does bring the soma to the serpents (which was the deal
he had made with them to get his mother released from slavery), he places
the bowl before them and sends them off for a ritual bath to purify
themselves, but by the time they return, Indra, with whom Garuḍa has
already planned this strategic deceit, swoops down and takes away the
bowl. Hence, the serpents are reduced to merely licking the kuśa grass on
which the bowl of soma had been placed, which further diminishes them,
because their tongues become forked—a distortion for which they are
forever reviled (Mbh 1.34:24). This alienation and powerlessness of the
progeny of the feminine divine in a male-dominated system was a
deliberate subjugation, and the subsequent shredding of their dignity was
the final death-blow—a total degradation of the feminine, from which
women have been suffering ever since.
This myth also has many reflections in the main story of the
Mahābhārata, which further belittles women. It is obvious that Gāndhārī,
the mother of a hundred sons, is a representation of the earth goddess,
Kadrū, and her offspring, the Kauravas, typify the nāgas. She is the
incarnation of goddess Matī (Mbh 1.67: 136), who Monier-Williams (2005:
783) defines as ‘resolve’, ‘understanding’, ‘intelligence’, and a daughter of
Dakṣa and wife of Soma. Hence, not only is she associated with the earth
goddess, but she also has the steadfast and sagacious qualities of the earth.
And the fact that Gāndhārī blindfolds herself when she marries Dhṛtarāṣṭra,
so as not to be superior to him in any way, indicates the feminine’s
surrender of her powers to the male. On the other hand, Kuntī is an image
of Vinatā, because her sons are not only progeny of divine beings, but, like
Garuḍa, they also have divine connections. Very similar to Garuḍa’s
friendship and male bonding with Viṣṇu and Indra, Arjuna has close
relationships with Indra and Kṛṣṇa. And, just as this divinity facilitates
Garuḍa’s claim to dominance and sabotage of the serpents, so does the
Pāṇḍavas’ celestial relationship makes them sanctimonious and always
contemptuous of the Kauravas. Considering these correlations, it can then
be surmised that just as Garuḍa, with the help of divine treachery, is able to
not only re-empower his mother but also keep the serpents bereft of the
soma that was their birthright, so are the Pāṇḍavas, with the help of divine
manipulations, able to gain the kingdom and keep the Kauravas bereft of
the wealth that was theirs to begin with. In fact, in this correlation, some
specific parallels can also be drawn. For example, when Gāndhārī attempts
to make Duryodhana’s body invincible by removing her blindfold and
looking upon her son’s naked body with the tējas of her vow, Kṛṣṇa, like
Indra stealing the bowl of soma from the duped serpents, sabotages
Duryodhana by misleading him into wearing a loincloth, thus rendering his
groin area vulnerable to Bhīma’s death blow.6
There are other examples in the main frame story of the Mahābhārata
that mirror the Vinatā and Kadrū myth, and these also raise ethical
questions about the standards that were established for the sanctity of
women’s social relationships and behaviours. For example, mother and
child relationships are subverted by both mothers—Vinatā and Kadrū.
Vinatā damages the wellbeing of her first born, Aruṇa, by forcing open the
egg before its gestation period is completed; hence, Aruṇa is half formed
when he is born. And Kadrū coerces her children to commit an act of
treachery to cheat her sister by having her sons braid themselves into the
tail of the white divine horse, Uccaiḥśravas, so that the horse appears black
and she can win the wager against her sister. In the main narrative, too,
although the culpability is reversed, the actions of the mothers are just as
damning: Gāndhārī forces the birth of her sons by striking her belly with an
iron rod, just to remain at par with Kuntī, who has already birthed
Yudhiṣṭhira (Mbh 1.115.10–14). In fact, the implication of the iron rod that
Gāndhārī uses on her womb reaches beyond the subverted birth of the
Kauravas. By using this iron rod to wittingly bring harm to her unborn
children, Gāndhārī implements the destruction of her own race, which is,
perhaps, a mythical exoneration of the Aryans from this heinous crime,
because, in a reversal of Eliade’s sacred pole symbolism of consecrating
and sustaining a society, Gāndhārī’s misuse of this iron rod violates its
sacredness and use. Ironically, the evil use of this iron rod can also be
intertextualized with ‘the rod of punishment held by the celestials’ (Mbh
16.1.18) that is ‘born’ as an iron bolt in the Vṛṣṇi clan and becomes the
cause of Kṛṣṇa’s destruction of his own race (Mbh 16.3.31–41).
To further degrade the feminine, even Kuntī, who is portrayed in the epic
as the ideal mother of the sovereign male, violates her dharma as a mother.
To keep her own good name, like Kadrū, she commits the evil of a grave
untruth. By keeping the secret of Karṇa’s birth to herself, she impels her
five sons to commit the grievous sins of first denouncing their brother, then
maligning him, and, finally, killing him. In fact, Kuntī’s abandonment of
Karṇa completely undermines the role of woman as nurturer.
The environment created by the degradation of women through the
Kadrū and Vinatā myth brings to light certain other problems of evil in the
tradition of the Mahābhārata, such as loss of dignity, and even identity, that
the ‘other’ had to suffer just to survive. This is apparent from the ambiguity
of why some nāgas, such as Vāsuki and Śeṣa, are not only considered
saintly, but are also co-creators of the Aryan universe. Also, the snake
sacrifice is halted and the surviving serpents are ultimately saved by these
very brethren, Vāsuki, Ananta or Śeṣa, and, especially, Āstīka, a child of the
brāhmin, Jaratkāru, and his serpent wife and sister of Vāsuki, also named
Jaratkāru (Mbh 1.13.28–31, 1.14.1–7, 54, 55, 56). Āstīka is able to stop the
massacre of his race because he introduces himself to Janamejaya and his
priests at the sarpasattra, not as a nāga, nor as a nāga-brāhmin hybrid, but as
a brāhmin, and he humbles himself to propitiate the king, in adherence to
Aryan dharma. Āstīka’s denial of his nāga identity is his desperation to
secure the survival of his race, and it is obvious that this rescue is a last
resort, because extinction is suggested by his mother’s name: ‘Jara’ means
‘wasted’ and ‘kāru’ means ‘huge,’ which implies the impending
extermination of the whole snake clan. Admittedly, his father’s name is also
Jaratkāru, but that is because he has reduced his body, which used to be
huge, by ‘wasting’ it in penances of celibacy for his own merit (Mbh
1.40.4). This too implies the reduction of a clan, but unlike the snakes’ dire
threat of a genocide, the brāhmin Jaratkāru’s race of Yāyāvara is dying
because of his own adharmic choice.
Āstīka’s propitiation shows that even though the serpents who are able to
plead the snake case are followers of the Aryan dharma (as opposed to their
own), they have to prove their good, or more appropriately, ārya behaviour
to be allowed rights—even the right to life. Whereas, the brāhmin race is
protected under Aryan law, even if members of this caste indulge in selfish
and evil behaviour. Another example of this inequity is when ravenous
Garuḍa is directed by his mother, Vinatā, to satisfy his hunger by
consuming all the people in the low caste Niṣāda tribe but never to slay any
brāhmin, ‘although he maybe always engaged in sinful practices’ (Mbh
1.29.71). Thus, clearly evident in these myths are Aryan discriminatory
practices that became the norm: the powerful, although immoral, continue
to thrive, whereas the powerless can only be allowed to survive if they play
by the rules, even if they have to go against their svadharma and deny their
identity.

The Snake Sacrifice Myth and Its Evil Implications

It can be argued that Āstīka’s very existence and the fact that he is able to
stop the snake sacrifice and save the snakes prove that Aryan society,
during epic times, was becoming assimilative, and hybrid bloodlines (such
as that of Āstīka) were being accepted. However, blood feuds, especially
against those perceived as the ‘other’, were also very much a part of this
society. In fact, genocide was gaining the new sanction of dharmayuddha—
that is, a war against anyone who was perceived as a threat to one’s
dharma, artha, or kāma. A clear example is Arjuna’s burning of the
Khāṇḍava forest and forest creatures, which he undertakes as a pretext to
fulfil his vow to Agni—his kṣatriya dharma—but the real reason, which is
never revealed in the story, is that Khāṇḍava is the home of Takṣaka, king
of serpents, and Arjuna’s massacre is to usurp his wealth. This land, as
Minkowski (1989: 414), quoting Baudhāyana, states, was not only another
name for Indraprastha, the city that the Pāṇḍavas create after burning the
Khāṇḍava forest, but also where the original Vedic sarpasattra took place.
Other examples of mass killings through a dharmayuddha in the
Mahābhārata include Rāma Jamadagni’s annihilation of the kṣatriyas,
Aśvatthāman’s night slaughter of the Pāṇḍavas, including his attempted
foeticide of Uttarā and Abhimanyu’s son, and, of course, the Bhārata War,
which itself results in the complete massacre of the Kurus and Pāñcālas, and
relationally, the Yādavas.
This theme of a genocidal dharmayuddha is not only a leitmotif in the
epic, but it also leads to a whole cycle of vengeance and vindication. One
peripheral tit-for-tat cycle of vengeance begins with the sisters Vinatā and
Kadrū and is carried through by their progeny, the serpents and Garuḍa; this
hostility between birds of prey and snakes has even become proverbial. The
other, more significant, cycle of killings begins with Arjuna’s evil action of
burning the Khāṇḍava and killing Takṣaka’s family; Takṣaka’s son,
Aśvasena, in turn, seeks vengeance from Arjuna in the war. Then, the cycle
is furthered by the brāhmin boy Śṛngin, who curses Arjuna’s grandson,
Parikṣit, to be bitten by Takṣaka. On the micro-scale of this myth, Śṛngin
evokes the on-again-off-again friend–foe hostility between brāhmins and
kṣatriyas by cursing Raja Parikṣit, but, in actuality, in a master stroke, he
brings the animosity between the Aryans and the nāgas to a head by naming
Takṣaka as the assassin of Raja Parikṣit. Finally, in a full circle, Takṣaka
kills Parikṣit, and Parikṣit’s son Janamejaya burns all but a few snakes in
the sarpasattra.
Another significant problem of evil in this genocidal sattra is that it
occurs at that liminal time between two yugas, when a new order is just
about to be established. Hence, the blood feud that fuels this sacrifice spans
both yugas, and the massacre of the ‘other’ at the very outset of the new
yuga is like a commandment that will guide this epoch. Also noteworthy is
the manner in which this sacrifice is performed and for what purpose.
Unlike sarpasattras of earlier times, such as those cited in the Pañcavimśa-
brāhmaṇa and Śrautasūtras, where the rite was performed not to harm
anyone, but to provide the sacrificers with benefits of wealth, sons, cattle,
and victory over death (Minkowski 2007: 388–9); this snake sacrifice does
not seem to be for any material or abstract gain; it is to kill all snakes. They
are burnt, not because of any crimes they have committed, but only because
they exist and are the ‘others’. Hence, their elimination by the Aryans can
be seen as a call to ethnic cleansing.
The purpose of the sattra in the Mahābhārata becomes more suspicious
in light of the fact that it has the same structure as the ‘ǽtiological myth’ of
sarpasattra, which Minkowski (1989: 414), referencing Baudhāyana, states
was originally ‘performed by the serpents themselves, who gained their
poison and became biters (daṃśuka) as a result of it’. Considering that
many of the names of nāgas who performed the first sattra are names of
brāhmins and kṣatriya kings in the Mahābhārata, the objective of
Janamejaya’s snake sacrifice becomes even more suspect. For example, the
brāhmin of the original sarpasattra was Dhṛtarāṣṭra Airāvata, and one of the
adhvaryus was Janamejaya. Minkowski (1989: 415) also points out that
sadasyas of the Mahābhārata sarpasattra—Vyāsa, Śamanṭhaka, Uddālaka,
Śvetaketu, Asita Devala, Nārada, Pārvata, Ātreya, Kutighata, Vātsya
Śrutaśravas, Kahoda, Devaśarma, Maudgala, and Śamasaubhara are ‘the
most Vedic of brāhmins’. These equivalents suggest that in the snake
sacrifice, Janamejaya and his brāhmins hope to wipe out the serpents and
assume their venomous power—a diabolic supplanting through the means
of a consecrating fire altar.
It is clear that the sarpasattra in the Mahābhārata has a diabolic purpose,
because it is necrophilic in execution—a practice, which, ironically, may
even have been non-Aryan. This is suggested in the manner and appearance
of the priests who perform the sacrifice at Janamejaya’s behest: they are
dressed in black, ‘their eyes red from smoke, [they pour] ghee in the
sacrificial fire, according to Vedic mantra’ (Mbh 1.52.1). Minkowski (2007:
391) thinks that the black dress here could be associated to the Vrātyas of
Atharva Veda, who were outside the Aryan fold and had their own
ceremonies and sacrifices. Minkowski also suggests that this non-śrauta,
abhicāra influence of sorcery in the snake sacrifice suggests an uncalled-for
maliciousness.
This malevolent intent becomes more egregious when it is seen in the
context of the elevation that the nāgas had gained in post-Vedic literature.
While, in the earliest Vedic hymns, the serpents and their metaphors were
mostly negative and, possibly, resulted from the threat that the serpents
posed for the Aryans, in the later literatures, the characteristics of the
serpents came to be seen as not just positive but also as representing
superior warriorship. In these literatures, the Aryans acknowledged nāga
power and elevated the nāgas to almost divine status. For example, Vogel
(1995: 8) quotes a verse from the Atharva Veda: ‘Homage to Asita, homage
to Tiraśchirāji, homage to Svaja [and] Babhru, homage to god-people.’ And
he explains that ‘The four terms, asita (‘black’), tiraśchirāji (‘cross-lines’),
svaja (‘adder’?), and babhru (‘brown’) … are commonly explained as
denoting certain extant species of serpents … [and could be] personal
names of snake-demons which apparently are associated with four quarters
of the sky’. Vogel (1995: 10) further mentions that in the Atharva Veda the
serpents are referred to as ‘devajana’ and associated with Gandharvas,
Apsarās, and Yakśas.
In the Upaniṣads the metaphor of a serpent even came to represent the
highest metaphysical truth. For example:
As an anthill lies a slough of a snake, dead and cast off, so does lie this body dead and cast off.
Brāhmaṇa, the Alone, is this immortal breath non corporeal, the Light indeed is it. (quoted from
Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad 4.4.7 in Gupta 1991–2008: 1029)

In his commentary to this verse, Som Nath Gupta (1991–2008: 1030)

explains that the person who is liberated emerges from his dead body just as
a snake emerges from its skin. Hence, ‘Living though in that body, the
liberated one, that self of all, that “snake” of the symbolism, lives in every
truth, without the body, no more connected to it’. The Mahābhārata further
uses the serpent as a metaphysical symbol of discarding evil:
As the Ruru deer casting off its old horns or the snake casting off slough passes on without arresting
notice, similarly a person who is unattached renounces all his sorrow. (Mbh 12.219.48)

There may have been many reasons why the serpents gained ascendency
in the Mahābhārata. Since this is a liminal text reflecting a syncretism of the
old and the new, the new social norms included mythical elements and
divines that were not a part of Vedic Aryan traditions. These could have
been in existence in the Indus Valley before the Aryans established
themselves, but with their inclusion, Aryan society grew more secular and
tolerant. For example, in this new order, there was a resurfacing of a
powerful goddess, Devī (the Vedic goddesses, such as Uṣas, Aditi, Virāja,
Vāc, Śacī, etc., were almost colourless), and Vedic divines, such as Indra
and Varuṇa, were degraded to allow the accession of more secular gods like
Viṣṇu. Another factor could have been exogamy, through which the non-
Aryan partners could have brought their own beliefs into the ethos, and
these, along with the principles of nonviolence advocated by the Aryans’
own post-Vedic texts, such as the Upaniṣads, created an atmosphere of
tolerance and coexistence. Then there was the heterodox influence of
Buddhism and Jainism, which spread a different set of ideas. It can thus be
assumed that the non-Aryan tribes that had opposed the Aryans in the early
days had either assimilated with the Aryans, or at least become friendly
over time. In fact, the ambiguity of the dhārmic nature of saintly nāgas like
Vāsuki, Airāvata, and Śeṣa indicates that many of the Nāga tribal leaders
had joined forces with the Aryans, adapted to their ways, and accepted their
divines. It is true that there were other nāgas that continued to be
antagonist; for example, the reference to the land of Takṣaśilā, where
Utanka goes to garner king Janamejaya’s help to kill Takṣaka, is very
evocative (Mbh 1.3.161), and it is possible that the Aryan king
Janamejaya’s attack on Takṣaśilā was on the city of his enemy ruler,
Takṣaka, who may have belonged to the Nāga race. However, perhaps there
was also a time when Takṣaka was not an Aryan enemy, because when the
Pāṇḍavas are born, among those who come to celebrate the birth are the
nāgas, such as Karkoṭaka, Vāsuki, Kaśyapa, Kuṅda, and even Takṣaka
(1.123.45). Perhaps it was Arjuna’s reprehensive actions in Khāṇḍava that
angered Takṣaka and turned him against the Kurus. But, aside from
Takṣaka, there are no major epic nāga enemies at this time. Hence, in the
Mahābhārata, other than the snake sacrifice, there are very few nāga victims
or myths in which the nāgas are persecuted. Instead, in the epic, not only
are the nāgas respected for their good qualities, but they are also in
amicable relationships with the kṣatriya warriors. For example, Arjuna has
a marital relationship with the nāga princess, Ulūpī, and has a son by her.
Moreover, Ulūpī is portrayed as an intelligent and strong woman with
characteristics that are superior to most women’s; consequently, Ulūpī not
only saves Arjuna’s life but also redeems him from his sin of killing Bhīṣma
by treachery (Mbh 14.80.18–56, 14.81.9-14). Bhīma, too, after being
poisoned by Duryodhana, ends up in Nāgaloka and is not only saved by his
nāga grandfather but is also gifted by him the strength of ten elephants and
the antidote to snake venom (Mbh 1.128. 48–72). Even Garuḍa, the eternal
enemy of the serpents, is forced by Viṣṇu to forge a friendship with serpents
when Indra’s charioteer Mātali chooses a nāga bridegroom for his daughter
(Mbh 5.105.61).
In addition to this reconciliation between the Aryans and the nāgas, the
admirable attributes of the serpents, which, in Vedic times, seemed to be
such a cause of acrimony, become exemplary of the highest levels of
strength and acumen in epic times; so much so that throughout the war,
serpent similes are used to extol Kuru warriors’ valour and warriorship. For
example, in Udyoga Parva, proclaiming his fear and awe of the Pāṇḍavas,
Dhṛtarāṣṭra tells Saṃjaya, ‘With the children hard to vanquish, the sons of
Draupadī of noble souls, who are like serpents, will the Pāṇḍavas fight’
(Mbh 5.50.38). Or ‘Like a venomous snake having accumulated its poison
for a long time, he (Bhīma) will fling his strength on my sons in the field of
battle’ (Mbh 5.51.41). Moreover, the verses pertaining to combat often use
snake similes to describe the precision and deadliness of arrows and darts
shot by the warriors from both sides. For example, Bhīṣma’s lance is
‘decked with gold, charged with great velocity and looking beautiful like a
daughter of a nāga’ (Mbh 6.105.31). Even Kṛṣṇa is compared to a snake,
when in rage he jumps off the chariot in the midst of war and charges
Bhīṣma, who has debilitated Arjuna in war: ‘Keśava, who was then
breathing like a snake and whose eyes were rolling in wrath …’ (Mbh
6.107:72). It is obvious from these examples that, by the time of the epic,
the Aryans had begun to respect the nāgas for their superior skills.
It also appears from other, surprising similes used in the war that even
those nāgas who were seen in negative light in earlier times, are not recalled
for their assumed transgressions but for their strength, and, on the other
hand, the negative behaviour of certain Vedic divines is acknowledged as
such. This reversal suggests unexpected connotations, fudging the lines of
distinction between the Vedic divines and nāgas and, by association,
Pāṇḍavas and Kauravas. For example, in the war, Duḥśāsana is compared to
Indra, while Arjuna is compared to Vṛtra: ‘[Duḥśāsana] endued with
bravery, and prowess, again began to check Pārtha [Arjuna] with well-
sharpened shafts like Indra resisting Vṛtra’ (Mbh 6.111.48). Other similes
compare Bhīṣma to both Takṣaka and Vṛtra: ‘The mighty puissant Bhīṣma
possessed of sharp weapons and inflamed with rage in battle, appears like
the mighty snake Takṣaka of great ferocity and virulent venom’ (Mbh
6.108.15). And ‘… seeing him [Bhīṣma] who resembled the unconquerable
Vṛtra when he had been vanquished in days of yore by Vasva …’ (Mbh
7.3.1). These examples are only a sampling of the nāga-centric epithets and
analogies used to describe the warriors in the epic, and they show that the
nāgas not only became analogous to superior kṣatriya skills, but they were
also given the same transcendent qualities as the Vedic divines.
The final and ultimate elevation of the nāgas in the Mahābhārata comes
at the end of Śāntī Parva in the story of the nāga king Padmanabha of
Nāgapur, who, in a reverse cyclicity, has the resonance of Viṣṇu (Mbh
12.357-363). He is so evolved that he is reputed to be the knower of a
householder’s dharma and also of the ultimate dharma of mokṣa, so much
so that a brāhmin goes to this nāga for instruction on mokṣa and tells him,
‘O you of great wisdom, O Nāga, who have acquired a knowledge of the
Soul. It is very true that the gods are not superior to you in any respect’
(Mbh 12.364.7). By virtue of his sharing Viṣṇu’s name of Padmanabha
(lotus navel), he is connected to cosmic creation, and by virtue of his snake-
ness he is Śeṣa Nāga. In addition, he also shares Viṣṇu’s solar divine
function, because when the brāhmin comes to learn from him, he is away on
a fortnight-long task of drawing the sun’s chariot, thus displaying his
beneficence towards all mankind. Hence, in this tale, the serpent, who in the
Vedic time was victimized, is now eulogized and made equivalent to the
supreme divine. This transformation seems surprising but also fitting,
particularly at this time in the epic, because this is the concluding tale of the
Śāntī Parva. Hence, the words that the brāhmin speaks not only emphasize
the prevailing ideas of mokṣa, but they also show that all differences
between the Aryans and the Nāga race have been reconciled: ‘He that is
yourself is verily myself, as that is myself is truly yourself. Myself,
yourself, and all other creatures, shall all have to enter into the Supreme
Soul’ (Mbh 12.364.8).
However, this ascendency of the serpents in the Mahābhārata is glaringly
negated by the fact that at the end of war the nāgas are subjected to the evil
of genocide. Thus, the question that needs to be asked is, if the nāgas had
become so much a part of what was ‘good’ in Aryan society, why did
Janamejaya and the brāhmins want to wipe them out? The answer to this
question seems to be much bigger than the mere cause of Janamejaya’s
personal vendetta or even the cycle of revenge that Arjuna and Takṣaka
begin; in fact, it seems to point to a systemic problem of evil, most likely
created by the brāhmins who needed to eliminate any and all threats to their
power, which the Nāgas were posing. Buddhist records indicate that some
of the Nāga rajas listed in Mahāvyutpati (the Buddhist Sanskrit Glossary)
are the same as the Aryan kings in the Mahābhārata. Also, in Buddhism, the
nāgas, even when presented as serpents or as metaphors of serpent traits,
have the best of human characteristics. Additionally, and most importantly,
they are devotees of the Buddha, such as Muccalinda, the Nāgarāja who
sheltered the Buddha from torrential rain for several days by spreading his
hood like an umbrella over the Buddha’s head. What this Buddhist
connection suggests is that the brāhmins saw the Nāgas as a people who
could become non-cooperative with the Aryans, choosing instead to side
with the heretical propounding of Buddhism; hence it was necessary for the
brāhmins to eliminate them. It is also possible that since a nāga—Śeṣa—
figured prominently in the very creation of the Aryan cosmos, it was
necessary for the brāhmins to demonstrate that they were tolerant only to
those Nāgas that were loyal to Aryans; the others, who did not show a
devotion to Vaiṣṇavism, would be eliminated.
Another possible cause of the snake sacrifice may have been the
brāhmins’ megalomaniacal lust for power. Perhaps they really did believe
that they could possess the proverbial nāga attributes of immortality and
death-delivering skills through the transformative ritual of a Vedic fire
sacrifice, and they used Janamejaya’s revenge as an excuse to execute this
transformation. This argument is not as farfetched as it may sound. Brian
Smith and Wendy Doniger describe how this transfer of power is actually
possible through a sacrifice. They explain that in a sacrifice, the sacrificed
is, in fact, the sacrificer himself, but, instead of the sacrificer actually
sacrificing himself, he uses a substitute. Quoting Henri Hubert and Marcel
Mauss from Sacrifice: Its Nature and Function Smith and Doniger (1989:
190) state that this substitute in ‘the sacrificial ritual (including the priest
who acts as a buffer and guide between the sacred and profane realms) is
the ritual victim’. The victim represents or ‘becomes’ (and thus substitutes
for) both the invisible divine recipient of the offering and the human being
who makes the offering. ‘Through this proximity the victim, who already
represents the gods, comes to represent the sacrifier [= sacrificer] also.
Indeed, it is not enough to say that it represents him: it is merged in him.
The two personalities are fused together.’ What Hubert and Mauss mean
and what Smith and Doniger explain through this statement is actually a
double substitute, and when interpreted in the context of the snake sacrifice,
it reveals interesting insights: in the first and most obvious substitution, the
brāhmins at Janamejaya’s fire sacrifice offer themselves as a sacrifice to
gain benefits. The usual animal substitutes in Vedic fire sacrifices used to be
horses and/or goats. However, in Janamejaya’s sacrifice, the sacrificers not
only perform a sarpasattra, but they also sacrifice as substitutes not one or
two, but all the serpents. Hence, the second substitution in this sacrifice is a
sarpasattra itself, which, as mentioned above, was originally performed by
the Nāgas to acquire venom. Therefore, in Janamejaya’s snake sacrifice, the
brāhmins figuratively assume the identity of the Nāgas and perform a real
sacrifice, using all the serpents as substitutes in order to fuse with them:
brāhmin = Nāga = serpent. The reason for this double fusion is the gains
that the sacrifice promises. Normally, the gain from a ritual sacrifice
included longevity and prosperity; however, this time the brāhmins wanted
more than longevity and prosperity; they wanted what the Nāga race had:
the most powerful venom to destroy the enemy, wealth hidden away
beneath the earth, and the secret of immortality that the serpents possessed
by virtue of being the progeny of the earth goddess.
It is possible that this alteration of the equation of the sacrificer and
sacrificed was the brāhmin way of dealing with the devastation of the war,
in which everything was destroyed—life, property, power. In addition, the
belief systems and ideologies were changing; hence, a ritual sacrifice in
Vedic style promised not only a salvaging of what little remained of the
Aryans but also an appropriation of the ancient and famed glory of the
mystical Nāgas. It is also possible that in the re-telling of the Mahābhārata,
when Sauti begins the tale of war and devastation with the story of
Janamejaya’s snake sacrifice, he wants to issue a warning that war can be
ravaging, and it can unleash so much violence that after it ends, even the
attempts at renewal are violent. However, Sauti also absolves the sacrificers
of their crimes by affirming their clemency. He ends his narration of the
Mahābhārata by bringing Āstīka, the survivor and saviour of the Nāga race,
back into the story: ‘Āstīka having rescued the snakes (from a fiery death)
became filled with joy’ (Mbh 18.5.32).
However, despite the final outcome, the fact is that this sacrifice is
actually a perpetration of ‘three crimes from which it is otherwise
indistinguishable—suicide, murder, and deicide’ (Smith and Doniger 1989:
189). Therefore, its inclusion in the Mahābhārata tradition and the
replication of its metaphors in the various events of the epic create a
paradigm of behaviour that makes victims of anyone who does not
conform, or who owns wealth that others want to appropriate. Sadly, since
the proponents and practitioners of this evil behaviour are supposed dharma
heroes, the paradigm has become a problematic exemplar in Hindu society.

THE ASURAS
 Who are the Asuras?
In the sixteenth chapter of the Bhagavad Gītā, Kṛṣṇa describes to Arjuna the
dark side of man—his asura side:
dambho darpobhimānaś ca
krodhaḥ pāruṣyam eva ca
ajñānaṁ cābhijātasya
pārtha saṃpadam āsurīm
[Hypocrisy, pride, conceit, wrath, rudeness, and ignorance, O Pārtha, belong to him who is
demoniac.] (BG 16.4)

And the converse:

Ahiṁsā satyam akrodhas
tyāgaḥ śāntir apaiśunam
dayā bhūteṣv aloluptvaṁ
mārdavaṁ hrīr acāpalam
[Observing non-violence, truth, freedom from anger, renunciation, tranquillity, freedom from fault-
finding, compassion for all, absence from covetousness, gentleness, modesty, absence of
restlessness.] (BG 16.2)

Tejaḥ kṣamā dhṛtiḥ śaucam

adroho nātimānitā
bhavanti saṃpadaṁ daivīm
abhijātasya bhārata
[Vigor, forgiveness, firmness, cleanliness, absence of quarrel, freedom from vanity, O Bhārata,
belong to one who is god like.] (BG 16.3)

These and most of the ślokas in this chapter are about the unethical quality
of asura-ness and its ethical antithesis. However, in pre-epic texts, the word
‘asura’ was not related to ethics at all, and it did not define anyone’s
morality or immorality, let alone absolute values of the same. Evil, as we
know it, suggests everything bad: pain, death, disease, violence, etc. In
many religions there is a demon, the absolute embodiment of evil, who
engenders all evil, and he is as coeternal as god, who is an absolute good.
However, in Hindu mythology, there is no such one absolute evil being
responsible for all evil. So the question of asura being a representation of
this absolute evil does not arise. In addition, in the earliest uses of the term
and in subsequent myths, asura is not even equivalent to the psychological
inclinations that create evil, such as tamas and avidyā—qualities that create
mythical beings like Mara of early Buddhism. In fact, in Hindu myths,
asuras are often more evolved, more ascetic, more adhering to the principle
of dharma than devas, brāhmins, or honoured kṣatriyas. Wendy Doniger
O’Flaherty (1988: 62) says demons and gods are consubstantial—enemies
and brothers from the earliest times. Asuras and devas are not opposite
sides of the ethical paradigm—good and evil. The only distinguishing
feature of their relationship is the battle in which they are constantly and
cyclically engaged, and only in that they are on opposite sides. And this
battle is not about good against evil. In fact, this battle has no moral content
or context; it is not fought because one side is moral and the other side is
immoral; it is simply a cyclical archetype of a conflict. So, ‘when the later
myths begin to apply new moral codes to the characters of individual gods
and demons in myths, a number of inconsistencies arise, for the two groups,
as groups, are not fundamentally morally opposed’ (O’Flaherty 1988: 58).
Therefore, when the asuras in the Mahābhārata—especially Duryodhana—
are relegated to an a priori asura-ness even before their actions can be
gauged against any empirical and relational truths, both the ethical
correctness of the word’s usage and the scriptural value of the epic,
especially the Gītā, become questionable.
Many scholars believe that the Gītā was a later interpolation in the
Mahābhārata. Perhaps that is why the meaning of the word ‘asura’, and its
antonymic ‘deva’ and daivic qualities, as described in the Gītā, are not quite
in accordance with the rest of the epic. In fact, through the lens of the Gītā
and its declaration of asura qualities, not just Duryodhana and his cohorts
are suspect, but also most of the daivic heroes and many of the high
brāhmins, because they all, at some point or another, display anger,
arrogance, or lack of forgiveness. Even Yudhiṣṭhira, who can be considered
the epitome of daivic qualities, suffers from lack of tranquillity in his
addiction to gambling, and he deviates from the truth when he declares to
Drona the death of Aśvatthāman. In addition, the brāhmins, including those
that are highly respected and cited as exemplary, such as Jamadagni Rāma,
Agastya, Vasiṣṭha, and Mārkaṇḍeya, are actually unforgiving and wrathful,
and some, like Drona, also covet another’s wealth.
Other scholars consider the Gītā as integral to the Mahābhārata. But
whether the Gītā was part of the text from the beginning or a later
interpolation is not of importance here, except to present a perspective: if
the Gītā is considered an interpolation, then this new meaning of asura has
no relationship to the asuras in the Mahābhārata, because their character
cannot retrospectively be measured against an ethical quality that did not
exist in the context that shaped their characters. And if the Gītā is not seen
as an interpolation, then the predilection it attributes to the asuras is
discordant with the other aspects of asuras in the epic, which are a
composite of the asura concept dating back at least to the Ṛg Veda, if not
prior.
Thus, to understand how asura-ness was distorted into evil, the concept
must be traced through its origin, transformation, and concretization.
Monier-Williams says that asura is a derivative from ‘asu’ which, in the Ṛg
Veda, means life breath. In the Atharva Veda it also means life of the
spiritual world; but in the Bhāgavata Purāṇa, the meaning shifts to life of a
different kind—that of worldly pleasure (which is neither evil nor against
the principles of puruṣārtha). Additional definitions by Monier-Williams
(2005: 121) also add to the word’s ambiguity: ‘spiritual, incorporeal,
supreme spirit but also evil spirit, and one who is an opponent of the gods’.
These diametrically opposing meanings are a result of the changes this term
went through, even early on in the Ṛg Veda itself; in fact, the chronology of
the use of ‘asura’ in the Ṛg Veda indicates this change. In the earliest books,
2–7, asura is used in a favourable sense, especially when it refers to Varuṇa,
and it is replaced by the pejorative meaning in the later books, 8–10.
Sukumari Bhattacharji (2000: 35) believes that the very root, ‘asu’, could
also be a reason for this transformation, because according to Monier-
Williams’ definition—‘life of the spiritual world or of the departed souls’ is
connected with ‘pitarah’, dead ancestors. Eventually, as Indra supplanted
Varuṇa, the latter came to mean only chief, or the chief of the evil spirits,
because he was associated with the spirit world.
Suggesting a positive denotation of ‘asura’ in its earliest meaning is its
most commonly accepted etymological association with the Avestan Ahura
Mazda. It also applies to the six Amesha Spentas, the associates or divine
sparks of Ahura Mazda. Bhattacharji (23) notes that in the Avesta, Ahura
Mazda is the lord of high knowledge and his concrete name, Varana, is the
same as Varuṇa in India. Some historians now contend that ‘asura’ can also
be equated to the Assyrian god, Ashur, who was the head of the Assyrian
pantheon.
From its Avestan and Assyrian associations, and from its early usage in
the Ṛg Veda, it appears that the appellative, asura, mostly signified lordship,
perhaps, for someone who was also exemplary of a ‘spiritual life’ and who
provided spiritual guidance. In the earliest hymns of the Ṛg Veda, Varuṇa is
the chief asura or lord. Wash Edward Hale (1999: 6) also claims that in
many of the earlier hymns in the Ṛg Veda, the meaning of the word, asura,
signifies not only lordship but also leadership, or even someone who has a
fighting force behind him. In addition, he suggests that this honour of
lordship was not just reserved for the gods but was also used for humans,
and sometimes, even for enemies. So anyone who had power was an asura.
For example:
The leader of the raid, the asura who is more excellent than any other patron, has given me two cows
together with a wagon. Tryaruṇa, son of Trivṛṣṇa, has distinguished himself with ten thousand, or
Agni Vaiśvānara. (RV 5.27.1, quoted in Hale 1999: 48)

Hale believes that in this hymn the asura Tryaruṇa is human, and he has a
fighting force with whose help he has conducted a raid against his rivals.
Hale’s interpretation also answers another very important question: were
the asuras simply mythical beings fabricated by the Aryans to describe the
enemy of mythical battles or were they real people? It is essential to address
this question, especially in an exploration of ethics, because while a
people’s gods may be invested with qualities that define the ethical
paradigms of a society, it is the people themselves who are the real agents
of behaviour that can be classified as ethical or unethical. Hale’s
interpretation of Tryaruṇa as being human and the other attributes and
actions associated with the asuras in various myths demonstrate that the
asuras were not just mythical beings; they were human—perhaps a clan of
people whose role in Aryan society was capsuled in myth, as is the nature
of myth’s creation. Besides, the asuras’ own behaviour, their treatment by
and their interaction with other Aryans are all three-dimensional and
human-like aspects that cannot simply be considered mythical allegory.
And also, if Aryans are accepted as human, then, by the same standard, so
should the asuras be accepted.
 The dāsa and asura connection is another argument that proves the
humanness of asuras. Hale (1999: 130) points out that the use of ‘dasyu’
becomes rare after the Atharva Veda, and it drops out of usage about the
same time that ‘asura’ begins to be used in the pejorative sense, so the
appellative ‘asura’ replaces ‘dasyu’ and assumes the meaning of the latter.
Even Monier-Williams (2005: 477) defines ‘dāsa’ as ‘fiend, demon; a
certain evil being conquered by Indra (for example, Namuci, Pipru,
Śambara, Varcin)’, and its Ṛg Vedic meaning is given as ‘savage barbarian
infidel … opp. to ārya’. Moreover, in the Ṛg Veda, ‘asura’ is sometimes
connected to the quality of darkness, and this could have been the reason
for the derivative, ‘dāsa’:
O Surya, when the Asura’s descendant, Svarbhānu pierced thee through and through with darkness
All creatures looked like one who is bewildered, who knoweth not the place where he is standing,
(RV 5.40.5)

The equivalency of ‘asura’ with ‘dāsa’ continues in the Brāhmaṇas.

Eventually, as ‘asura’ came to denote the opposite of ‘deva’, ‘dāsa’ became
closer to meaning of ‘śūdra’. The passage below from the Taittirīya
Brāhmaṇa, describing the battle between brāhmin and śūdra, clearly
replaces the ritual, archetypal battle of the gods and asuras:
The gods and asuras fought. They contended for the sun. The gods won it. Both a brāhmaṇa and a
śūdra fight for a piece of leather. Indeed the brāhmaṇa is the daivic varṇa, the śūdra asuric. Then one
should say, ‘These prospered; these made good prosperity.’ The other (should say), ‘These making it
inhabited, these made bad prosperity.’ Thus what is done well of these, what is success, the one
causes that. What is badly done, what is failure, the other strikes that. The brāhmaṇa wins. Thus they
find the sun of the rival. (TB 1.2.6.6-7 quoted in Hale 1999: 173-4)

Hale’s commentary (1999: 174) to this passage explains that the brāhmin
and śūdra perform a ritual in which they act out the battle of the gods and
asuras over the sun, which is represented in the ritual by a round piece of
leather. The brāhmin plays the part of the gods and the śūdra the part of the
asuras. Hence this passage says that the śūdra is the asuric varṇa.
This equivalency of dāsa/śūdra and asura could possibly mean that dāsas
were an-ārya, because they were rivals of the brāhmins and did not
subscribe to their practices; hence they were outside the Aryans’ fold. Or, it
could refer to those Aryans who were born Aryan but did not believe in the
practices ordained by the brāhmins, and hence they were relegated to the
status of dāsa and disowned by the brāhmins, who also forbade the other
Aryans to acknowledge them as anything but outside the fold. Hale (1999:
174), however, believes that ‘this statement could also be a recognition that
the śūdra varṇa consists of descendants of the original inhabitants of the
land, the dasyus, who in later texts, were called asuras’.
While it is possible that, as Hale suggest, dāsas may have been
descendants of the historical human asuras; his suggestion that the asuras
could have been the descendants of the original people is questionable. The
asuras were, most likely, a distinct faction of the Aryans who were
denigrated and made the lowest of the low and called dāsa as an insult to
them. The asuras were probably Aryans at one time, or at least they
belonged to the five Aryan tribes; at some point, they separated, and the
cause of their separation was given the attribute of asuric. In the
Mahābhārata the asuras are clearly included in the Aryan clans. This is also
suggested by D.D. Kosambi (1967: 33), who proposes that according to
Vedic myth, the Aryan clans of the Mahābhārata could have been the
descendants of the Vedic Five Tribes, which are referenced a number of
times in the various books of the Ṛg Veda as janāḥ and jātāḥ: the five
Humans (mānuṣāḥ), The Five Nations (kṛṣtayaḥ), The Five Mobile Peoples
(carṣaṇyaḥ). This reference categorizes Ṛg Vedic Aryans not only as
ancestors but also as belonging to the same system of clanship and
pastoralism. Kosambi (1967: 33) also points out that the names of these five
tribes appear in different hymns separately, but in one hymn to Indra and
Agni, all five appear together:
If with the Yadus, Turvaśas, ye sojourn, with Druhyas, Anus, Purūs, Indra-Agni! Even from thence,
ye mighty Lords, come hither, and drink libations of the flowing Soma. (RV 1.108.8)

This hymn denotes that all five tribes also propitiated the same gods, had
the same belief system, and followed the same practices. For example, in
the Mahābhārata, both devas and dānavas are equally involved in the
churning of the ocean, which could have been an amalgamated raid of all
Aryans against the indigenous people to acquire their wealth.
Another example that suggests the Aryan background of the asuras is in
the Ādi Parva, when Ganga hands over Devavrata to Śaṃtanu and tells him
how well versed Devavrata is in the Vedas and other conventions. She says,
‘Both the celestials and the asuras look on him with favor’ (Mbh 1.8.100),
suggesting not only that the asuras were part of the same equation, but also
they had equal status as devas in the Aryan community, as per the Vedas. In
fact, Bhīṣma tells Yudhiṣṭhira in the Śāntī Parva that the dānavas did not
even live on earth till the Tretā Yuga (Mbh 12.207.41), which suggests that
prior to that, in the Kṛta age, they were as celestial as devas, and, therefore,
were as much a part of the Aryan cosmological cycle as the devas.
It is possible that, over time, rivalry grew among the various Aryan
factions—the five tribes—and they began to see each other as separate. But
they eventually came back into the fold, either through exogamy, or simply
because, as is the nature of families, they reconciled their differences.
Aryan marriage practices are further proof of the asuras belonging to the
same society. Asura marriage was an integral part of the Aryans’ marital
system. According to Manu, it is sixth on the list of favoured methods. He
explains that the first six kinds of marriage should be considered lawful by
brāhmins—the last four (Gandharva, Asura, Rākṣasa and Piśāca) for
kṣatriyas, and the asura marriage is recommended for vaiśyas and śūdras
(The Laws of Manu 2006: 111.13). Āpastamba, too, in his Dharmasūtra
describes asura marriage as an accepted norm—one in which the
bridegroom gives a bride price according to his free will and ability (2.12.1,
Olivelle 2000: 91). In fact, Subhadra’s marriage to Arjuna is even lower
than an asura marriage; it is a rākṣasa marriage and is still considered
lawful. If the asuras were evil, demonic, or even the ‘other’ (indigenous
people), would their practices of marriage have been part of Aryan societal
norms, especially since marriage ensures the continuance of family,
kingship, and tradition?
But, long before they were epic cousins and even before the dāsa
connection, when asura was still an appellation for lord and/or leader with
power, the word had already begun to degrade.
One reason for this degradation in Vedic times could have been that the
appellative honour of lordship was given indiscriminately—regardless of
whether the recipient was mortal or divine; the word ‘asura’, was used for
anyone who displayed power, and, perhaps, it was the significance of this
power that caused the process of deterioration. In the earliest Ṛg Vedic
hymns, power was not evil; but when the other Aryans began to encounter
threats to their power, the might of the opposition came to be seen as
threatening. This element of threat is the key to understanding the negative
transformation of the word, because the feeling of being threatened is
subjective and, in the threatened, it always evokes fear, anxiety, anticipated
pain, and sorrow—all feelings that can be deemed a consequence of evil.
Therefore, the cause of that threat is what could have been seen as asura: a
powerful human leader could be a cause of threat to the gods; the ever-
increasing power of the gods could be a threat to humans; or one Aryan
faction’s leader could have been a threat to another faction’s leader. Most
likely, it was this element of threat that finally sealed the fate of the word. It
was also this threat that brought Indra into the limelight as an ’asura killer’.
From the many Indra hymns, the nature of the threat becomes even clearer;
not only does Indra subdue the power of the enemy asuras, but he also
steals their wealth to give to his loyalists, which suggests that the power of
the opposing factions could have been in physical might or in material
wealth, or both. However, a significant point to note in these hymns is that
in all the implications of lordship, leadership, power, and even threat, or
even in Indra’s reasons for enmity, there is no indication that the asura is
evil, equivalent to evil action, or even that his actions result in pain to
others. The asura’s only crime seems to be that he is powerful and/or
intoxicated with his power. Ironically, this intoxication is also Indra’s
quality and a quality of the brāhmins in post Vedic texts. They, too, are
constantly intoxicated with their power; furthermore, unlike the asura, who
is punished for growing too powerful or becoming too consumed with his
power, Indra and the brāhmins destroy with impunity anything or anyone
that comes in the way of their power. Therefore, if there is any consequent
evil, it results from the actions of those who are not deemed asura, such as
the brāhmins and the Aryan gods.
Hence, if the power of the gods and the brāhmins was not a threat; why
was the lordship and power of the asuras considered a threat by the Aryans?
A reason could have been the necessity of the sacrifice. In the later books of
the Ṛg Veda, after the degradation of Varuṇa, sacrifice was seen as the only
way to preserve ṛta, and anyone who opposed ṛta and, by extension,
sacrifice, was condemned and debased. Since ṛta was the Aryan concept of
aesthetic order; it was a reflection of the ‘paradigmatic work of the gods’
(Eliade 1998: 33). The Aryans saw this order in the wonders of nature
around them and were in wonderment at how it was constantly in flux,
constantly cyclical, but always coming back to a fixed point. It was around
this dynamic fixed point that they created their cosmology and myths, and,
henceforth, strove to preserve it. Initially, the natural phenomena were the
mythological gods: Mitra/Varuṇa, Agni, Savitar, Vāyu—all different
aspects of the same ṛta—the same fixity. These were impersonal gods with
no anthropomorphic qualities—simply phenomena that sustained creation.
In the time of Indra as preserver of ṛta, the key means of this preservation
was the ritual of sacrifice. Perhaps there were factions in the Aryan society
who did not subscribe to this particular actualization of ṛta and had their
own ways of cosmocizing the fixed point. Or, perhaps, they did not see the
Indra faction’s fixed point as a sacred space and had their own version of it.
In the earliest time, during Varuṇa’s lordship, sacrifice was not the
supreme means to preserve ṛta; instead, Varuṇa, the chief Asura, was
synonymous with the cosmic order and was also the keeper of ṛta.
Therefore, asuras were adherents of Varuṇa’s ṛta. In fact, in an early hymn,
these asuras/divines were
upholding that which moves and that which moves not, Ādityas, Gods protectors of all
being/Provident, guarding well the world of spirits, [protecting asuryam] true to eternal law [ṛta], the
debt. (RV 2.27.4)

As per this hymn to Ādityas, asuryam (asuraship) is an adjectival quality of

the devas; it is a part of their character and not separate (Hale 1999: 59).
This also proves that, initially, the asuras were not only within the fold of
ṛta but were also protectors of ṛta.
Furthermore, this ṛta-protecting asuryam did not stop at the fixity of the
cosmic order; it was echoed as prescriptive for people. Just like the forces
of nature were moved to fixity to sustain creation, so were the people
supposed to live a life within the order. Whatever action a person performed
had to conform to the cosmic order in harmony with nature, because just as
the cosmic order was fixed, recurrent and true, so was the rhythm of ‘life
breath’—‘asu’, (as defined by Monier-Williams). Those who acknowledged
the equivalency of these rhythms of physical nature and physiology were
asuras, and for them ritual and sacrifice, which was also performed with the
same regularity, not only ensured this conformity but also rectified any
transgression. This was the immutable law of ṛta. In fact, to emphasize this
synonymic relationship, the Ṛg Veda also contains hymns that tell us what
kind of actions men needed to follow—actions that nature itself followed,
such as generosity, as described in this hymn to the waters:
Waters, you are the ones who bring us the life force. Help us to find nourishment so that we may look
upon great joy
Let us share in the most delicious sap that you have, as if you were loving mothers
For our well-being let the goddesses be an aid to us, the waters be for us to drink. Let them cause
well-being and health to flow over us. (RV 10.9.1–4, O’Flaherty 1981: 231)

And this connection of the moral order in the cosmos was reflected in
the moral order humans followed—a symbiosis.
The father sacrifices for his son, the comrade for his comrade, the favorite friend for his friend
So let praises flow back and forth between the two, between us who are mortals and you, the
immortals. (RV 1.26.3 and 9, O’Flaherty 1981: 100)

Hence, all actions of men—to make a living, cultivate land, form

relationships, etc.—were to follow the principle of ṛta, because man’s
actions not only impacted society, but they also reaffirmed the fixity of the
sacred space.
But did they? Did humans align their actions to the sanctity of the fixed
point? While the order in nature was obvious and seemingly controlled by
outside forces, how did the order in personal life follow the order of nature?
And, could life be fulfilled by following the orderliness of nature? Also,
who determined what the order was? From historical accounts and from the
verses of the Ṛg Veda, we know that the Aryans were a civic-minded people
with a developed sense of polity. Therefore, to sustain their own society,
they not only needed a form of social order, but they also needed to ensure
that this order was not disrupted, and it remained supreme above all other
orders. But, as is the normal inclination of man—despite acknowledging
social ethics and a need for personal morality, man transgresses. Most
scholars accept that for the Aryans, cosmic order and human order were not
only connected but also, if there was a breach, it was punished. For
example, quoting Kaegi’s translation of the Ṛg Veda, Surendranath
Dasgupta (2004: 1.15) says, ‘The hymns strongly prove how deeply the
prominent minds in the people were persuaded that the eternal ordinances
of the rulers of the world were as inviolable in mental and moral matters as
in the realm of nature, and that every wrong act, even the unconscious was
punished as the sin expiated.’ In the beginning, it was the Lord of ṛta,
Varuṇa, who watched men with his sahasracakṣu, punished miscreants, and
made sure society remained within the periphery of this order. And people
within the fold realized this, begging him for forgiveness if they committed
any an-ṛta or offense. There are many hymns in the Ṛg Veda attesting to
this. For example:
If we have committed an offense against a hospitable friend like Āryaman or a close friend like
Mitra, or against one who has always been a comrade, or a brother, or a neighbor—one of our own or
a stranger—loosen that offence from us, Varuṇa. (RV 5.85.7, O’Flaherty 1981: 211)

However, later, during Indra’s supremacy, there might have been others
who did not see their actions as transgressions in the changing society, or, if
they did see them as such, they did not prescribe to Indra’s form of
punishment. Or, perhaps, there were some who did not transgress, but were
wrongfully accused; hence they resented the order. These non-conformists
could have been called asuras.
Also, this system of order and punishment had an essential anomaly,
which was related to nature itself. While man’s transgressions could be
punished with Varuṇa’s noose, how could one punish nature, which was
also flawed, and also transgressed? This flaw was that part of divine nature
that was not benevolent, such as floods, earthquakes, etc., which caused the
suffering of innocent people and even of those who were deeply immersed
in keeping the order. This aesthetic evil—the evil in the cosmic order itself,
which, independently of human action, prevented the flux of nature from
converging into the fixed point—how did one explain that? How did the
cosmic order remain true with such anomalies? And, above all, how did one
punish nature for acting against these truths of ṛta? The Aryans had no
answer to these questions, just as these continue to plague the theist today.
To avert such cosmic evil, ritual and sacrifice was the only answer—to
appease the powers, so to speak. And the less the Aryans understood, the
more important sacrifice became. And, if the result that occurred from the
ritual was not what was desired, the sacrifice was blamed. But the one to
suffer the most grievous blame was the sacrificer, because he was seen to
have committed errors in the rituals, which led to the adverse result. So,
every time nature became disorderly, people accused those who failed to
ensure the order; and perhaps these accused were considered asura.
Furthermore, over time, not only could there have been men who
threatened the order and broke ṛta, but the gods themselves may have been
blamed for breaking the order. The very same evil that the Aryans saw in
the natural order became inherent in the gods that represented that natural
order. Thus, evil pervaded a god’s goodness, and as the gods perpetuated
this evil, the very gods who were Asura—and good and powerful—were
blamed for weakening the order, and they themselves became representative
of negativity. A good example is Varuṇa, who, despite his thousand eyes,
could not prevent the breakdown. Hence, this asura was replaced by a more
powerful, proactive god—deva.
What is ironic is that ‘deva’ may have been used not for his qualities of
goodness and orderliness but for his evil. The word ‘deva’ can be
etymologically associated with the Avestan ‘daeva’, the false god, wrong
god, or more fittingly, ‘daebaaman’, the deceiver. Perhaps, with Varuṇa and
his host of asura gods having failed them, the Aryans decided to put their
faith in the daebaaman, hoping to deceive the vagaries of nature with the
deceiver himself, and when this deceiver was able to win the Aryans wealth
and waters, despite the caprice of nature, Varuṇa, the asura, and his
righteousness were devalued. And, perhaps, because of the evil nature of
these devas, who were now given eminence, there were some in the Aryan
tribes who rejected this idea and chose to remain loyal to the original divine
Asura; and hence they were relegated to being asura themselves.
Thus, eventually, the asura humans were banned from the Aryan
sacrifice. They were banned from the divine experience that the Aryans
evoked through the hierophany of their daivic sacrifice. Perhaps angry at
this rejection, the asuras began to gatecrash the sacrifice and corrupt it so
that the Aryans could not have the perfect communication that they hoped
to achieve with their new divines. Or perhaps they began to steal the
sacrifice to sustain their original fixed point—the sacred space and
cosmology that had been initially created. And the enmity continued to
grow, until everything imperfect and disruptive was seen as asura. The
Mahābhārata suggests this schism between the deva-believers and the
asuras in a number of myths and passages, which also shed further light on
how the asuras belonged to Aryan society, but their degradation and
consequent fall created acrimony between them and the gods and their
resulting factions. The mythos this rift created also made good and evil
amorphous, because the very idea of what was good and virtuous was in
flux.
The decline of virtuousness was attributed to the asuras as a consequence
of their ‘fall’. For example, in Vana Parva, Hanuman tells Bhīma that in an
earlier time there was no varṇa, no distinction between dānava and deva
(perhaps suggesting that all five tribes of Aryans had a common goal in the
new land) but after the deterioration of virtues (perhaps virtue of the
sacrifice), societal norms and traditions were established to sustain society.
In the new order, the celestials are established and sustained by sacrifice,
and men maintain themselves by following the ordinances of Bṛhaspati and
Uśanas.7 In other words, men maintain themselves by following the
tradition of either devas or dānavas (Mbh 3.9.418).
Another example explaining the fall is of Rāhu’s sabotage of soma: In
this Ādi Parva myth, Rāhu, disguised as a deva, drinks the ambrosia;
consequently, Nārāyaṇa cuts off his head with his discus. Rāhu’s head rises
to the sky and then falls to the earth. This sabotage becomes the genesis of
the eternal enmity between Rāhu and Candra and Sūrya (Mbh 1.5.19).
Hence, given that Candra and Sūrya are emblems of natural order, Rāhu is
the breaker of this order of the Aryan ṛta, and his transgression causes his
fall. However, it must be noted that Rāhu is not evil, nor is his theft of soma
evil, because soma did not belong to devas in the first place. Candra and
Sūrya precipitate his fall simply because he opposes the ascendency of
devas. Nevertheless, the consequence of Rāhu’s fall is that it condemns the
dānavas to not only eternal degradation but also habitation on earth. The
order that comes into existence on earth is ‘new’, as Hanuman states, but
even in this new order devas and asuras8 inherit the legacy of the conflict.
Hence, it can be concluded that the asuras were part of Aryan society,
but over time, their actions and behaviour came to be seen in opposition to
the Aryan norm, and they suffered a symbolic ‘fall’. This degradation was
seen as equivalent to evil.

INTERPRETING EVIL IN ASURA MYTHS

Devas and asuras are part of the same family tree, as is evident in many
myths in the Mahābhārata. The genealogy goes back to Brāhmaṇa and his
mind-born sons, one of whom was Dakṣa, a Prajāpati, who was born from
Brāhmaṇa’s toe. Dakṣa had thirteen daughters, including Dānu, Diti, and
Aditi, and all of them were married to Kaśyapa, who was Marīci’s son
(another of Brāhmaṇa’s mind-borns). From Dānu, who was the elder sister,
were born the Dānavas, and from Diti were born the Daityas, and the
progeny of Aditi were the Ādityas, who were devas. Hence the Dānavas (of
asura race) were the elder cousin brothers of the Ādityas. This fact of asuras
being older in the same family is another key to understanding the asura
concept; the generation gap between old and new caused perpetual conflict.

Madhu and Kaiṭabha: Asuras and Creation

In one Mahābhārata creation myth, when Brahmā is born from the lotus
arising from Viṣṇu’s navel, the dānavas, Madhu and Kaiṭabha, prevent him
from creating a new universe, because their older cosmic order already
exists. Interestingly, this older order is within the parameters of the same
cosmology that Brahmā hopes to establish in the new order. Madhu and
Kaiṭabha state, ‘We are always firm in truth and morality. None is equal to
us in strength, appearance, beauty, virtue, asceticism, charity and goodness
and self-control’ (Mbh 3.203.28-29). It is clear from these words that not
only is the older order of moral codes Aryan, it is also not evil, because
these behaviours described by the dānavas are part of Aryan ethics.
Therefore, Brahmā is hesitant (or afraid) to create a new order to replace it.
But Viṣṇu, who, in the new order, needs to be established as the new
supreme divine, manipulates Madhu and Kaiṭabha to end the old order by
tricking the two dānavas into asking for a boon. They respond by saying
that they are the ones who should be giving boons, since they are elder. And
Viṣṇu does ask them for a boon—that Madhu and Kaiṭabha allow Viṣṇu to
kill them so that he can get on with his act of creation. The two dānavas
agree but place two conditions: that they should be killed in an open space,
and they should be born as Viṣṇu’s sons in the new creation. Viṣṇu agrees,
and seeing his uncovered thighs as the only open space, kills them there
(Mbh 3.203.35), thus eliminating the older order to make place for the new
order.
 Aside from the fact that the dānavas existed before the devas and had
already created the cosmology and system of ṛta, many other elements are
also revealed in this myth: their request to be killed in an open space
suggests that a new sacred space of the new order must be open and not
interfere with any of the spaces already occupied. But since Madhu and
Kaiṭabha allow themselves to be killed, it indicates that, for the new order
to come into existence, the old must be destroyed. In addition, Viṣṇu gets
the dānavas to reconcile to the creation of this new order. Moreover, they
ask to be born again as Viṣṇu’s sons, which suggests that they are not only
willing to remain in the fold, but they also want to be part of the new Aryan
continuum of reincarnation—a concept that was gaining prevalence at this
time. Hence, if Viṣṇu, in the new order, is the daivic supreme and creation
flows from him, then in this order, both devas and dānavas are his sons—
reincarnation of earlier Aryans.
Another important attestation to the fact that the dānavas and devas are
part of the same system is that Viṣṇu destroys this existing order on his
thighs. This specificity of the thighs is very revealing: Thighs are not only a
part of the body, they are also considered most vulnerable. Additionally,
according to the Ṛg Vedic Puruṣa Sūkta hymn, the varṇa that originates
from the thighs is the vaiśyas—the varṇa related to business, farming, and
financial prosperity. This is an insight into why a new Aryan order needed
to be created: at stake was the economic stability of evolving Aryan society.
Earlier Aryans had relied on more primitive means of survival, and that
system was the most vulnerable in current Aryan society; it needed to be
overhauled. In fact, this factor also reveals the reason for Duryodhana’s
death in the frame story of the Mahābhārata. The fatal blow that kills
Duryodhana is the one Bhīma strikes on his thighs. In the context of this
myth, Duryodhana’s killing can be seen as both—the strike against his
wealth and prosperity and the destruction of an old order within the same
system.
This myth of Madhu and Kaiṭabha is also repeated in Śāntī Parva (Mbh
12.347.66–73), and in this later interpolation the two dānavas are born from
two drops of water in the divine lotus itself; thus further suggesting that
they share the same cosmographic space and originate from the same
primordial waters. But what is curious about this second version of the
myth is that now the two asuras are not evolved, and they lack dharma
(unlike in the earlier myth); now they are, in fact, embodiments of darkness
and ignorance and steal the Vedas. That is why Hari has to kill them to
retrieve the texts—so that creation can be accomplished, and the new order
can be established on the old foundation of the Vedas. However, even this
negative characteristic puts the asuras in the Aryan fold, because they are
symbolic of the post-Vedic Aryan metaphysics of evil, which was seen as
equivalent to ignorance and which always had the potential of evolving into
knowledge. Thus, the suggestion here is of Viṣṇu dispelling pre-creation
darkness and chaos by facilitating a figurative death of ignorance and
establishing an order through the knowledge of the Vedas.
This ignorance is the presumptive evil that came to be seen as the
decline of righteousness after the fall of the asuras, which is hinted at in
earlier texts. For example, in Śatapatha Brāhmaṇa, the asuras’ ignorance
causes the gods to trick them out of heaven, and in Chāndogya Upaniṣad,
the asuras put the sacrifice in their own mouth instead of in the fire;
therefore, they lose virtue and themselves (quoted in O’Flaherty 1988: 68).
Hence, the fall became complete, and from there, it was only a very short
step to the concept of asuras as mythological demons.

Yayāti: Asura Origin of the Kurus

The familial relationship between devas and dānavas is not limited to the
mythical; it also extends into the genealogy of the families of the
Mahābhārata. This is portrayed in the Yayāti myth, which is an extension of
the five Vedic tribes that D.D. Kosambi mentions. In this myth, Yayāti has
five sons—two from his brāhmin wife, Devayānī, and three from his asura
wife, Śarmiṣṭha (Mbh 1.78–84). When the brāhmin, Śukra, discovers that
Yayāti, despite being married to his daughter, Devayānī, has been keeping a
separate household and procreating with the dānava princess, Śarmiṣṭha, he
curses the king to lose his youth. Yayāti then begs each of his sons to
exchange their youth with his decrepitude. Only Pūru, Śarmiṣṭha’s youngest
son, fulfils his dharma and gives his youth to his father. Yayāti curses the
sons who refuse him to be chiefs of different clans that lack kingship and
prosperity, and to reward Pūru, he declares him his successor. It is this
asura, Pūru, who starts the dynasty of the Pauravas, of which the Pāṇḍavas
and the Kauravas are descendants, as is Janamejaya. Hence, the whole Kuru
lineage has an asura bloodline.
This myth of Yayāti not only defines the lineage of the heroes of the
Mahābhārata, but it also gives very interesting insights into asura aspects.
The first and most obvious point is that if asura-ness is to be considered a
fault at birth (as with Duryodhana), then all the heroes (Pāṇḍavas and
Kauravas) of the Mahābhārata have that fault. Also, it is evident from this
myth that the asuras are not only considered part of the Aryan fold, but are
also unrelated to the ethics of evil and good; case in point: when Yayāti
marries Devayānī, he carries on an affair with Śarmiṣṭha. If her asura birth
were a matter of shame or even evilness, would Yayāti be involved in this
alliance? In fact, when Śarmiṣṭha propositions Yayāti, she tells him she is
‘high born’ and he acknowledges it and even fathers three sons with her.
Moreover, the asura quality is not seen as evil even by the brāhmins,
because when Śukra discovers Yayāti’s indiscretion, he is angry that his
son-in-law is having an extra-marital affair and is cheating on his daughter
but not at the fact that Yayāti has been carrying on an affair with an asura
princess. Śukra curses Yayāti to curb his youthful and uncontrolled sexual
desire, not because of his involvement with a girl who could potentially be
evil. Also, if asura behaviour were evil and against dharma, Pūru certainly
doesn’t show it. Instead, it is the other brothers—sons of the brāhmin girl,
Devayānī —who disregard putradharma. Pūru, on the other hand, is the
epitome of dharma, and Yayāti rewards him by naming him his successor.
Admittedly, the priests of his court oppose his choice of heir apparent, but
that is only because Pūru is the youngest, not because he is the son of an
asura mother. This suggestion that the dānavas were accepted simply as
another (sometimes rival) faction of the Aryans and not considered evil and
abhorrent is also clear from the fact that Śukra, a high and respected
brāhmin, serves as the guru of dānavas. In fact, Śukra, himself, as Uśanas
was declared by goddess Umā as her son, after he passed out of Śaṃkara’s
stomach through his urethra (Mbh 12.289.34–5).
These myths demonstrate that the asuras were accepted back into Aryan
society by the time of the Mahābhārata’s composition. They prospered
alongside the Aryans, they were also productive members of the
community, and there was intermarriage between them and the Aryans.
However, the notoriety of the fall that they suffered in earlier texts was their
legacy. Despite their inclusion in society, they remained suspect and were
condemned if they perpetrated any infractions of dharma; and, if their
power and prosperity threatened anyone, they were not only belittled for
their asura-ness but were also often destroyed. This new status of the asuras
is evident in many epic myths about the battles between devas and asuras,
and the repeated defeat of the latter. However, despite their fall and loss of
virtue, the battle is still not of good vs. evil. It is simply archetypal and
perpetual, because, as O’Flaherty (1988: 87) states, the gods keep demons
alive to keep men beholden to them: ‘That is why the victory of the gods is
never complete—not because they are unable to conquer the demons but
because they do not wish to do so. For without the demons there would be
no reason for the gods to exist at all; without Untouchables there would be
no brāhmins.’

Indra-Vṛtra: The Deva–Asura Battle Paradigm

While the battle between devas and asuras is certainly archetypal, that is not
the only classification for it. Just like the initial Indra/Vṛtra battle, which
had a real cause and effect, but whose implications became paradigmatic for
other battles, the many battles between devas and asuras in various
Mahābhārata myths have their real causes and effects, even as they mirror
the archetype in that the asuras are always more powerful and the gods are
always threatened. Also, the gods always win (by whatever means possible)
and the asura is either destroyed or at least shown his inferior place, but
never wholly conquered. It is this archetype that scholars cite as the victory
of good over evil, or that the battle is perpetual because it is between good
and evil. Other scholars, such as Aurobindo (1997: 470), call it a ‘struggle
between the Gods and their dark opponents, between the Masters of Light,
sons of Infinity, and the children of Division and Night, a battle in which
man takes part and which is reflected in all his inner life and action’.
Aurobindo (1997: 470) also distinguishes between two kinds of people—
those with asuric nature that obstruct god-knowledge, salvation, and
perfection, and those of daivic nature. For these scholars, the symbolism of
good and evil or an interplay of the three guṇas of sattva, rajas, and tamas,
are all-important perspectives of the archetypal battle. However, there are
other factors that must be considered. For example, one causative for the
battle may have been economic rivalry, as is evident in the first battle of
Indra and Vṛtra (RV 1.32.12) and in the subsequent hymn about his feats in
which he is called ‘Wealth-bestower’ (1.33.1, 4, 10). Also, in the former
hymn, the rivals of the god—the asuras—the ones who are supposedly an
‘obstruction’ to goodness, if measured by post-Ṛg Vedic ethics, are actually
more virtuous and more evolved in sātvic tendencies than Indra. Moreover,
the consequence of the battle, as depicted in this hymn, is that Indra’s
exemption from the criminality of theft and killing of a virtuous being in the
ruse of enmity is established as a normative code, which also differs from
the original code of ṛta, because it corrupts the aesthetic order by diverting
human action away from the sacred fixed point.
The narration of the very same battle between Indra and Vṛtra occurs
thrice in the Mahābhārata and, interestingly, in each telling, Vṛtra not only
becomes more virtuous, but also more of a victim, and, most importantly,
his very asura-ness appears synonymous to godliness. This suggests that the
Aryans were aware of the evilness of destroying someone who was good
simply because he was the enemy, but having accepted it as a dictate of
their new supreme divine, Indra, and the alteration in ṛta, they followed it as
customary behaviour.
In the second retelling of this Indra/Vṛtra myth (Mbh 5.9.3-7), Tvaṣṭar is
a ‘great devotee and lord of all beings and chief among gods’. Indra is
afraid of Tvaṣṭar’s power, more so because the latter creates a virtuous son
with three heads who can be considered a deva three times over: with one
mouth he reads the Vedas, with the other he drinks soma, and, with the eyes
of the third, he sees the cardinal points. Indra kills Tvaṣṭar’s son with his
Vajra (after failing to entice him with apsarās and kāma). However, despite
killing him, Indra’s fear does not diminish; instead he grows even more
afraid and asks a passing woodcutter to cut off the head of the slain
‘Viśvarūpa’. The woodcutter denounces Indra’s action and calls the dead
son of Tvaṣṭar a ‘son of a ṛṣi’ and a brāhmin. Hence, Indra is condemned as
a brāhmin killer. Tvaṣṭar, enraged at the death of his son and creates another
son, Vṛtra, to avenge the death of the former. Vṛtra is a huge being and
supremely powerful, and because no one can oppose him, he is referred to
as ‘Mahāsura’ (Great asura) (Mbh 5:10.33–5). He is so invincible that Indra
needs Viṣṇu’s help to destroy him, and together, through treacherous means,
they kill him. But now Indra is so guilty that he loses his godly power and
hides in a lake in a diminutive form, ‘as restless as a snake’ (Mbh 5.10.46).
In this myth, Vṛtra is both an asura and a deva. Prior to Indra’s killing
him, when the celestials come to Vṛtra to request him to accept Indra’s
friendship, Vṛtra refers to himself as ‘deva,’ saying, ‘How can there be
peace between us two—myself and Śakra? How can there be friendship
between two gods who are both powerful?’ (Mbh 5.10.22), thus, suggesting
that the battle is a power play between two equals—not good and bad or
goodness and evil. Also, when Indra kills Vṛtra, the latter is even referred to
as the fearful ‘god’ Vṛtra ‘devabhayankara’—a word that has connotations
of Mahāasura. Furthermore, this myth gives a clear indication of how asura
power came to be seen as enemy power: all beings that practised Aryan
virtue were a form of devas, but if one was considered a threat by the other,
he was termed an ‘asura’ by the threatened. In fact, it is possible that the
Vṛtra faction also referred to Indra as asura, but since this story is told from
the perspective of Indra’s faction, we see only Vṛtra as asura.
A significant element that comes to light in this version of the myth is
that while Indra may be a deva in name, he is in no way of daivic nature,
because if he were, he would not be ‘afraid’ of the asura, and most
importantly, he would not ‘lose’ his sātvic qualities by destroying the asura,
and his sātvic-ness would not be reduced to the ‘restlessness of a nāga’. By
the same standard then, neither are Tvaṣṭar’s first son nor Vṛtra of asuric
nature, because there is no indication that Tvaṣṭar’s first son is a ‘[man] of
power who [is] out for the service of [his] intellectual, vital and physical
ego,’ as Aurobindo (1997: 470) characterizes asuric nature. In fact, it is
Indra who seems to fit this characterization. Hence, by extension, neither is
Duryodhana of purely asuric nature, which is made evident in the context in
which this myth is placed: In the Udyoga Parva (5.18.12–13), Śalya
compares Yudhiṣṭhira to the Indra of this myth, seeking to maintain his
throne, and he compares Duryodhana first to Vṛtra and then to Nahuṣa, who
replaces Indra on the throne as king of gods and is later deposed because of
his arrogance and disrespect of the brāhmins. From these comparisons, it
can be surmised that the reference does not make Duryodhana an evil asura
—just as Vṛtra is not evil—but an enemy of equal power and a threat. It is
true that Duryodhana is arrogant, as Nahuṣa was, and it is only in that sense
that he displays asuric behaviour. But this same arrogance can also be seen
as the rājasic confidence of any Aryan kṣatriya who needed to keep himself
bolstered in order to face the enemy in war. Therefore, while the quality of
arrogance may be seen as an asura quality, it can also be considered a
natural inclination of a kṣatriya—a quality that is actually demonstrated by
every hero in the Mahābhārata, and most especially by the acknowledged
divine hero—Arjuna. In addition, and worthy of note in Śalya’s
comparisons in this event is the fact that Yudhiṣṭhira, on the other hand,
portrayed in the character of Indra, comes across as more asuric in
behaviour and intention, because he wishes to destroy a righteous enemy
whose power threatens his own.
The first retelling of the Indra/Vṛtra myth is in the Vana Parva in the
Mahābhārata, and it is from the perspective of the Dadhīci story (Mbh
3.101–2). In this retelling, we learn the most about the purpose of the
perpetuity of battle and its connotational relationship to the conflict
between the different factions of the Aryans. In this myth Vṛtra is a
Kālakeya of the Dānava tribe and is a dānava by birth. The reason for the
battle is that once again the celestials are afraid of the growing power of the
dānavas, especially of Kālakeyas, who are led by Vṛtra; hence they must
destroy him. To this purpose, Ṛṣi Dadhīci gives up his life so that the
celestials can use his bones to make vajra. In the battle that ensues, Indra,
with the help of Viṣṇu, kills Vṛtra with vajra. Having lost their leader, the
asuras then confer and decide to destroy the asceticism of the brāhmins, and
this conference occurs in the ocean where the dānavas use Varuṇa’s palace
as their enclave. From this base, the dānavas begin to destroy the brāhmins
and ascetics in the hermitages of Ṛṣis Vasiṣṭha, Cyavana, and Bharadwaj.
The key element to understand the factional conflict portrayed in this
myth is that not only do the dānavas wage their war solely against the
brāhmins, but also their warfare seems almost guerrilla-like. They kill at
night and disappear into the sea in the morning, and, like guerrillas raiding a
place to oust the organized establishment, destroy sites representative of the
establishment, such as the sacrificial altars, leaving the contents of broken
jars and ghee ladles strewn all over the place. If this behaviour is seen in the
context of modern times, it can be perceived as strikes carried out by
activists and militants who don’t agree with an establishment they think is
corrupt and tyrannical, and they rebel against it, often using violent means.
The fact that these dānavas hurt only the brāhmins is very indicative. It
suggests a sense of resentment that certain factions of Aryan society may
have felt against the growing power of brāhmins.
Two other meanings of this battle are most obvious: (a) the passing of an
old order and its resistance to yield place to new. Varuṇa and his asuras
represent the old order, which is coming to an end, and Varuṇa is relegated
to the underworld. The brāhmins, who are the target of the guerrilla-like
dānavas, are of the new order—representative of the daivic order. But, there
is no indication that this new order is a good order, replacing an old, evil
order. It is just that—a new order, one whose evilness or goodness needs to
be empirically proven. (b) This is a conflict between new establishment and
those who are against the change, which is not necessarily for the
betterment of society. In fact, from the Bhargava accretions to the epic, the
tyranny of the brāhmins in Aryan society and the oppression they meted out
on not just the ordinary people but also on the kṣatriyas is evident. Hence,
the guerrilla asuras are like militant liberators. Their violent tactics may be
wrong, but their purpose is more dhārmic than that of Indra and Dadhīci,
who assist in supporting the tyrants rather than sustaining a general good in
society.

Sunda and Upasunda: Victims of Māyā

True to the archetype of the deva-asura conflict, the asuras are always in a
no-win situation. Despite being virtuous or oppressed, they are destroyed,
and, most often, it is because they are victims of duplicity by the gods,
which Indra has established as rightful practice within the bounds of ṛta. So,
while the asuras fight with true kṣatriya prowess, devas use treachery,
which takes many forms, including the employment of a woman’s sexuality
to entice the dānavas.
In the myth of Sunda and Upasunda (Mbh 1.209.2), these two brothers
are sons of the asura Nikumbha in the race of Hiraṇyakaśipu. They are
inseparable, and together they desire to subjugate the three worlds, so they
go to the Vindhya Mountains and practice the most severe of penances.
Once again, the gods are terrified of their ascetic power and try everything
to disrupt it by using māyā, but the asura brothers are undeterred. Finally,
Brahmā appears to grant them boons, and the brothers ask for knowledge of
all weapons, māyā, the ability to shape shift, and immortality. The
Grandfather grants them all but the last, and tells them to choose their form
of death instead. Having implicit trust in each other, the brothers choose
that only they be each other’s agent of death. Thus, with their super powers,
they begin to live a life of pleasure and, tiring of that, begin to subjugate the
three worlds, disrupting sacrifices, chasing brāhmins out of hermitages, and
killing them. They also disrupt traditions, such as sacred ceremonies,
weddings, honour of pitṛs, and recitation of the Vedas. Basically, they
disrupt the whole cosmic order preserved by the brāhmins—on earth, in
heaven, and in the underworld and then they return to Kurukṣetra to live as
lords of the worlds, enjoying the asuric order they have created by throwing
the daivic/brāhmanical system awry. To destroy these brothers, the gods
device a treacherous means—Tilottamā—a woman so brilliant and beautiful
that even the gods are bedazzled. Tilottamā appears in a single, transparent,
red garment before the brothers, flaunting her womanly charms, and soon
the brothers are fighting over her. When they both kill each other, the daivic
order is restored.
This myth proves a few points at the outset: that asura power was anti-
brāhmin and a threat to them; the gods were a brāhmin buffer. In other
words, it was the brāhmins who created the gods, and they used these gods
to destroy whoever and whatever threatened them. Also, when the brāhmin
gods couldn’t defeat the asuras in battle, the brāhmins used whatever dirty
tricks they could through the medium of gods—in this instance, it is a
woman. There is also a clear disparity in the myth: the asura brothers are
likened to celestials and respected Aryan kings in terms of their enjoyment
of life, but, while the gods and kings are celebrated for it, the asuras are
destroyed. For instance, after subjugating the three worlds, when the
brothers return to their worldly pleasures, they are compared to the
immortals who roam at will in and around gardens and forests. In fact,
when they first receive their boons from Brahmā and return home to
celebrate with their friends, words such as, ‘Eat’, Feed’, ‘Give’, ‘Make
Merry’, ‘Sing’, ‘Drink’, ‘Do as you like’ are heard in every house (Mbh
1.209.31). These same behaviours and expressions of celebrating life are
echoed in the stories of the sixteen worldly good kings that Nārada extols to
convince Yudhiṣṭhira after Abhimanyu’s death that even the best of kings,
who were true practitioners of puruṣārtha, could not save their loved ones
from death. This attests to the fact that pleasure is the practice of kṣatriyas
and is sanctioned by puruṣārtha. Yet, in the case of the asuras, the same
kāma and worldly pleasure are denounced as evil and are made a cause of
their assassination. In other words, if the asura embraces puruṣārtha and
pursues artha and kāma, even while observing dharma, he is perceived as
becoming too powerful and is destroyed, mostly by the gods who, in
adharmic ways, exploit his right to enjoyment. If he gives up the pleasure of
life and gains ascetic eminence, he is considered a threat to the brāhmins
and made to ‘fall’ from goodness. And if he acts according to his suspected
natural inclination, then he is condemned for not making an effort to
embrace goodness and rise above his asura-ness. Therefore, this double
standard of values always makes the power of the dānavas threatening to
the established order. But, to reiterate, the established order is not
necessarily a good order.
There are many other myths in the Mahābhārata that are of similar nature
and have a similar cause. For example, in the Kāca Devayānī myth (Mbh
1.76. 9–12), the gods feel threatened by the asuras because their guru knows
the formula of immortality; so, they exploit Devayānī’s natural instinct of
kāma to arrange for Kāca to learn the formula of immortality from Śukra.
Another similar myth is of Samudra Manthan in the Ādi Parva, where the
gods are afraid to allow the dānavas a share of the amṛta, and when the
dānavas acquire it, the gods get Viṣṇu to stop them. Viṣṇu uses his māyā to
disguise himself as Mohinī and entices the asuras to give up the amṛta. In
these myths, the key facts are the same—asura power is a threat; the asura
is destroyed through treachery; and the effect is also the same—downfall of
the asura. These myths also demonstrate that asuras are not evil, yet they
are perceived as such because of the threat they pose to the hegemony of
the gods, that is, the brāhmins. In addition, the asuras are not outside the
Aryan fold; they are simply an older order of heterodoxy that the evolving
Aryans—that is, the orthodoxy of the brāhmins—sought to replace.
 Arjuna and Duryodhana: A New Generation of Devas and
Asuras
The perpetuity of one order replacing another is quite evident in the
Mahābhārata. In most of these myths in which the order is changed through
trickery, the agent of treachery is Viṣṇu and the executer of treachery is
Indra (both are brothers and Ādityas). However, in the main story of the
Mahābhārata, both Indra and Viṣṇu combine in the form of Arjuna, who
takes over the destruction of the dānavas, thus continuing not only the work
of the eternal asura killers, but also their continual enmity with the dānavas.
A good example of this transformation is Arjuna’s destruction of the
Nivātakavacas in Vana Parva when he, on a quest to acquire celestial
weapons, is told by Indra to kill the Nivāts. He is given no real reason
except that Indra sees them as his enemies and asks Arjuna to repay him for
the divine weapons by defeating them. Indra simply says that the Nivāts are
his enemies—thirty million of them—and asks Arjuna to destroy them
(Mbh 3.168.71–4). The myth clearly depicts that the Nivāts live peacefully
under the ocean, not bothering anyone, in a city more beautiful than that of
the celestials, which they obtained with their asceticism and dharma.
However, Indra cannot abide this and gets a boon from Śiva that one day he
himself, in a different form, will destroy the Nivāts and seize this city from
them. Clearly, Arjuna is Indra in a different form; he is the new Indra, and
he enters the city and annihilates the Nivāts, using Indra’s vajra. Then, on
his way back from destroying the Nivāts, Arjuna sees the revolving city of
Hiraṇyapura, which the dānavas Pulomā and Kālakeya have won with their
asceticism; they live there happily and peacefully without disturbing
anyone, but Arjuna destroys this city as well. Here he uses the rudra, the
weapon Rudra had once used for the destruction of the dānava triple city,
Tripura (Mbh 3.173.40–57). These weapons—the vajra and the rudra—are
the same celestial weapons that Arjuna brings back and uses against the
Kauravas, which clearly suggests another transformation: the Kauravas are
the new asuras.
Another revealing factor of the Arjuna–Indra connection is that Arjuna is
guided by Indra’s charioteer, Mātali. Commenting on these battles of
Arjuna against the Nivāts and the Pulomās and Kālakeyas, Mātali even
reminisces about Indra’s battles of bygone days and sees the same pattern in
Arjuna’s actions. Then Mātali tells Arjuna that he has more prowess than
the gods (Mbh 3.172.32–3), which, of course, is a clear indication of the
commencement of yet another new order—this time of warrior heroes.
Whether the battle is between devas and asuras or between warrior
heroes and asuras, these incidents of asura destruction can be seen as the
paradigm of the eternal battle which is set up to appear as the battle of good
against evil and the victory of the good, but certain illuminating elements
clearly negate this: an important factor is that the battle has become
causeless. There is no more real reason to destroy the asuras, but the old
enmity exists like a custom—an age-old prejudice that has lost its motive;
hence the violence perpetrated against the asuras is more pronounced.
However, if virtue or goodness is an onus, then, here, the burden of proof
must necessarily rest in Arjuna’s virtue or lack thereof, since having ‘more
prowess than even the gods’ he is the representative of the new order. Also,
he is the sole agent of cause and effect. And he destroys both dānava cities
without provocation; in fact, the latter—Hiraṇyapura—is not even a
conquest requested by Indra. And, notably, in both cities, he leaves women
and children crying and wailing, a testament that his action is evil in that its
consequence is the grief of the innocent.
In addition to demonstrating a posteriori evil, which is revealed through
Arjuna’s action, this myth reverses the roles of the players in the
degradation of yugas. This is evident in the statement that Mātali makes
when he witnesses Arjuna’s destruction of the asuras. He says, ‘It has been
ordained by Pitāhmāh that this encounter will destroy creation. I see no
other reason for this battle’ (Mbh 3.171.22). He does not say that Arjuna is
justified in his actions because they echo Indra’s or that the asuras are evil
and always need to be destroyed; instead he says this battle (unlike the
previous battles of gods and demons) is without reason and will destroy all
of creation for no reason at all. Thus, Mātali’s words point towards a total
breakdown of order and cosmology, because according to the myth of time
and the four yugas, the final annihilation will occur when dharma has
completely deteriorated. So, either this creation’s end brought about by
Arjuna contradicts the orderliness of Great Time, or Arjuna’s unprovoked
and pre-emptive battle to destroy the dānavas is the total deterioration of
dharma; otherwise why would creation be on the verge of destruction?
Clearly, it is the latter.
Furthermore, the parallels between these and earlier battles of devas and
asuras and the main war in the Mahābhārata cannot be ignored: the
Pāṇḍavas are the new devas, with Arjuna as the embodiment of Indra; and
the Kauravas are the new asuras, who will be destroyed with the same
weapons that the gods used against the asuras of olden times. Also, just as
in all battles, the dānavas were simply enemies—not evil—the Kauravas are
also simply enemies—not evil. In fact, just as in earlier battles, both wealth
and virtue were on the side of the dānavas, and they were defeated by
treachery, so it is a foreshadowing that the Kauravas are in the right, and, in
a similar vein, they will be defeated by deception. Since this paradigm of
consequentiality has already been drawn, we know that the consequence of
the main Mahābhārata battle will also bring grief to the innocent, and this
will be perpetrated, not by the Kauravas, the reincarnation of the dānavas,
but by the Pāṇḍavas, the new gods of the new order.
There is no question that the Kauravas are the asuras of old, not only
because of the archetype they represent, but also because this correlation is
established in many Mahābhārata myths. The Ādi Parva introduces the
myth of the origin of the dānavas on earth: ‘The sons of Diti (the asuras),
having been continually defeated by the sons of Aditi (the celestials) and
deprived of sovereignty and heaven, began to take birth on earth.’ They
took birth among earth creatures, cows, mules, camels, buffaloes, and
horses, and some were even born as rākśasas and men, who became
sovereign (Mbh 1.64.28–32). On earth, the same battles between them and
devas are repeated. This not only perpetuates the cyclical battle, but also
completes the cosmographic order by taking into its fold all the three
worlds. So the action moves from the heavens to the earth, taking its cue
from the fall of asuras from heaven. Once again, the ślokas give no
indication that the asuras were evil or that their evil was the cause of them
being driven out of heaven by the gods. In śloka 28, the words ‘nirjita
yudhi’ (conquered in battle) simply suggest an opponent in war who has
been vanquished; this foe could be evil or good, just as the victor could be
evil or good. It can also be assumed that if the dānavas were sovereigns,
they governed through a societal system which was not evil, because they
enjoyed their sovereignty. Therefore, morality is on the side of the asuras,
because the verses suggest that heaven was rightfully theirs, since they were
there before the gods. Furthermore, they claimed the earth before devas
even arrived there. In the context of this symbolic paradigm of the asuras’
legitimate right to both heaven and earth, the legitimacy of the throne of
Hāstinapura becomes clear; it belongs to the Kauravas, and the Pāṇḍavas
are usurpers, just like the gods were in both heaven and earth, because in
both realms they arrived after the dānavas and snatched their wealth away
from them, all in the guise of being victims of dānava oppression.
This myth describes that on earth, the dānavas continue to have conflicts
with the Aryans; and they especially oppress the ṛṣis, a fact which weighs
on Earth like a burden, and she goes to Brahmā with a plea to be alleviated
of the weight. Brahmā, in turn, calls the celestials, dwellers of heaven, and
tells them to take birth on earth according to their respective parts and battle
the dānavas to unburden Earth. Hence, devas are born on earth in the form
of brahmaṛṣis and rājaṛṣis. Even Nārāyaṇa follows suit, because to him,
‘the most exalted of all persons,’ Indra, says, ‘“Be incarnate” and Hari
replies, “Be it so”’ (1.64.37–54). The transference of the action from the
heavens to the earth can also be seen as the devas’ bid to re-emphasize their
cosmology in the new, evolving era, because they continue to fear the
security of their particular order, and they also see the wealth and power of
asuras as threatening. So the threat and fear of old remains, as does the need
to eliminate both. What is different is that asura-ness has become a legacy
of birth, and the asura is now categorized as a race. In addition, the asuras’
oppression of the earth-dwelling Aryans with their power and strength can
now also be seen as a quality of their asura-ness; even here it is evident that
the power of the asuras has the Vedic connotations of a power that threatens
but is not necessarily evil.
A noteworthy point of this Ādi Parva myth of origins is that, on earth,
the dānavas specifically oppress the people of the four varṇas: brāhmins,
kṣatriya, vaiśyas and śūdras (Mbh 1:64:34), a clear indication that, by this
time, the Aryans had established a civic society with human societal codes,
which included the social normative of Varṇāśrama dharma and puruṣārtha
which had replaced the divine order of ṛta. In other words, to use Eliade’s
idea of sacred space, the cosmological world that the evolving Aryans
establish is not only fully affirmed, but it has also increased its sacred space
to include earthliness and classes of people. This idea also has historical
attestation: by this time, most tribal culture and beliefs of the Aryans were
transforming into early kingdoms with a systematic mode of governance,
and this governance extended to all people and races within the Aryan fold
who were now classified according to their varṇa (Thapar 2004: 119–21).
And within this system was also the race of dānavas. In fact, many of the
kṣatriya kings and exalted brāhmins who fight in the Mahābhārata are the
very same asuras who reincarnated after their fall (Mbh 1.67.1–69).
Moreover, often the Aryans turn to the asuras for help and use their wealth
and knowledge for their own aggrandizement; for example, the asura Māyā
builds the Pāṇḍavas’ palace at Khāṇḍavaprastha. But this example also
shows that the use of asuric wealth is not without its price, and it remains
the trigger for conflict because it is Khāṇḍavaprastha and its display of
wealth that provokes the next cycle of the battle—the Mahābhārata.
Furthermore, this time, there is a twist in the conflict: the one who covets
the wealth is not a deva or a daivic representative; it is Duryodhana, who is
an asura himself. But, at this time, Duryodhana is unaware that he is an
asura; therefore, his covetousness of his rivals’ wealth is not an asuric
inclination; it is more in keeping with the archetypical, Indra-like
behaviour.
Duryodhana is an asura by birth—by legacy of myth, not by lineage. He
is born of the Asura Kali, a fact that is revealed in Vana Parva when
Duryodhana contemplates suicide and is whisked away by the goddess that
the sons of Diti have evoked through sacrifices. The dānavas reveal to
Duryodhana that the goddess has made his upper body of vajra and his
lower body of flowers, and that he was given as a boon to the dānavas by
Mahādeva to fight their cause on earth. To help him in this mission, other
dānavas have also been born on earth; for instance, Karṇa is the
reincarnation of Naraka, whom Nārāyaṇa had killed in an earlier time, and
the Samasaptakas are other powerful dānavas who will destroy Arjuna.
They also mention that the quality of asura-ness will possess the hearts of
Bhīṣma and Drona and make them heartless towards the Pāṇḍavas, so that
they will not interfere in Duryodhana’s business (Mbh 3.252.5–24).
 In all of this information that Duryodhana receives from the dānavas,
except for Bhīṣma and Drona being possessed by heartlessness (which
ultimately is their own free will), there is no mention that Duryodhana is the
embodiment of evil or that he will subdue the Pāṇḍavas through evil means.
Also, in this ‘dream’, Duryodhana sees the dānavas as knowers of Veda and
practitioners of sacrifices. They are also able to invoke the goddess who has
made Duryodhana’s lower body of flowers, which, in itself is very notable,
because it hints at the respect dānavas have for the feminine principle, as
opposed to the devas who constantly use the feminine for treachery. This
fact is also indicative that Duryodhana never perverts kāma; instead,
sexuality for him is always a flowering. Clearly, here the dānavas, unlike
those of earlier battles, are practitioners of high Aryan values of the new
era. Also, Duryodhana’s upper body is made of vajra, a divine weapon that
Viṣṇu and Indra used to destroy Vṛtra. This factor not only makes
Duryodhana invincible to Viṣṇu and Indra, but it also gives him moral
superiority over them, because while Viṣṇu and Indra use vajra as an
offensive; Duryodhana is armoured with it as a defensive.
The evidence from the above examples proves another important factor
about the nature of asuras and their role in the Mahābhārata. In these myths
subsequent to the dānavas’ fall, the enmity of devas and asuras is no longer
about the establishment of different cosmological orders; it has shifted to
the possession of power and wealth within the same order, and, more
importantly, this new order pertains to temporality rather than just divinity.
Hence, when Duryodhana returns to Hāstinapura, he worships the
brāhmins, celebrates sacrifices, and gives generous dakṣiṇā, following the
artha codes of giving and enjoying wealth, which are cited as being the only
‘proper use of wealth’ (Mbh 3.257. 21–2). Thus, he is not only affirming his
participation in the divine cosmological order of the Aryans, but he is also
participating in Aryan ideology in which the acquisition of material wealth
is both a temporal sacrifice and its consecration. However, despite his
adherence to these Aryan values, Duryodhana’s pursuit and acquisition of
wealth is perceived in the Mahābhārata as asuric, because he is born an
asura; he is labelled an asura; and whatever action he performs—even if it
is ethical—is considered the action of an asura. But, if Duryodhana’s desire
for wealth is asuric, then the Pāṇḍavas, who also fight to become lords and
leaders of this new material order, must be seen as asuric as well. In
addition, in light of this materiality, the archetype of the deva–asura
juxtaposition becomes inconsequential. In fact, by reiterating the
prototypical deva = good and asura = evil imperative, the human imperative
and moral agency of not just the asura-Aryans but also the daivic-Aryans is
negated, and their myths lose ethical and moral relevance.
Thus, the asuras in the Mahābhārata are human moral agents with human
qualities of both good and evil. They also try to adhere to the ethical codes
of a societal system in which they believe, but which was rapidly changing.
Perhaps the only error on their part is that they resisted change, and the
brāhmins, who were the architects of the new social order, could not abide
this. Hence, using the degradation of the asura concept that occurred in
earlier literatures as a weapon, they targeted the non-conformists and
labelled them evil. However, not only are the asuras Aryans, they are also
not an embodiment of evil. They are simply the other Aryans.
One of the key problems of evil revealed through the reinterpretation of
the nāga and asura myths in the Mahābhārata is the victimization of the
‘other’ that became instituted. The concept of the ‘other’ has deep roots; it
originated in the Vedic times when the Aryans needed to establish
themselves, and it continued through to the epic times. Admittedly, by the
time of the Mahābhārata, the imperative for civic and economic stability
had facilitated much assimilation, which occurred through various positive
means, such as exogamy and acceptance of the ‘other’, but it also occurred
through subjugation and annexation. While this acculturation did breed
some tolerance and secularization, the Vedic idea that the ‘other’ was an-
Ārya, hence, nonconforming and a threat, persisted among people, and
when ethical ideologies were traditionalized, these characteristics of the
‘other’ came to be seen as the embodiment of evil, necessarily subject to
condemnation. However, there is no evidence that the ‘others’—nāgas
and/or the asuras—were evil or that their practices were unethical. In fact,
evidence from Mahābhārata myths shows that these ‘others’ were more
exemplary in their actions and behaviours than characters who are
considered good. Most often, as in the case of the asuras, these ‘others’
were actually adherents of the Aryan order, but because the establishment
felt threatened by them, they were castigated. The establishment—the
creators and keepers of the order—was the brāhmins, who maintained the
order with brutal rigidity to ensure their own hegemony. Consequently, this
concept of the ‘other’ created deep societal prejudices, through which both
‘others’—the nāgas and asuras—were constantly victimized, sometimes in
genocidal proportions, a practice that became a paradigm for future
generations.

1 Christopher Minkowski (2007: 391, footnote 28) states that Onesikratos, who travelled with
Alexander, mentions two snakes, one 80 cubits and the other 140 cubits. But he is the least reliable of
the sources.
2 Sudh Mahādeva is one of the most ancient Śiva temples in Jammu. It houses a black Śiva linga,
a triśūl, and a mace believed to be Bhima’s.
3 Ralph Griffith, in his translation of the Ṛg, translates Ahi as the serpent dragon.
4 Quotations from the Ṛg Veda are from 1896 translation by Ralph T.H Griffith, The Hymns of the
RG Veda, unless otherwise noted.
5 Some early scholars suggest that this was Śiva’s Paśupata form, but many more scholars have
expressed doubt that this figure in the Indus Valley seals is a Śiva prototype.
6 This incident is not included in the Critical Edition or Devanāgri editions of the Mahābhārata.
However, it is included in other popular folklore and the North Indian editions of the epic, where this
incident ends Bhāgavatyana of the Udyoga Parva.
7 Uśanas is Śukra, guru of the dānavas, and Bṛhaspati is priest and advisor to the devas.
8 In the Smṛti texts, the terms ‘dānava’ and ‘daitya’ are often interchangeable with asura. (They
belong to the same race). The term ‘asura’ is a conjunctive of a+sura, which means without ‘sura’ or
soma; hence beings deprived of soma = asura.
2
The Ethical Framework of the Mahābhārata

In Hindu society, the Vedas are considered divine word and absolute truth,
but, although these texts institute religious rituals and social systems, they
only peripherally formulate behaviours and mores. Hindu ethics are largely
based on the model established by the conduct of mythical characters in
Smṛti texts. This model, instead of being regulated by one fixed, absolute
truth, is experiential, and it is also adjusted to circumstance of time and
space. Tradition has tried to bridge the gap between the absolute truth value
and ethics of behaviour by creating a concept of god and investing in it the
qualities of goodness, which perpetuate the wellbeing of humans, and
which people can use as a standard (Nayak 1973: 42). By this standard, the
contrasting value of goodness would be evilness, which would perpetuate
human pain and suffering.
However, this perspective of measuring good and evil in the
Mahābhārata only on the basis of a single contrasting value reduces the text,
which is actually comprised of a variety of values—some ethical, some
non-ethical, some normative, and some descriptive—and the measures of
good-ness and evil-ness in this variety are also various. Most of the values
illustrated in this text are myth-based, and myth is empirical truth;
therefore, in order to measure the good and evil described in the myth, the
perpetuity of a multitude of experiences and moral behaviours (of its many
moral agents) must necessarily be taken into account. Hence, in the
Mahābhārata, it is difficult to standardize the values of goodness and
evilness.
Furthermore, by its own admission, the Mahābhārata is a compilation. It
contains the three-fold mysteries, the Vedas, yoga and science, and the
various books on dharma, artha, kāma; It also contains the histories and
discourses and various Śrutis, and it is explained by the Śāstras. It is a great
source of knowledge and a delight for readers (Mbh 1.1.18–19 & 37–9).
Considering this multifariousness, how is it possible to define one value-
parameter that confines it all?
Additionally, because this epic is both a mythical and a valuational text,
there is a dichotomy between ethical values and moral action; most often,
what ought to be done is different from what is actually done. While there is
a foundational system of ethics in the text, the morality of behaviours of the
mythical characters is dependent not so much on these normative ethics, but
on how the characters individually perceive good and evil. Hence, moral
action is made an individual obligation, and, therefore, morals are often
malleable. The main reason for this disconnect is ambiguity of dharma,
which is the modus operandi of the key governing order of ethics—
puruṣārtha of dharma, artha, and kāma, and mokṣa. This statute that dictates
individual conduct is so protean that it not only makes distinguishing
between good and evil almost impossible, it also makes the ethics of artha
and kāma pliant. Moreover, other regulatory factors, such as karma (which
could be a guiding force of good and evil behaviour), are either peripheral
to the ethical context (hence the moral agents are hardly influenced by
these), or they are so befuddled by other variants (such as the emphasis on
fate and divine intervention) that their conceptual cause and effect lose
equilibrium. This lack of fixity, albeit discordant, makes the Mahābhārata
dynamic and alive, but it also creates a scope for opportunism, because it
allows tradition makers to manipulate values to suit their purpose.

ETHICS AND MORALITY

It would be wrong to say that the scope of Mahābhārata, because of its
mythopoeic nature and multitude of values, does not include a system of
ethics that can provide for a moral codification. In fact, what underpins the
Mahābhārata text is the belief in the good and the rightful; hence, godliness.
These values have also transferred into the epic’s tradition, and adherence
to them is a Hindu’s dharma. And to give tradition its due, this conversion
is not automatic; it is a deliberate recognition by individuals through a
sustained effort of mind and action. This effort blends ‘Intellectual
conviction and ethical mentality into one and this union of belief and moral
nature is indissoluble. Righteousness is a form of God’ (Hopkins 1968:
185).
Hopkins’ comment can be the ideal for how ethics should work in a
society, because it suggests that ethics and moral action are blended though
a knowledge base. However, in the Mahābhārata, while this element of
blending is visible in its theistic construct, it is only one small component of
the text; it is not so clear in the majority of the text, in which the characters
do not demonstrate this knowledge base to translate intellectual conviction
of ethics into moral action. Hence, while the ethical values of Aryan society
come across quite distinctly, the relationship between these values and
moral action is ambiguous. Yet, this text is portrayed in tradition as
exemplifying both ethics and morality. There are two key reasons for this
equivocacy: mythmaking is often henotheistic, and in order to present a
mythical character as divine, all his behaviours, whether moral or immoral,
are given a godly veneer. Secondly, each moral agent’s practice of godliness
is tempered with elements of individual puruṣārtha, which often curbs his
intellectual conviction and ethical mentality. These factors blur the line
between good and evil and prove an imperfection of morality.
The Anuśāsana and Śāntī Parvas are the two chapters that abound with
ethical codes meant to guide moral behaviour, and the principles that are
most often cited in these chapters are: never causing pain, giving charity,
and speaking the truth. However, aside from charitable giving, the other two
are shifting values throughout the text. Even Bhīṣma, the pillar of society,
who declares unequivocally that non-injury is righteousness, admits that
‘No one describing righteousness can describe it accurately’ (Mbh
12.109.10–11). Even truth is quixotic, as Kṛṣṇa says,
bhavet satyam avaktavyaṃ vaktavyaṃ anṛtaṃ bhavet
yatrānṛtaṃ bhavet satyaṃ cāpy anṛtaṃ bhavet
[Truth becomes unutterable and untruth utterable, where untruth would pose as truth and truth as
untruth] (Mbh 8.69.32)

Therefore, truth is time and situation sensitive, and laxity is allowed in

various circumstances. Bhīṣma, too, considers truth malleable. In the Śāntī
Parva, first he states that ‘there is nothing higher than the truth’ (Mbh
12.109.4), but then he advises Yudhiṣṭhira about what men should
‘generally’ practice: ‘There where falsehood prevails as truth, truth should
not be said. There again, where truth passes for falsehood, even falsehood
should be said’ (Mbh 12.109.5). In fact, both Bhīṣma and Kṛṣṇa affirm the
moral fibre of a person who can lie as per the situation. Bhīṣma says, ‘That
person is a master of duties who can distinguish truth from untruth [and
when to use which]’ (Mbh 12.109.6). And Kṛṣṇa goes so far as to say, ‘He
who is bent upon always practicing truth alone is a fool and takes truth to be
as it is’ (Mbh 8.69.34). Therefore, it is evident in the Mahābhārata that
while the wise are aware of the ethics of rightfulness, they also
acknowledge that it is difficult to convert this wisdom into practical moral
action; instead, they think it prudent to let individual moral agents act upon
these values according to their own moral perception and circumstance.
This individualized determinant of moral action in the epic becomes
problematic in the tradition because, even though it can be said that most
people are intrinsically moral beings, they also naturally operate
subjectively. Thus, while a moral agent might feel that his/her actions are
moral, they might, in fact, affect someone else’s well-being, or even violate
ethical codes of non-injury to others. This becomes even more pronounced
when a moral agent is under duress or in a state of āpad. Also, moral agents
often become victims of situational and/or cosmic irony, acting according to
what they think is moral but discovering later that it was false. For instance,
it appears that Yudhiṣṭhira, possessing the wisdom of ethical values,
practices moral behaviour throughout the epic, but in the end, his sojourn to
Naraka falsifies him. And the fact that the first person he sees in svarga is
Duryodhana—whose behaviour is condemned as asuric and evil throughout
the epic—further fuzzes the line between morality and immorality. Does
this mean Yudhiṣṭhira’s morality lacks goodness, or is Duryodhana’s
immorality really goodness? Aside from the brief and simplistic explanation
about the karmic effect of the lie Yudhiṣṭhira tells Drona, there is no real
answer to this question in the epic, except for the admission that the ethics
of dharma are subtle. Hence, when the epic’s tradition classifies this text as
a dharmaśāstra, it sets people up for moral confusion, because a true
dharmaśāstra would lay out clear codes of action and behaviour that people
can adhere to, and the adherence of which would culminate in expected
consequences and soteriological results. Here, the followers of the tradition
are left to guess their own moral path, which may or may not be in keeping
with the righteousness of ethics.
One key reason for this dichotomy between ethical values and moral
action is the inconsistency of ideals. The Mahābhārata includes societal
practices going all the way back to the Vedas. It also incorporates the
principles of Upaniṣads, Sāṃkhya, non-injury of Buddhism, law codes of
Manu, and the evolving and new tradition of bhakti. But there is no
cohesion between these. For example, while in one śloka the ideal of non-
injury is introduced, in the very next verse the significance of a warrior
carrying out immense bloodshed is extolled. In addition, these multiple
influences create divergent traditions, two of which are especially
significant: one, world and life affirming, and the other, life negating; and
these two spawn entirely different paths of morality. They are so different,
in fact, that it is difficult to say how they originated. Surama Dasgupta
believes that both of these emanated from the Vedas, but G.C. Pande
believes that the two are such different approaches, that they emanated from
two different people—the Aryans and non-Aryans (quoted in Jhingran
1999: 8). On the other hand, scholars like Peter Della Santina suggest that
the transcendentalism and liberation through ascetic practices was a
Śramaṇical goal; whereas the secular goals of longevity, prosperity, and
progeny were brāhmanical; however, these were synthesized in Advaita and
legitimized by texts such as the Muṇḍaka Upaniṣad and, later, the
Bhagavad Gītā (1989: 100). Regardless of who or what is responsible for
these divergent trends, what is important is that they are both clearly
included in the Mahābhārata and equally available to people.
Adding to this ambiguity is the Bhagavad Gītā, which propounds
principles of life affirmation but emphasizes life negation. From the
metaphysical perspective of life negation, ideals of non-attachment appear
intrinsically moral, because they lead a person to the ultimate goal of
liberation, but perceived from the empiricism of the real world values that
the Mahābhārata actually portrays, these ideals of niṣkāma karma are not
only impossible in praxis, but they also justify evil. Yuvraj Krishan (1997:
121), explaining Śaṁkarācārya’s commentary on the Taittirīya Upanishad
(1.1), says, ‘kāma, desire, is the cause of karma (karmahetu) and is the
originator of karma’. Hence, whenever action is performed, it is because of
desire. Also, all action is causative; therefore, purpose anticipates results,
which creates attachment from the get go. Thus, if there is a purpose to kill
—such as Arjuna’s killing of the Kaurava generals in the war to gain
victory—it is motive-oriented action; ergo, attachment. It can be argued that
as long as action is dhārmic, it has the potential of good, but dharma-driven
karma creates more of a conundrum, because dharma itself is causative; any
action performed to fulfil dharma is with the goal to do good. In this case,
then, the very idea of goodness becomes a means to attachment; ergo
ignorance, and, therefore, evil. Moreover, the ultimate of niṣkāma karma
has a goal—the goal of liberation, and, in the process of pursuing this goal,
others with whom the aspirant is in relationships, may suffer injury; in
which case, the very act of detachment becomes adharma. This perplexity is
depicted in the Śāntī Parva when Yudhiṣṭhira touts the virtues of
renouncing a life of desires to enhance his own virtue and Vyāsa condemns
him for it: He chides Yudhiṣṭhira for depriving the Pāṇḍavas of their
dharma, artha, and kāma, and then states: ‘O king, the virtue that produces
affliction on one’s own self and on one’s own friends is no virtue, at all. It is
vice that produces calamities’ (Mbh 12.33.17). Obviously, Vyāsa sees
Yudhiṣṭhira’s desire for his own virtue of non-attachment as an
impingement on his family’s puruṣārtha and happiness. How can this
selfishness be considered virtuous? It benefits no one but himself; there is
no social consciousness in his virtue. According to Vyāsa, such virtue alone
is damaging, because a fulfilled and happy life requires a balance and
interdependency of dharma, artha, and kāma (Mbh 12.33.17).
Moreover, non-attachment in itself (not just in consequence) is
vulnerable to moral slippage—a fact that is amply proved in the
Mahābhārata. As long as one was not attached to the action or its result, one
could kill, practise treachery, manipulate, etc. For example, a warrior
fighting, not for personal gain, but simply to fulfil his dharma of destroying
the enemy, would employ means such as deceit and treachery, which are
necessary strategies in war. Thus, though his intention appeared to be
niṣkāma karma, his actions were not, because the very thought of deceit
requires a moral agent to acknowledge that he is breaking a code of
sādhārana dharma for a particular desire, and he anticipates the resulting
fulfilment of that desire through the deceit. This is hardly niṣkāma, because
the agent has to acknowledge his egoity in the act of breaking a dhārmic
code, and he will only perform this act when he is assured that this
particular adharma will be minimized in his own personal karmic account
by the greater good it may bring; this, in turn, will maximize his own
personal karmic gain. The Pāṇḍavas’ actions in the war are proof of how, in
the pursuit of niṣkāma karma, morality can be jeopardized to bring about a
certain result, even if the moral agent is not attached to the result. In
actuality, it is not possible to escape egoity and anticipation of results in any
act of immorality. Yudhiṣṭhira’s lie to Drona serves as a good example
again. He lies to Drona about Aśvatthāman’s death because his dharma as a
warrior and as a leader of the Pāṇḍavas is to destroy the threat that Drona
poses, and it can be believed that he does not anticipate any personal gain
from this action. However, it is not possible for him to destroy this threat
without employing deceit, even though his act appears selfless, because he
sacrifices his clean image of dharmavīra; so much so that his airborne
chariot falls to the ground. But, as a result of this act, Yudhiṣṭhira is sent to
Naraka. Obviously, this is not a selfless act at all. Not only is it egoity that
makes Yudhiṣṭhira consider a choice, but his apparent selflessness and non-
attachment are really his unconscious anticipation of results. Such
uncertainties of cause and effect are persistent problems in the epic, and
they are compounded by the inclusion of the Gītā and its philosophies.
Some scholars go so far as to suggest that the Gītā itself is not an honest
portrayal of non-attachment. For example, Hindery (2004: 144) believes
that the Gītā only pretends non-attachment to outflank the immensely
popular and selfless charisma of Buddhism; therefore, the Gītā’s idea of
non-attachment is only a gloss without any real depth. This statement has
credence in the desire-oriented words and actions of the very characters
who advocate desirelessness. For example, despite the lessons Arjuna learns
in non-attachment, his actions in war hardly follow that of a non-attached
man. While he joins the war and proceeds to kill his enemies/relatives in the
guise of non-attachment, his actions are not niṣkāma because he has a clear
goal in mind—to achieve victory, not only for the general good, but to
prove to the world that his warriorship is superlative. Also, if he truly
believed that to war is simply the dharma of a kṣatriya, he would also
believe that this is regardless of whether the warrior survives the war or dies
in it. Therefore, when Arjuna laments the death of his son Abhimanyu, who
actually dies the death of a true kṣatriya, it becomes obvious that neither he
nor Kṛṣṇa are able to perceive Abhimanyu’s death with non-attachment.
Not only is Arjuna immersed in grief at Abhimanyu’s death, but he is also
resolute in his desire for revenge against his son’s killer, Jayadratha. In fact,
he vows upon his warriorship to kill Jayadratha before the day is over; thus
violating another principle of the Gītā: egolessness. Rather than renounce
the conceit of ‘I’ as the Gītā propounds, and as Kṛṣṇa has supposedly taught
him to do, Arjuna allows his I-ness to propel him to single-mindedly kill his
son’s killer. It is the desire of his own ego that makes him take this vow, and
desire makes the action not only causative but also consequential.
Other scholars, however, do see the Gītā as a moral text; for example,
according to Nicholas Sutton, the Gītā’s qualities of action are full of
wisdom—qualities such as freedom from anger and arrogance are all good
and moralistic. Sutton (2000: 332) points out that all of chapter sixteen of
the Gītā is about morality and immorality. This view, that the Gītā is a
moral guide, is most common; however, it is this very quality that separates
it from the rest of the text, which is hardly modelled on the principles it
advocates. Even the characters that experience its guidance firsthand, such
as Arjuna and Kṛṣṇa, are hardly exemplars of its ideals, and their lives, as
delineated in the Mahābhārata, do not reflect knowledge of this. The case of
Kṛṣṇa is even more problematic, because he propounds this message as his
divine word, and he is also playing the role of a mortal; therefore, the onus
is on him to live his own ideals to perfection, which he seldom does.
Ultimately, it is clear that what is considered ethical in the scriptural
tradition of the Mahābhārata is not what is practised by the epic’s
characters, including Kṛṣṇa, mostly because these ethics allow the morality
of an action to be determined by time and situation. Hence, not only is the
former misleading for the practitioner of the tradition, but also the latter is
inconsistent with the fixity of norms in the śāstra tradition. Perhaps the
authors of the epic were aware of the ambiguity in the system, and perhaps
that is why the didactic Śāntī and Anuśāsana Parvas and the Bhagavad Gītā
were added (as per those scholars who believe that these were later
interpolations). Or, perhaps, the epic suggests that, in the prevailing system,
no one could really align moral action with theorized ethical codes, and the
system itself was flawed and needed to be fixed. In that case, perhaps the
epic was a plea to bring clarity in ethical and moral values for the
betterment of society. However, these remonstrations were lost in the
tradition.

KARMA
Another ideology in the Mahābhārata that creates discrepant standards in
tradition is karma. In principle, this ideology is not only a law of cause and
effect but also a system of checks and balances against which an individual
can measure his or her good and evil, make the right choices, and be
accountable for their actions. However, in the epic, karma bears many more
meanings, and each one deepens the confusion of how this principle comes
into play. At times it is daivya which seems to impact man without any
human effort or causative. At other times, it is kāla, which makes all other
factors impotent. Sometimes, the causative appears to be a curse rather than
a past action, and, only sometimes, it is described as the complex causal
chain of action and consequence. Therefore, in the Mahābhārata, the
ambiguity with which karma is presented makes its ethics ineffectual, and
when these ethics are brought into practice (which is rare), the principle is
presented as impractical and inequitable, and, most importantly, it does not
serve as a system of accountability.
This release from the liability of consequence is set by Kṛṣṇa himself. In
the Gītā, Kṛṣṇa declares himself as not just the knowledge of the supreme
self, but also the foremost among causes and effects in a life of pravṛtti. He
says: ‘I am argument of all debtors …I am the dice-game among cheats, I
am the glory among glories. I am victory, I am industry, I am the goodness
of the good…I am the rod of the chastiser, and the policy of those that seek
victory…Whatever thing there is…know them to be produced from
portions of my energy’ (BG 10: 36). From this perspective of pravṛtti, the
Gītā is in alignment with the frame story of the Mahābhārata, which
celebrates active life with its full gamut of good and evil of cause, action,
and consequence. By definition, this is the theory of karma in play.
However, Kṛṣṇa’s words indicate that karma is not the cause and effect for
which each individual is accountable; instead, its cause and effect are
contained in the divine, eliminating individual responsibility of the
consequence of action.
This exemption of the moral agents is a key problem in the epic, and it is
most evident in the behaviour of the Pāṇḍavas who commit sins with
impunity, because they attribute the resulting suffering of others, not to
what they have perpetrated, but to the victims’ own formulaic karma and
past actions. Bhīṣma tells Yudhiṣṭhira a story about Gautamī (in the
Anuśāsana Parva) that explains this (Mbh 13.1). In the story, Gautamī’s son
is bitten by a snake and he dies. A fowler, Arjunaka, catches the snake,
binds him with a cord, and brings him to Gautamī with the intent of
punishing him for the evil he has committed by biting an innocent child.
The rest of the narrative explores the ethics of who is really to blame for the
death of the child and the suffering of the mother. The narrative then goes
on to find the original cause of evil and to determine if the agents that carry
out the evil are just as responsible. The cause is linked from the snake to
Mṛtyu to Kāla, and then the child and the old woman’s karma. Ultimately,
everyone is exonerated because the original cause is discovered to be none
other than the child and the mother themselves. They both suffer because of
their own karmas. Hence, the snake that bites the child is not guilty, because
he is simply an agent of Mṛtyu, and Mṛtyu is innocent, because he is sent by
Kāla, and Kāla is innocent because he is simply acting on the dictates of the
karma of the child and mother. So, the old woman accepts that her own
karma is the main cause of her suffering, and the others are freed of blame.
This story establishes that there is no external cause of evil; the
individual himself is responsible for his own evil and his own suffering. But
suffering, although self-inflicted as a remote cause, needs an agent to act as
an immediate cause, and the perpetration is not evil, because the perpetrator
is simply an agent. However, the praxes of this formulaic karma not only
allow evildoers to escape the consequences of the evil they have committed,
but to also justify causeless suffering. Perhaps, the question to ask here is: is
there any circumstance under which agents can be considered guilty?
In theory, the answer to that is, ‘yes’; by the principle of the doctrine, at
least under two types of circumstances: (1) If the agent, instead of being an
unattached doer carries out the evil act with intent and (2) all evil acts, even
if carried out simply as a dictate of kāla and mṛtyu, consequent to the
sufferer’s karma, incur evil karma and become subject to the principle of
causation. Hence, the agent, although unattached to his or her
‘unintentional’ evil action, gets caught in the cycle of this evil as well. But
how does an individual avoid becoming an agent of evil in order to remain
free of the effects of evil action? This is not possible, because, unlike the
lack of culpability of the agent in Gautamī’s story, the fact that an
individual is chosen as an agent of evil is already a result of that
individual’s past action or karma. For example, the snake in this story is
actually an agent of Mṛtyu because he incurred some bad karma in his past
birth for which he has to pay by becoming a snake and biting the innocent
child. And now, in his next birth, he will have to pay for biting the child.
So, one evil action leads to another in a complex causal chain of events that
extends over innumerable lifetimes. In this story, the agents are not only
non-human, but also acting as per their natural inclination (the snake bites,
kāla destroys, etc.); however, when this story is applied to human agents, it
gains moral relevance. For instance, if the snake is replaced by a human
agent, then the killing of the child, despite the karma of its past life would
be considered an evil act because killing innocent children is not a natural
inclination of human moral agents; it has to be intentional. Similarly, if
Mṛtyu and Kāla are replaced with human agents, their commissioning the
death of an innocent child would implicate them of diabolic intentions.
This causal chain linking intention, action, and consequence is almost
completely lacking in the Mahābhārata, especially in the case of the
supposed dharma heroes, the Pāṇḍavas, who do not suffer any of these
intentions or consequences. They commit many offences, which are often
justified as simply the fruition of the victim’s own past actions. In addition,
to give the Pāṇḍavas even greater impunity and credulity, these past actions
are attached to the victims themselves as a curse, which the Pāṇḍavas
righteously fulfil as agents, or they are obligated to do so by a vow they
have taken. The Mahābhārata abounds with such examples: the treacherous
killing of Karṇa is attributed to his curses and past life; the deceitful killing
of Drona is attributed to the fulfilment of Dhṛṣṭadyumna’s purpose on earth.
Bhīṣma’s killing by duplicity is because of Ambā’s curse and her endeavour
to destroy him; Duryodhana is killed by foul play because of the vow
Bhīma had taken; etc.
 Another deeply confusing factor in the idea of karma in the Mahābhārata
is its interchangeability with fate or daivya. The element of fate has no
Vedic precedent, and the Upaniṣadic philosophers did not admit the
influence of fate, except to say that everyone makes his or her own fate. But
the Purāṇas and epics clearly suggest the prominence of daivya and niyati,
often, even over human effort, and it is defined severally—an effect of
preceding lives, payback for wrongdoings in present life, divine ordinance,
kāla, good luck, etc. These various interpretations of fate are very much
evident in the Mahābhārata, and most often in situations where the sinful
actions of the Pāṇḍavas cause pain and suffering for themselves, for the
Kauravas, and for other people. Additionally, fate is held responsible in
situations of extreme devastation that do not seem to have a visible cause,
and fate is also invoked when the cause is evident but cannot be visibly
acknowledged, because other factors have greater sociological significance,
such as if a brāhmin commits a sin and causes a distressing event. Also, if
someone does not receive an anticipated reward for his actions, he or she
accepts the disappointment as fate’s doing.
There are numerous examples of all such relegations of karma to fate,
but nothing can be more glaring than Yudhiṣṭhira blaming fate for his role
in the dice game. Yudhiṣṭhira also refuses to see his brothers’ fault in
creating situations that cause pain and suffering. Even when Bhīma delivers
a death-blow to Duryodhana with blatant deceit, Yudhiṣṭhira does not hold
Bhīma responsible; instead he upbraids Duryodhana and tells him that his
brothers’ deaths is a result of fate: ‘For your folly, your brothers, mighty
warriors all, and your kinsmen, have been killed by us! I think all this is the
work of Destiny’ (Mbh 9.59. 26). Even Kṛṣṇa uses fate as a scapegoat to
exonerate the Pāṇḍavas of their immoral actions. After the war, when he
visits Dhṛtarāṣṭra to console him, he too calls the death of the Kauravas
‘destiny’: ‘What else can it be but the effect of Time? Indeed, Destiny
always reigns supreme! Do not attribute any fault to the Pāṇḍavas’ (Mbh
9.63.48). Curiously, even Dhṛtarāṣṭra, who suffers the death of all his sons
and the whole Kaurava army at the hands of the Pāṇḍavas, blames destiny
and not the Pāṇḍavas, saying:
When the valiant Bhīṣma having encountered Śikhaṇḍin, died like a lion, killed by a jackal, what can
it be but Destiny? When the Brahmin Drona, the master of all offensive and defensive weapons has
been killed by the Pāṇḍavas in battle, what can it be but Destiny? When Bhūriśravas has been slain in
battle, as also Somdatta and king Valhika were killed, what can it be else Destiny? When Bhagadatta,
an expert in fighting from the back of elephants, has been killed and when Jayadratha has been slain,
what can it be but Fate? When Sudakṣiṇa has been slain and Jalasaṃdha of Puru’s race, as also
Śrutāyus and Āyutāyus, what can it be but destiny?’ (Mbh 9.2.30–5)

Even Duryodhana, who, throughout the epic, never forgets that the
Pāṇḍavas are his enemy blames everything on fate at the end of the war. ‘I
was the master of eleven camus of troops and yet I have come by this
plight…no one can control Destiny’ (Mbh 9.64.9). There is an abundance of
such examples of moral agents attributing the consequences of action to
destiny.
In one instance the epic does question the acceptance of fate over
responsibility, but this questioning is done by Draupadī—a woman—and
not by a warrior hero or a brāhmin; hence, the words do not much impact
the prevalent norms. Draupadī condemns fate for its power over men and
condemns men for allowing fate to have power over them. Although she
accepts that her sorrows in exile are due to fate—Vidhāta—and Creator—
Dhāta (Mbh 3.30.1)—she condemns both by saying, ‘If the act done follows
the performer then forsooth, the God himself is contaminated with the sin of
every action’ (Mbh 3.30.42). In addition, she states that if this sin does not
touch upon a person, then it is only because of their own power, but the
ordinary man who is weak is doomed. Hence, Draupadī questions the very
nature of karma and fate and gives precedence to karma, thus redefining
ethics of fatalism as ethics of karma. In fact, it is Draupadī alone who also
sees fate as escapism from accountability of action that negates the laws of
karmic cause and effect: ‘The man who believes in chance and who, though
capable of work, does not work, does not live long, for his life is one of
weakness and helplessness’ (Mbh 3.32.15). She adds that even fate rewards
those who perform pristine action; action itself could be pure or impure—
but action is the key. ‘If a person were not himself the instrument of his
acts, the sacrifices would not bear any fruit in his case’ (Mbh 3.32.30). It is
only because humans are the instrument that they are considered good when
they perform good actions, and bad when they perform bad actions. If it
were all fate, how could a man performing bad action be considered sinful?
Thus, Draupadī removes the consequence from fate’s hands and places it in
the hands of moral agents and clearly defines the ethics of good and evil.
Draupadī’s probing questions about ethics of action are, in fact, the only
dynamic that can justify the epic tradition’s personification of evil in
Duryodhana’s character. Otherwise, if his hurtful actions against the
Pāṇḍavas are passed off as their fate, then Duryodhana himself stands
exonerated in the same way that the Pāṇḍavas are.
In actuality, it is in Duryodhana in particular and the Kauravas in general
that the concept of karma is realized. The Pāṇḍavas, who are blind to the
cause and effect of their own actions, not only see Duryodhana and the
Kauravas’ actions in a karmic light, they also insistently force the Kauravas
to see the cause and effect of these actions and not pass them off as fate. For
example, in Karṇa Parva, as Kṛṣṇa directs Arjuna to shoot the fatal arrow
that will kill Karṇa, and Karṇa, whose chariot wheel is stuck in the mud,
points out the violation of a code of war, Kṛṣṇa reminds Karṇa of his past
evil actions, saying sarcastically, ‘Fortunate, it is, O son of Rādhā that you
remember virtue. It is always seen that men, when they are in distress,
speak ill of the providence and not of their own evil deeds’ (Mbh 8.91.1).
Also, the retributive aspect of karma spanning many lives is mentioned only
in reference to the Kauravas. For example, when Aśvatthāman makes plans
for the night raid against the Pāñcālas because he wants to kill ‘Those
destroyers of [his] father in the night when they are buried in sleep,’ he
says, ‘I care not if I am born as a worm or an insect in my next birth’ (Mbh
10.5.27), thus implying the accumulation of karmic effect in subsequent
lives. Additionally, the distinction between fate and karma is also associated
mostly with the Kauravas. For example, advising Aśvatthāman before the
night raid, Kṛpa tells Aśvatthāman: ‘Generally no act ever becomes fruitless
in the world … There is hardly seen a person who obtains something of
itself without having made any exertion, as also one who does not obtain
anything even after exertion’ (Mbh 10.2.13–14).
The idea of karma’s retribution is also most clear in Duryodhana’s case,
when the Pāṇḍavas and Kṛṣṇa constantly remind him of his immoral acts.
Even as Duryodhana is dying from the fatal strike that Bhīma has delivered
treacherously, Yudhiṣṭhira tells Duryodhana, ‘forsooth you suffer dreadful
consequences of your own former acts’ (Mbh 9.59.22). In fact, karma’s
equitable retribution is made completely clear in a strange twist of words
that are evoked by Duryodhana: as he is dying Yudhiṣṭhira tells him that the
Pāṇḍavas will suffer more, because while Duryodhana will depart to the
other world and go to heaven, they, the ‘creatures of hell shall continue to
suffer the bitterest grief’ (Mbh 9.59.28). In the final reckoning then, karma
holds the Pāṇḍavas accountable for their actions, and condemns them to
suffer the consequence—their own guilt and suffering.
However, there is a glaring inequity in how much the Pāṇḍavas are held
accountable as compared to the Kauravas. This is clearest in the Strī Parva,
when the narrative describes how the war that the Pāṇḍavas helped start
causes the suffering of innumerable wives, mothers, and sisters who walk
the fields and bewail the dead, questioning the justification of the war. But,
sadly, the epic glosses over this dire consequence and treats it not only
briefly (there are only 19 verses devoted to the lamentation of the women in
Strī Parva) but also mildly—a small offence that is easily rectified with a
yajña and charity to brāhmins.
One of the reasons karma is ambiguous in the Mahābhārata is that, in
epic times, the theory was still evolving. Various forms of karma were
derived from all belief systems prevalent at that time, and there was no
reconciliation or unification of them. Karma in pre-epic form may have
been a system of soteriology; the germ of it is present in the Vedas as
iṣṭāpūrta (stored up merit of sacred rites), which, in the Brāhmaṇas, came to
be known as yajña karma. This karma, as Yuvraj Krishan (1997: 29)
succinctly concludes, entailed
(i) construction of works of public welfare; (ii) the productions of merit or beneficial potency, which
is invisible—adṛṣṭam; (iii) the storing up (āpūrta) of merit in heaven, svarga; (iv) the transmigration
of the soul (ātmā), of the yajamāna (performer of the iṣṭi) after death, from earth (bhūloka) to heaven
(svarga); and (v) the enjoyment of the stored up merit by the soul of the yajamāna, in heaven.

But, it is important to note that this Vedic form of karma was ritualistic, not
moral, and if a vidhi aparādha occurred in the ritual which rendered it
ineffective, there were ways to expatiate that ‘sin’ through further ritual.
Wendy Doniger O’Flaherty (2007: 3) suggests that it may have been the
theory of ‘re-death’ that predetermined the theory of rebirth. Citing David
M. Knipe’s Sapiṇḍīkaraṇa: The Hindu Rite of Entry into Heaven,
O’Flaherty (2007: 3) explains that the funeral rites of śrāddha and piṇḍa in
Vedic rituals were to ‘prevent the dissolutions of an after-life for the
deceased. However, she also points out that these rituals indicate a number
of inconsistencies and ambiguities and raise questions that plague the
theory of karma in later texts (O’Flaherty 2007: 3–4). The Mahābhārata
includes this earlier form of the Vedic concept of karma in many of its
myths, especially in the way it is portrayed, not as an ethical principle to
show that good karma begets good, and bad karma begets bad, but simply
as an eschatological practice. In addition, the Bhagavad Gītā also expounds
the Upaniṣadic perspective of the nivṛtti-based karma, which binds a soul in
an action-consequence chain or saṃsāra, and the only release from this
bondage is mokṣa, which requires abandonment of desire-based karma.
The Mahābhārata, thus, reflects various ideas about karma that did not
quite cohere, because they were derived from various sources. However, the
tradition of the epic conjoined the nivṛtti form of karma with pravṛtti-based
puruṣārtha, and this created an ethical trap in which a person, on the one
hand, is encouraged to enjoy a life of materiality, but on the other hand,
condemned by karmic law for his/her attachment to material enjoyment.
Moreover, in tradition, the examples of epic heroes—even those as evolved
as Yudhiṣṭhira—caught in saṃsāra give people a pessimistic outlook on life,
because a person’s actions are unceasing, and, according to the karma
doctrine, so are their results; when Dharmavīra himself, or Arjuna, who is
taught the knowledge of extrication from saṃsāra, cannot break the cycle,
how can an ordinary person hope to achieve this? The only solutions
tradition seems to offer are that one can either cease all action, or that one
can follow the Bhagavad Gītā-devised niṣkāma karma. However, the former
is not possible and the latter is not only ambiguous, but also next to
impossible.
Another grave danger in the theory of karma that the epic tradition
presents, especially through the philosophies of the Gītā, is that it creates
inequity in society by drawing rigid lines of varṇa. The Gītā enjoins that
one must act only according to one’s dharma, and that it is evil to act
against it (BG 3.35). This injunction must be seen in combination with
varṇāśrama, which was an ethical principle of Aryan society and was made
binding for moral agents through the Dharmaśāstras. For example,
according to Manu, a śūdra must only serve the upper castes, and if he
performs any other duty that is the dharma of other castes, these actions will
bear undesirable fruit. Also, a śūdra must not listen to the Vedas, and he
must refrain from performing Vedic rituals or any ritualistic action to
expatiate his sins, or even to improve himself through jñāna (Laws of Manu
10.122–7, Müller: 428–30). Therefore, in order to perform moral action, the
only path a śūdra can follow is the path of karmayoga; however, following
this path, a śūdra is forever caught up in servitude. The śūdra’s only way
out is that he perform his servitude to the best of his ability, which means
that he can never improve his lot through puruṣkāra. In theory, niṣkāma
karma for the śūdra seems possible, but in praxis, it is almost impossible.
For instance, how can it be expected of a person who cleans out latrines to
be happy with his lot in life, and to continue for the rest of his life to clean
latrines to the best of his ability without making any effort to get out of that
profession, even if he accepts that his life is a consequence of some past
karma? And if he does desire to improve himself, he breaks the principle of
varṇa dharma, and hence accrues bad karma, which could bring him right
back to this sort of life upon rebirth too. In short, he is damned if he does,
and damned if he doesn’t.
The Mahābhārata does not elaborate on the societal inequities of the
śūdras in its myths, because it is mainly a text about warrior heroes and
kṣatriya dharma. However, it advocates adherence to one’s varṇa dharma in
various places, and especially in the Gītā. These references may have been
a reflection of the conversations that were occurring in society at that time,
but when these were codified by tradition and supported by the decrees of
the Dharmaśāstras, they resulted in discriminatory standards in society that
persist till today.
Thus, in the majority of the Mahābhārata narrative and myths, karma is
actually presented only as a cursory measure that is quite ineffectual in
setting clear standards of good and evil, or clear ethical connections
between cause, action, and consequence. Hence, the doctrine of karma is
neither explored in its retributive fulsomeness, nor in its liberating
potentiality. In fact, in the former case, it is almost non-existent, because the
epic never describes the consequences of actions in rebirth. No character’s
preceding births are presented in connection to their karma; therefore, there
is no evidence of how a person’s present life is a consequence of his/her
past life. The only reference to this chain is in some incidental myths, such
as Draupadī, in a previous life, asking Śiva for a husband five times, hence
obtaining five husbands in her subsequent life; but, even in this, no insight
is provided into the good and evil attributes of her actions or behaviours
which caused her to be married to five husbands in her next life. Nor is
there any mention of the next birth of any individual. The farthest extent of
the epic’s reach is svarga or naraka lokas, which are places of simple joy
and suffering, respectively, far removed from the reality of life.
Hence, the concept of karma in the Mahābhārata is more of a confusing
factor than a guiding principle of ethics and morality. Also, in the epic’s
depiction, karma’s equation with fate and destiny not only make it
ineffectual as a measure of accountability, but it also creates a pessimistic
and fatalist theme in a Hindu’s life, especially because its inexplicable
dichotomies make human suffering appear causeless and futile. These
problems were further compounded by tradition, adding remedies such as
sacrifice, charity to brāhmins, and bhakti to help people circumvent the
effects of karma.

PURUṢĀRTHA
The guiding force in the Mahābhārata is a system that is meant to sustain
society in all respects. This is the system of puruṣārtha. With dharma as the
leading principle in this value system of ethics, the epic is framed within the
caturvarga of dharma, artha, kāma, and mokṣa. However, at the very outset,
the last principle, mokṣa, must be eliminated from the equation, because
this is only peripheral at best. Mokṣa is the concept of liberation, but it is at
odds with the lives of moral agents in the epic. ‘The proper eschatological
goal of life dedicated to the realization of the first three goals should have
been heaven which has been … recognized by various religion texts’
(Jhingran 1999: 17). But, instead of heaven, which is the natural outcome of
living a life of dharma and pravṛtti, liberation is included in the fourth and
final goal of human life. G.C. Nayak (1973: 31) says that mokṣa ‘is more or
less an exhortation to transcend the dichotomy of good and evil and attain a
stage of awareness in which all worldly differences … no longer appear to
have any significance or importance’. Hence, in the context of the
Mahābhārata, the idea of mokṣa is incongruous, because myths are
significantly about the human experience in the realm of good and evil.
 Many scholars see mokṣa as amoral, because to achieve mokṣa, all
action—good or bad—including moral action, is renounced. Referencing
O’Flaherty and P. Hacker, Sutton (2000: 314) says that to attain mokṣa
‘modes of behaviour are dictated not on the basis of consideration of right
and wrong, but, as with Aristotelian ethics, they bring success to the
practitioner, in this case release from the world experience. Hence ethical
codes presented in it are not an appreciation of moral rectitude but simply a
part of a soteriological technique’. However, Sutton (2000: 316) also adds
that, ‘it is notable that the term dharma is used for both [moral action and
mokṣa]’. In fact, in the Mahābhārata, the concept of mokṣa is made
moralistic, because, although mokṣa dharma appears to negate moral
content in action, its pursuit requires a discipline which is more vigorous
than just an adherence to dhārmic morals of right and wrong; this makes it
an ethical guiding principle. But, regardless of the ethics this principle
delineates (or not), the fact remains that mokṣa dharma is not practised by
any major character in the epic, and it is not at all a part of the narrative of
the Mahābhārata (aside from the treatise on it by Kṛṣṇa and Bhīṣma). So, it
really cannot be considered in the ethical framework of the epic. And this
very fact, that the principle of mokṣa can be eliminated from the discussion
about the epic’s ethics, is a problem because, while it is easy to discount it
in theory, it is not so in a Hindu’s life, who has been taught by tradition to
recognize it as part of puruṣārtha. It is integral to his ethical goals, and he
keeps striving to achieve that which his own life renders unachievable.
The foundational principles of the Mahābhārata are the trivarga of
dharma, artha, and kāma, with the observance of all three interwoven, as
suggested by Nārada when he enquires of Yudhiṣṭhira after his coronation
as king: ‘Do you, dividing your time judiciously, follow religion, profit and
pleasure?’ (Mbh 2.5.19). Out of these three principles, dharma is key,
because it overarches the other principles and is central to the ethical
framework of the epic. In fact, kāma and artha, if pursued without dharma,
have the potential of becoming immoral; therefore, dharma is the only right
means to achieve the goals of trivarga. ‘Just like one may ask “what is
ethical?” In the same way one can ask “What is dharma?”’ (Sutton 2000:
293).
 Dharma
In its very basic meaning, dharma is duty, morality, justice, virtue, religion,
and all other such principles that guide rightful action. According to its
Sanskrit root ‘dhr’, it means to hold or uphold, which means that it holds
together or upholds society, community, family, and the individual. Hence,
an individual, by acting in the way of dharma, holds together in a
consequentiality of a domino effect, his family, community, society, the
universe, etc. While in the Vedas the determinate of right and wrong and
good and evil was ṛta or an-ṛta, and, to some extent, being Aryan or an-
Aryan, in the Mahābhārata, the guiding principle is dharma with its
antithesis, adharma. In Vedic times, ṛta was order—cosmic order, the order
of rituals and sacrifices, and the order of human behaviour. Vedic Aryans
believed that their personal lives and gods were subject to cosmic order
being upheld; therefore, ṛta was the fixed point from which all other orders
emanated and into which all orders converged. In the Mahābhārata, the
order is not cosmic; it is a ‘moral order which is oriented towards the
conservation and realization of moral and spiritual values. It is the belief
that the moral law, and not the mechanical forces of nature, governs and
controls the world order and all natural processes. It is also the belief in the
final victory of justice, better known as truth (satya) or right (dharma)’
(Jhingran 1999: 33). This is to say that the moral quality of one’s deeds,
thoughts, and desires not only condition one’s character but also manipulate
the natural order so that one is thrown in external circumstances that are
most suited to effectuate the rewards that one’s moral character deserves.
This is the order of dharma.
Unlike ṛta, which is fixed, dharma is mutable; it is time-, character-, and
situation-specific. As Surama Dasgupta (2008: 342) says, ‘There cannot be
any fixed or rigid standard of duties for all times, because life is complex
and ever changing. What appears to be good or right in one context may not
be so at another; at most, some general maxims and principles can be laid
down’. Moreover, dharma is also consequential, and what people
experience or suffer or gain from this order is the very element that
determines its mutability. Hence, how people act in these experiences is
dharma. This makes dharma normative to a certain extent, but it also makes
it descriptive. Because dharma creates models of action and behaviour, and
it brings together individuals who interact and relate to one another as per
these models of behaviour, it can be seen as the cohesive for social
harmony. But this same individual whose dharma is the cohesive can also
give up family, community, and society in the pursuit of mokṣa, and that too
is dharma—mokṣadharma.
Dharma also implies in itself a whole code of conduct about behaviours
to be avoided, such as crimes—murder, adultery, theft, spiritual sins—
arrogance, envy, jealousy, and all injury of beings, etc. It also includes in its
fold following the stages of life and adhering to caste, customs, daily
rituals, societal norms, etc. Dharma is all this, and much more. In fact, the
meanings of dharma are so various and all-encompassing that dharma is
untranslatable, especially into simplistic terms of duty, morality, or virtue.
The concept of dharma is present in all its shades in the Mahābhārata, and
all the myths, side stories, characters, situations, treatises, are delineated
and defined by it in its variousness—from basic rules to complexities of
characters and moral dilemmas.
The two primary dharmas that underpin the epic’s framework of ethics
are varṇadharma and āśramadharma, but there are also a few others, such
as naimittakadharma, rājadharma, strīdharma, and kuladharma, that come
into play depending on the situation or event. Āśramadharma is behaviour
according to one’s stage in life (brahmacarya, gṛhastha, vanaprastha, and
saṃnyāsa). Hence, what is allowed for a person in one āśrama may not be
allowed in the dharma for another in another stage of life; for example, it is
the privilege and right of a person in gṛhastha to experience and pursue
sexual desire, but for a person in brahmacarya, this is forbidden.
Varṇadharma entails occupation, duties, and actions to be performed
according to one’s caste. Hence, what may be dharma for one caste may be
adharma for the other. For example, non-violence is prescribed for the
brāhmin, but a kṣatriya has to necessarily kill his enemy, and a butcher has
to necessarily carve the meat of an animal. These āśramas are like controls
that society imposed on the people. Hindery (2004: 90) equates this control
of power to morality, because it created order and some justice. However,
this control became a real problem of evil in the tradition, because unlike
the Vedas, where individuals recognized and practised order, not because it
was right or wrong, but because it was a continuum of the cosmic order (a
natural state of being), the epic’s moral order was necessarily to establish
standards of right and wrong (an imposed state of being). Also, no matter
how orderly varṇāśramadharma may have been for society, it did not
promote justice or equality, because it was biased, not only against women,
śūdras, and Mlecchas, but also in the hierarchy of the castes.
In the epic’s brāhmin-controlled framework of varṇāśrama, there was
one set of ethics or ethical bindings for brāhmins and another set for the rest
of the people, especially for the śūdras, women, and those outside the Aryan
fold. The brāhmins were allowed anything they chose to justify—even
those actions that were forbidden in the normative ethics of puruṣārtha and
the restrictive order of varṇāśrama. For example, they could change their
profession and become kṣatriyas, like Drona. They could indulge in kāma
and covetousness, like Parāśara. They could lie, cheat, and even indulge in
violence and anger—all with not just impunity but also self-righteousness;
for example, Jamadagni Paraśurāma, who metes out extreme violence
against the kṣatriyas and is actually deified for it, so much so that tradition
considers him an incarnation of Viṣṇu. This dubious environment of
contradictions, double standards, and constant self-aggrandizement that the
brāhmins created was a hindrance to evolvement in morality. ‘The caste-
feeling … not only deprived the slave of “god and sacrifice” and made the
mere “people” (that is, the agricultural and mercantile classes) the “food of
kings” but exalted the priest to the position of gods on earth’ (Hopkins
1968: 59).
In the Mahābhārata, the brāhmins are portrayed as not only powerful but
also intolerant of any mutinous element that threatens their supremacy, so
much so that they can even manipulate the very scope of creation to ensure
that they remain supreme. For instance, in Vana Parva, Mārkaṇḍeya tells
Yudhiṣṭhira that ‘when the world is annihilated by Kalki, I will create a new
Yuga surrounded by brāhmins and will exterminate all the low and
despicable Mlecchas … Then exterminating all robbers, I will duly give
away this earth at a great horse sacrifice to the brāhmins … In the Kṛta
age…the śūdra will be devoted to the service of the other three orders. Such
will be the Dharma…’ (Mbh 3.190.17 & 3.191.1,14). And then he warns
Yudhiṣṭhira: ‘You should never humiliate a brāhmin, for a brāhmin if angry
can destroy the three worlds by his vows’ (Mbh 3.191.20). These statements
are especially ironic because, in this same parva, Mārkaṇḍeya classifies the
four castes as merely different parts of Nārāyaṇa, the supreme deity, and he
also states the qualities of a brāhmin as ‘devoted to asceticism’, ‘souls
under complete control’, ‘desirous of knowledge’, ‘freed from lust and
wrath and envy’, ‘unwedded to earthly things’, ‘their sins completely
destroyed’, ‘possessing gentleness and virtue’, ‘free from pride’, etc. (Mbh
3.189.14). Obviously, these qualities were only a theoretical ideology,
because the brāhmins in the epic, including Mārkaṇḍeya, are hardly these
paragons of virtue.
The control that the brāhmins wielded can also be seen in how people of
other varṇas in the epic perceive this caste. To cite just a few examples: in
Ādi Parva, Arjuna is told by the Gandharva, Angāraparṇa: ‘A king who is
without a brāhmin, can never acquire any land by his bravery or nobility of
birth only, O spreader of Kuru race, therefore, know that the kingdoms with
brāhmins at their heads can be retained for long’ (Mbh 1.170.79). Another
telling example is when, at her svayaṃvara, Draupadī chooses Arjuna, who
is disguised as a brāhmin, all the attending kṣatriya kings object to her
choice; but though they feel insulted, they do not want to call out or hurt the
brāhmin, because they believe that ‘[their] kingdoms, lives, wealth, sons
and grandsons and whatever other wealth [they] have in this world all exists
for the brāhmins’ (Mbh 1.189.10–11). In these examples, three aspects of
brāhmin power come to light: (1) brāhmins were indispensable to kingship,
(2) even if the kṣatriyas resented the privileges that the brāhmins had, they
could not do anything about it out of fear, and (3) they could violate even
marital law by marrying women outside of their caste.
There are many reasons why kṣatriyas accepted the control of the
brāhmins: brāhmins oversaw yajñas for special occasions, everyday life,
and personal purification—rituals that were integral to Aryan life. They
were also well versed in the Vedas and monopolized the imparting of that
highest of knowledge to whomever they deemed worthy. They were
teachers and gurus of weaponry and claimed to know formulae for divine
weapons. Although they were not mediators between a person and the
divine, their asceticism gave them the power to fulfil boons and desires, just
like the gods. Hence, as Hopkins (1968: 61) says, they were substitutes for
the divines, but he also points out that the divinity of brāhmins was only
one-sided. They used their power and spiritual inheritance for self-
aggrandizement while ‘prostituting’ much that was pure. Sutton (2000: 55)
also speculates about the actual status of brāhmins in epic Aryan society. He
says, ‘It is tempting to guess at the actual social order that underlay the
Brāhmanical view of an ideally structured society presented in the
Mahābhārata. The continual emphasis on the respect that must be offered by
kings to brāhmins suggests that the position of the latter was somewhat less
secure than the authors of the epic would have liked’. Hence, it can be
surmised that the brāhmins emphasized caste biases and their high position,
because they needed to secure their own dwindling control.
However, it is important to note that at the time of the epic’s formulation,
the premise of the caste system had not yet become wholly inflexible.
Although intermingling of caste duties was frowned upon, an individual’s
caste was ideologically determined by his actions. A good example of this
practice is evidenced in the forest of Viśākhayupa when Bhīma is seized by
Nahuṣa, who has been turned into a serpent. He agrees to release Bhīma
only if Yudhiṣṭhira answers his questions, most of which relate to caste.
Obviously, caste was a crucial issue at that time, and it appears that the
Aryans were trying to resolve it. In fact, the answers that Yudhiṣṭhira gives
Nahuṣa indicate that people were aware of the rightness behind a more
flexible and people-friendly caste system. For instance, when Nahuṣa asks
Yudhiṣṭhira who is a brāhmin and who is a śūdra, Yudhiṣṭhira replies that a
brāhmin is one who has truthfulness, charity, forgiveness, good conduct,
benevolence, asceticism, and mercy. When Nahuṣa argues that even the
śūdra can have these qualities, Yudhiṣṭhira states that anyone who does not
possess these qualities is not a brāhmin, and if a śūdra possesses them, then
the śūdra is a brāhmin. Consequently, when Nahuṣa asks if caste is
determined by actions or character, and if so, what purpose does the
distinction of caste serve, Yudhiṣṭhira responds by stating that because there
is so much exogamy among the caste, it is very difficult to distinguish the
various castes (Mbh 3.180. 23–6). Yudhiṣṭhira’s words not only provide an
insight into the amorphousness of the system, but also a sanction for
intermingling of caste.
However, in practice, because of brāhmin repression, caste biases and
rigidity of caste was very much a reality. And, by the time the epic became
tradition, caste had become hereditary and inviolate: thus, a śūdra could
never aspire to break from his caste duties. A significant example of how
the very preservation of society came to be dependent on an ironclad caste
system is Arjuna’s rejection of his warrior duty in Kurukshetra at the
beginning of the war. Facing the Kaurava forces, he realizes that he would
cause the death of numerous warriors, which would deplete the kṣatriya
gene pool and, this, in turn would force kṣatriya women to marry into other
castes. Not wanting to be responsible for this adharma of mixing of castes,
he decides it would be better not to fight at all (Mbh 6.26.7) In fact, the
lines of separation between castes had become so indelible that Kṛṣṇa’s
emphatic advise to adhere to one’s caste duty is a key element in the
tradition-establishing Gītā. Citing verse 48, Sutton (2000: 296) points out
that ‘vināśāya ca duṣkṛitām’ is a part of Kṛṣṇa’s mission—vināśa, not of the
wicked or evildoers in a moral sense, but rather of those actions that
controvert ritual conduct of life, as per caste. A clear example of Kṛṣṇa’s
vināśa of such mutinous conduct is the punishment he gives to Aśvatthāman
after his night raid (Sutton 2000: 296). Aśvatthāman is of brāhmin varṇa
living the life of a kṣatriya, and as a Kaurava warrior, he released an
exterminating weapon into the wombs of Pāṇḍava women. For this crime,
which is seen as a consequence of his varṇa violation, Kṛṣṇa curses him: ‘O
wretch, for three thousand years, you shall have to wander the earth without
a companion and without being able to talk with anyone…You shall have to
live outside the pale of human society in dense forest and dreary moors.
The stench of your puss and blood shall come out of your body, and you
will wander over the earth suffering from all diseases’ (Mbh 10.16.11–12).
One reason why caste practices were binding was that they came to be
considered as obligatory as rituals that sustained the natural order. Also,
these practices were supposed to harmonize behavior with an individual’s
inherent nature, and this was seen as svadharma. In theory, this dharma is
synonymous with free will. It seems to supersede all other dharmas,
because it places the individual over social norms, thus empowering him or
her. However, in actuality, this aspect of dharma not only added to the
ambiguity of ethics, but it also made the system unfair, because while
brāhmins and kṣatriyas were free to follow their svadharma, the other two
castes were condemned for breaking the codes of varṇāśrama if they tried to
rise above their varṇa. The clearest examples of this is Ekalavya, who
belongs to the Niṣāda tribe (a śūdra) but feels naturally inclined to be a
warrior. He is not only rejected by Drona because of his caste, but he is also
made to suffer the extreme consequence of aspiring to be a kṣatriya by
cutting off and giving his right thumb to Drona, which deprives him of the
ability to use a bow and arrow (Mbh 1.132.31–56). Moreover, while the
low-caste Ekalavya suffers this grievous injury, the kṣatriya prince, Arjuna,
who is the catalyst of this incident, is able to salve his jealousy with
impunity. The epic is silent about the wrongness of Drona’s and Arjuna’s
behaviour in this incident of gross injustice. Another example displaying
the discrimination that the lower castes had to face if they so much as
attempted to fulfil svadharma is Karṇa’s first challenge to Arjuna in the
Udyoga Parva. Karṇa is not only rejected as a warrior, but he is also
mocked by the Pāṇḍavas for being the son of a charioteer and aspiring to
compete with kṣatriyas in a competition of arms. Ironically, it is
Duryodhana who presents the most equitable and just argument here:
‘Strength is the cardinal virtue of the kṣatriyas; even a man of inferior birth
deserves to be fought with. The sources of heroes and rivers are the same,
both are always unknown’ (Mbh 2.137.12–16). And, although Duryodhana
confers the kingship of Anga on Karṇa and raises him to the level of
kṣatriyas, the Pāṇḍavas never accept Karṇa as an equal, and Bhīṣma
relegates him to only ‘half a Ratha’, thus negating his superior warrior skills
(Mbh 5.168.9); they never acknowledge his natural inclination towards
warriorship, because he is a just a sūta.
Duryodhana’s sentiments about the injustice of caste prejudice are
repeated in the whole Bhṛgu Bhārgava samvād in the Śāntī Parva (Mbh
12.188–9). This dialogue relates to the ritual of svadharma and its just place
in the varṇāśrama, suggesting that the varṇas were actually svadharma-
oriented. Hence the two—varṇadharma and svadharma—were supposed to
have a natural connection. However, this acknowledgement was only
didactical, because, as the examples cited (and many more in the text)
indicate, it was not so in practice. In actuality, if an individual tried to act
according to his svadharma, most often, he was not only condemned, but
also held responsible for the conflicts that his nonconformity caused in the
societal order. This was sometimes true for even glorified brāhmins, such as
Drona, who, at his death, is derided by Bhīma for taking up the profession
of a warrior and is called a caṇḍāla (Mbh 7.193.39–40). But, it is important
to note that despite acting against his varṇa, Drona ascends to heaven (Mbh
7.193: 53–7), perhaps because his caste absolves him of his infraction of
varṇa dharma. Not surprisingly, there is no evidence of any one of the lower
castes enjoying this privilege.
Even more disparate standards occur in the epic when immoral
behaviours of the kṣatriya varṇa are accepted because they are the kṣatriya’s
natural inclination. For example, within rājadharma, drinking and
womanizing were considered kingly pursuits, as were cheating, treachery,
and lying to achieve a purpose. In fact, in Vana Parva, Bhīma even
proclaims this as the nature of kṣatriyas and derides Yudhiṣṭhira for being
soft: ‘You are kind as a brāhmin; how have you been born in the kṣatriya
order? Those born in it (kṣatriya order) are generally crooked-minded …
You have heard the duties of kings told by Manu; they are fraught with
crookedness and unfairness; they are perfectly opposed to peace and virtue’
(Mbh 3.35.20–21). And, sometimes, the kṣatriyas even exercised their
natural inclination to violence without a purpose. Arjuna is a good example:
on his journey from Indraloka, he is told by Mātali about the beautiful
Asura city of Hiraṇyapura (Mbh 3.173.1–62) that the Nivātakavaca asuras
have created through much penance. They live there happily and in peace,
not bothering anyone, not causing anyone distress or sorrow, but Arjuna
enters it and, without provocation, begins killing the asuras, simply on the
pretext that dānavas, by nature, are the enemies of the gods. After a long-
drawn battle, he is able to destroy the asuras and reduce the city to total
distress. ‘All their sorrowing wives smitten with grief and with hair
disheveled issue out of the home lamenting … Mourning for their sons,
fathers and brothers, uttering piteous cries of distress for the loss of their
lords and beating their breasts they fall down upon the ground, their
ornaments falling off from their bodies. The city of the dānavas, resembling
the city of the Gandharvas, filled with lamentation, afflicted with sorrow
and distress, devoid of beauty and deprived of its lords, looks like a lake
devoid of elephants or like a forest with all its trees dead, and then vanishes
from sight’ (Mbh 3.173.62–6). This violence, perpetrated by Arjuna, has no
apparent cause, except one inconsequential justification of Brahmā’s
foretelling that a mortal will destroy the Nivātakavacas (Mbh 3.173.15).
Moreover, the consequence of this violence goes against everything good or
right, because it causes unnecessary and uncalled-for suffering on
innumerable wives and children of the dānavas. Another example of
Arjuna’s unprovoked kṣatriya violence is in Jayadrathavadha Parva. When
Sātyaki and Bhūriśravas are engaged in single combat, Arjuna, hidden from
Bhūriśravas’ view, cuts off his arm, simply because he boasts of being able
to carry out a ‘very difficult feat’ (Mbh 7.142.70–2). In fact, in the epic,
Arjuna’s natural inclination to violence is more pronounced than any other
warrior’s, and each of his acts of unnecessary violence is accepted as the
demonstration of his exceptional warrior skills. This fact, when considered
in light of Arjuna’s place in tradition as being everyman warrior, certainly
does not bode well for customary behaviour.
Other such incidents of purposeless violence and treachery by kṣatriyas
abound in the epic, and they are compounded by the fact that the kṣatriyas
who perpetrate these are praised for following their natural inclination as
warriors, while those like Yudhiṣṭhira (who is more inclined towards not
causing injury to others) are ridiculed, as Bhīma does his elder brother: ‘O
king of kings, awake and understand the eternal virtues (of one’s own
order). You belong by birth to an order the acts of which are cruel and are
the sources of pain to others’ (Mbh 3.33.54). Hence, natural inclination,
when given free rein (as was the case with brāhmins and kṣatriyas) negated
the core purpose of dharma, which was designed for bhūyo hitam—the
general good.
Another element of dharma that was meant to benefit the majority and
sustain order, but really became a sanction for immoral action was that all
people were enjoined to perform tapas, yajña, and dāna. However, aside
from the obvious purificatory aspect of these practices, they were used by
the powerful and wealthy of the upper two castes for expatiation of
adharma. Tapas, yajña, and dāna were ways that allowed an individual to
extract himself from the effect of bad karma, and because the atonement
was so readily available and easy through these three prescriptions, the
individual felt no compunction about indulging in adharma. In addition, the
practice of these methods negated the suffering of others, because the
offender was not required to make reparation to the injured; instead he
could simply be cleansed of the adharmic act by a few ritualized practices.
The best example of this in the Mahābhārata is when, at the end of the war,
Yudhiṣṭhira, filled with remorse at having caused such destruction, is
advised by Vyāsa to perform the Aśvamedha yajña. Vyāsa tells Yudhiṣṭhira:
tapobhiḥ kratubhiś caiva dānena ca
taranti nityaṃ puruṣā ye sma pāpāni kurvate
[Those who commit sins can always free themselves from them through penance, sacrifice, and
gifts.] (Mbh 14.3.4)

There is no mention here of rebuilding, help to orphans and women,

succour to bereaved family members—none of that. Instead, Yudhiṣṭhira is
told that all he needs to do to absolve himself of the evil of the war he
perpetrated is perform a yajña in which he will give away wealth to
brāhmins (Mbh 14.3.10).
The above example gives further insight into another evil practice which
may have been a norm for Aryan kings during epic times: to levy taxes on
their subjects after war or any such āpad situation, just so they could
perform an expiational yajña for their own benefit. This can be surmised
from the hesitation Yudhiṣṭhira feels to get involved in a massive and
expensive yajña, for which he would have to collect wealth via taxes from
his already overburdened and suffering people. Admittedly, in this
particular incident, the people are not taxed, because Yudhiṣṭhira’s brāhmins
furnish an alternative source of wealth—the hidden treasure of an ancestral
king, Marutta, in Himavat (14.3.12–21). However, just the fact that
Yudhiṣṭhira is concerned about the expense and the methods he would have
to use to collect the money suggests that taxing people for this purpose was
a common practice among Aryan kings. Additionally, this act, although for
the personal benefit of the king, was most likely disguised as being for the
general good, because the king’s purification represented the purification of
his subjects.
The dharma that benefits the majority—sādhāranadharma—is a parallel
strain that prescribes general principles which pertain to all: people of upper
and lower caste, and also people in the different āśramas of life. For the
most part, the practices of this dharma are ethical in nature, unlike the
inequity of varṇadharma and āśramadharma. They include ideals like
ahiṁsā, satya, akrodha, priyavācana, dayā, prema, svārthatyāga, etc.
These commandments that are for the general good are found in all
societies in all ethical and moral systems, and are the ones that are upheld
above all else. However, in the dharma demonstrated by the Mahābhārata,
when there is a conflict between an individual moral perception of varṇa
and āśrama and the ethics of sādhāranadharma, the former takes
precedence. For example, the ethics of nonviolence can be violated by a
kṣatriya at all times, and especially at the time of war, or the ethics of
truthfulness can be violated by anyone, provided there is a justification,
such as the twisting of truth that Kṛṣṇa calls permissible (Mbh 8.69.29–30).
Similarly, the ethics of akrodha can be violated by brāhmins at any time if
they are not given the respect they demand. In fact, time and again,
brāhmins give in to anger so extreme that the curses they issue and the
actions in which they indulge destroy not just individual life, but entire
communities, generation after generation.
A more cohesive and just establishment of society’s ethics would have
been a seamless alignment of sādhāranadharma and svadharma, or even the
precedence of sādhāranadharma over svadharma. However, these two
dharmas are almost contrary to each other in the epic, and when someone
does attempt to bring them into alignment, such as Yudhiṣṭhira, who often
considers morality over his rājadharma or kṣatriya dharma, he is considered
a weak kṣatriya. Not only is there no reconciliation between the two
dharmas, but their applicability is also fuzzy. For example, when
Duryodhana who, unlike Yudhiṣṭhira, is a strong kṣatriya, adheres to all the
prescriptions of kṣatriyahood—moral or immoral—he is not considered a
better man but an asura. Hence, the practice of dharma is like a no-win
situation for certain people, and win-win for others. Therefore, when
Bhīṣma’s only response to Draupadī’s question during her ordeal in the dice
game is that dharma is subtle, it is tantamount to saying there are no clear
standards of behaviour in the realm of dharma.
The Mahābhārata grapples with the nebulousness of dharma and the
flexibility of morals within its varṇa and āśrama dharmas, and as traditions,
these dharmas still condone grave injustices that violate basic human values
and legitimize violence and injustice. Especially vulnerable to these evils
are the lower caste and women; in fact, the former are often oppressed, and
the latter do not even have an individualized dharma; they are seen only in
relation to their male relatives—mother, sister, wife, daughter, etc.—and are
often dehumanized.

Artha
The gathering of wealth for personal use and its distribution among
brāhmins is what drives the second principle of trivarga—artha. In the
Mahābhārata, this puruṣārtha not only plays a key role in everyone’s life,
but it is also considered part of the rightful order of creation, because Artha
is the son of Dharma: ‘The Goddess Śrī was born of the lotus. She became
the consort of the highly intelligent Dharma. Upon Śrī …Dharma begot
Artha’ (Mbh 12.59.132). In principle, this puruṣārthic goal, when
maintained through dharma, is the means to a happy life of materiality,
which, in turn, promotes moral behaviour and goodness. However, in the
Mahābhārata, the very fact of owning artha is ethical, and not owning it is
unethical. Hence, its purpose and mode of acquisition are either irrelevant
or not factors in the moral/immoral equation.
The reason why artha in itself was considered ethical is because it
defined kingship. ‘All three, viz., Dharma and Artha and Śrī are established
in a king…’ (Mbh 12.59.134). This belief is very significant because the
war of Kurukṣetra is to decide who is king, and hence, who owns wealth.
Besides the fact that the goal to pursue wealth was one of the four goals of
an Aryan, the very raison d’être for the war is wealth and to ascertain its
rightful owner. The situation is reminiscent of Indra’s battles for wealth in
the Ṛg Veda; at various junctures, various characters in the Mahābhārata are
even compared to Indra—from Yudhiṣṭhira to Duryodhana—in their pursuit
of wealth. Also, true to the analogy of Indra’s destruction of enemies to
secure wealth for self-empowerment and the empowerment of his loyalists,
the Aryans in the Mahābhārata, too, pursue wealth to secure power. And the
equation becomes even more apt, because both carry out robbery with a
holier-than-thou attitude, as though the acquisition of enemy wealth is their
sacrosanct right—the ultimate ṛta or dharma. It is as though to gain
ownership of enemy wealth is their moral duty, and the enemy’s claims to
the same wealth is adharmic and immoral. The difference, however, is that
while in Vedic times the demarcation between the Aryans and the an-
Aryans was somewhat clear, and Indra’s robbing of the an-Aryan was a
clear case of establishing ‘the other’, in the Mahābhārata, there is no such
clarity. Both the Pāṇḍavas and Kauravas are not only Aryans, but also
cousins with an equal claim to the wealth. Hence there is no ‘other’. Of
course, this demarcating of ‘the other’ does not exonerate Indra and the
Vedic Aryans, and it does not relieve them of moral obligations, but it does,
by contrast, emphasize the moral depravity of the Pāṇḍavas who fight and
kill their cousins for wealth on sanctimonious grounds—the grounds of
dharma, which makes the immorality of the acquisition more pronounced.
But why was the acquisition of wealth, by whatever means possible, of
such significance? To answer that, the purpose of wealth must be
understood. The most obvious purpose was, of course, to live well and to
enjoy comforts and luxuries, which were deemed necessary for happiness.
For instance, when, after losing the dice games, the Pāṇḍavas have to live in
the wilderness without creature comforts, everyone—the Pāṇḍavas, Kuntī,
Dhṛtarāṣṭra, the citizens of Hāstinapura—see it as a great misfortune and
suffering. There are many other examples, as well; for instance, Nala, after
losing his wealth, becomes so disheartened at not being able to provide for
his wife, Damayantī, that he considers himself an unworthy husband and
leaves her alone and hapless in the forest. Thus, lack of wealth meant lack
of self-worth and lack of happiness.
Another important purpose of wealth is revealed in Yudhiṣṭhira’s words
right after his arrival in the Kāmyaka forest. Responding to Śaunaka’s
advice about detachment from the desire of wealth, he says: ‘My desire for
wealth is not for the purpose of enjoying it when obtained. I do not desire it
through avarice. I desire it only for the support of the brāhmins’ (Mbh
2.2.51). He then goes on to talk about the necessity of having wealth for
charitable purposes and also for performing his duty towards the brāhmin
guests who remain with him in the forest. These two purposes support
wellbeing and they were life-affirming; in addition, they denote that the
desire for wealth was not necessarily immoral. However, the epic
emphasizes another purpose of wealth which, even in epic society, was
being condemned in heterodox ideologies. This was the practice of large-
scale sacrifices in which a yajamāna gave away hordes of wealth to
brāhmins, often to the point of his own penury. These lavish sacrifices,
which were considered an integral obligation of a householder’s life, were
performed by kṣatriyas and the wealthy for a variety of reasons—to
proclaim power, to display prosperity, to be charitable, to expiate sin, to
beget sons, and to follow tradition. However, they created an uneven
society, where only the wealthy felt empowered and the brāhmins reaped all
the benefits. Most common people could not perform the costly, elaborate,
and complex sacrifices, and thus felt left out. Moreover, there was the
mandatory dakṣiṇā or priest fee, which was often quite hefty, even for
kings; therefore, even if ordinary people wanted to engage in these
sacrifices, they could not afford to pay the priests.
Aside from its use or misuse, wealth was actually considered a means to
living a moral life of puruṣārtha. A wealthy man was a dhārmic man and a
man who was poor or lacked wealth was condemned to live an adharmic
life. Arjuna clearly states this in the Śāntī Parva when Yudhiṣṭhira is
lamenting the violence of the war and wishes to renounce his wealth and his
kingdom. Arjuna equates a poor man to a degraded man or a man without
virtue. He compares the disposition of wealth to rivers flowing from
mountains and says this wealth begets meritorious acts—all religious acts,
all pleasures, and heaven itself. He also says that the man who has wealth is
‘sincere’ and ‘learned’. And that all acts, religious, pleasurable, courageous,
or dignified, arise from wealth (Mbh 12.8.19–22). Thus, wealth in Aryan
society was in itself considered an aspect of ethics because it facilitated
pravṛtti.
People were expected to pursue wealth through dharma, but the
Pāṇḍavas’ perception of artha shows how the pursuit of this puruṣārthic
goal also distorted morality. The dialogue about artha between Arjuna and
Yudhiṣṭhira at the end of the war represents this potential of evil that the
goal of artha included. Arjuna, telling Yudhiṣṭhira about the methods that
can be used to acquire wealth, says, just as the gods appropriated the wealth
of the dānavas, kings appropriate the wealth of others, and they are
regarded as rightful. He reminds Yudhiṣṭhira that this injunction has been
laid down in the Vedas, and the gods themselves gained footing in the
celestial regions by inciting civil war over the ownership of wealth; hence
this war (at Kurukṣetra) cannot be wrong. Arjuna goes on to say that
‘wealth is never acquired without doing some injury to others’. The duty of
kings is to defeat their enemies and regard enemy wealth as their own. And
to expiate the sin of injury to others, the king, through the means of his
wealth, can perform the horse sacrifice (Mbh 12.8.1–34). Arjuna’s
statements about wealth, its purpose, and its methods of acquisition unmask
the immorality that was disguised in this puruṣārthic goal of artha in Aryan
society. Furthermore, with these statements, not only does Arjuna shift the
purpose of the war from a dharmayuddha to one over wealth, he also admits
to the fact that the Pāṇḍavas incited a civil war to usurp Kaurava wealth.
Therefore, Arjuna’s words shatter the moral legitimacy of the Pāṇḍavas,
and they cast grave doubt on the dhārmic value of artha.
Arjuna’s statements are followed by a response from Yudhiṣṭhira, which,
while upholding the ethics of wealth, in principle, reduces the moral high
ground of some of the epic’s exemplary moral agents, such as Bhīṣma.
Yudhiṣṭhira says to Arjuna that those who desire and acquire wealth do so
with the necessity to continue in goodness. But, often, this is not the case;
people acquire wealth by injuring others and then when they do acquire it,
they themselves are troubled. And this, he says, is especially true for
anyone who is weak-minded and easily swayed by even a little wealth. In
fact, he says that such a person oppresses others and incurs a sin as great as
brahminicide (Mbh 12.26. 20–1). With these words, Yudhiṣṭhira reduces
revered elders such as Bhīṣma as not only ‘weak-minded’ but also sinful,
because by his own admission, Bhīṣma has told Yudhiṣṭhira that his reason
for siding with the Kauravas rather than with the Pāṇḍavas (even though he
believes that they are good) is wealth: ‘A man is the slave of wealth, but
wealth is no one’s slave…I am bound to the Kurus by wealth…It is for this
I am like a eunuch…’ (Mbh 6.43. 41–2). In fact, Bhīṣma repeats this
statement—that he is bound by wealth—three times in subsequent ślokas,
thus emphasizing the importance he gives to wealth in a man’s life, even if
it means supporting what he intrinsically believes is the wrongful cause and
feeling emasculated. Or, perhaps, Bhīṣma is subtly suggesting that he
believes the Kauravas to be the rightful owners of the wealth and kingship
of Hāstinapura, and thus he thinks they will be victors; hence, by siding
with them rather than with the Pāṇḍavas, he is ensuring his own wealth.
Another aspect of wealth that is demonstrated in the Mahābhārata is how
it was considered the true measure of a king’s fame, which, as Arjuna
states, was the true virtue of a king. Even Vyāsa advocates this purpose of
wealth when, after Abhimanyu’s death, he tells Yudhiṣṭhira the stories of
the sixteen kings who were like Yudhiṣṭhira, but superior to him in wealth
and virtue, and had to suffer their own death or the death of a loved one,
despite their wealth (Mbh 7.56–71). The manner in which Vyāsa narrates
the stories is such that it makes the kings’ moral behaviour secondary to
their prosperity and their success in accumulating gold. This narration also
indicates that the significant message for society was not so much that death
is inevitable for all—rich and poor—or that virtue is the highest quality, but
that a king’s rightness is in his pursuit, acquisition, and enjoyment of gold.
For instance, one of the stories that Vyāsa tells Yudhiṣṭhira is of King
Suhotra who was a skilled and glorious warrior. He was generous to
brāhmins and did many great deeds, such as freeing the earth from
Mlecchas. However, he performed all this to get gold so that even the river
in his kingdom flowed liquid gold, and the alligators and fish in the waters
were also gold. He performed a thousand horse sacrifices and a hundred
Rājasūya yajñas, and gave away gold to brāhmins (Mbh 7.56.1–12).
Another example Vyāsa cites is of Sini, son of Uśinara, who, during
sacrifices, gave away as much wealth as there are grains of sand on Ganga’s
bank or stars in the sky, and his palace constantly echoed with words like
‘drink’, ‘eat’, and ‘do as you like’. It was his wealth that facilitated these
kingly rights. Vyāsa even transmutes the philanthropy of Bhagīratha, who
brought the Ganga down on earth for all humanity. According to Vyāsa,
Bhagīratha is not considered glorious simply because of this act of
benevolence, but because, at sacrifices, he used to give brāhmins as much
wealth as they desired. Similarly, King Gaya, who lived only on remnants
from sacrificial libations for a hundred years, is remembered not so much
for his asceticism but for his inexhaustible wealth, the boon he received for
his lifelong asceticism.
The conclusion that can be drawn from the stories of these sixteen kings
is that these kings were not exemplars of morality when they died; in fact,
their morality or immorality was inconsequential. They were considered
superior to Yudhiṣṭhira in virtue because of their money power. Owning
artha, then, was equivalent to having morality, and the three—morality,
profit, and pleasure—were to be seen as harmonious (Mbh 9.60.22).
However, the cause-and-effect relationship among these three elements is
never made clear in the epic, and this ambiguity is intentional: ‘Whoever
without making distinction between Morality and Profit, or Morality and
Pleasure, or Pleasure and Profit, follows all three, viz., Morality, Profit and
Pleasure, always succeeds in obtaining great happiness’ (Mbh 9.60.22).
Therefore, morality could equal profit, or morality could equal pleasure, or
pleasure and profit (even if obtained immorally) could equal morality. This
lack of relational clarity between the acquisition of wealth and morality
further implicates an already flawed system.

Kāma
The third ideal of puruṣārtha, kāma, denotes ‘desire’, in general, and it also
means sexual desire. In the Mahābhārata, this ideal is mostly portrayed as
either men’s desires in association with women or as their outright desire
for fulfilment of sexual needs. Hence, by extension, the principle of kāma
also establishes traditions about the status of women.
The ideal of kāma is not immoral in itself; in fact, its inclusion in
puruṣārtha shows how well the Aryans understood human psyche and
behaviour, and how progressive they were in their thinking. Kāma, like
artha, is life affirming, and when practised within the bounds of ideal
dharma, it procures happiness and enhances the quality of life. However,
quite often, this is not the case in the Mahābhārata. In myth after myth,
there is evidence that men distorted sexuality by using it to their advantage
without any regard to the women they targeted to fulfil their sexual needs.
And the women, bound by strīdharma, unable to object, became victims. It
is this suffering of the women that makes kāma the most exploitative of the
puruṣārthas.
Women in epic society were considered a corrupting and intoxicating
force. According to a myth in Vana Parva, Ṛṣi Cyavana, in a battle against
Indra, created the asura Mada (intoxication), and when the ṛṣi had no more
use for him, he distributed mada among women, alcohol, and gambling
(Mbh 3.125.1–7). In greater measure, women were also seen as the force of
darkness and ignorance, as Bhīṣma warns. He says that wise men should
not approach women, because ‘they are like dreadful mantra powers. They
stupefy persons shorn of wisdom. They are sunk in the quality of darkness.
They are the eternal embodiment of sensuality’ (Mbh 3.125.1–7). Bhīṣma
even describes the feminine as the very first primeval element of ignorance
—tamas (Mbh 12.342.8). A point to be noted is that this same quality of
tamas is also born with the lotus that grows out of Nārāyaṇa’s navel at
creation, and takes the form of the asuras Madhu and Kaiṭabha (Mbh
12.347.61). Therefore, Bhīṣma suggests that this ignorance (represented by
asuras and women) is as primeval as the lotus of creation; in fact, it is the
polar opposite of the highest form of intelligence (which is symbolized by
the lotus1), and has the ability to befuddle even the most evolved males, just
as the asuras Madhu and Kaiṭabha befuddled Brahmā when he tried to
begin the act of creation. Hence, through Bhīṣma, whose words ‘pass on
earth like the authoritative declarations of the Vedas’ (Mbh 12.54.29) and
establish traditions, women are the embodiment of tamas and kāma, both of
which are qualities of asuric evil.
However, despite Bhīṣma’s directives, exalted men of dharma in the
Mahābhārata do not avoid women. They use them, and not just to fulfil
their sexual desire, but many other desires. Men in the epic seem to believe
that even though women are embodiments of tamas and are filled with
mada, their own elevated maleness will counter the negative effects. Or
perhaps, since women were considered kṣetra, their use by men, who had
kṣetrajñāna, was to help them evolve from their quality of darkness (Mbh
12.213.8–9). Whatever the case, by virtue of their puruṣārtha, men in the
Mahābhārata take full advantage of their right to sexual desire. This text
abounds with examples of how men not only use women for their kāma,
but, often, they also abuse them without compunction.
There are so many such myths in the Mahābhārata that, aside from
validating Bhīṣma’s words, prove that the degraded status of women was, in
fact, the norm, and that men equated women with their right to kāma. They
saw them only as objects placed on earth to use for their benefit. An apt
example of this exploitation of women is the myth of Mādhavī and Ṛṣi
Gālava (Mbh 5.106. 21–27 & 5.115–20). Gālava’s guru, Viśvāmitra, asks
him for a dakṣiṇā of eight hundred white horses with one black ear. With
Garuḍa’s help, Gālava wanders from kingdom to kingdom, looking for
these horses till he finally arrives in King Yayāti’s kingdom; but the king is
not able to give Gālava the horses; instead he gives him his daughter,
Mādhavī, claiming that she can beget four sons. Gālava trades Mādhavī’s
sexuality and womb with three different kings—Haryaśva of Ayodhyā,
Divodāsa, king of Kāśi, and Uśinara, king of Bhojas—for two hundred
horses each and, to make up for the remainder two hundred, he gives her to
Viśvāmitra, who, like the kings, has a son from her and returns her to
Gālava. Gālava, having accomplished his purpose and paid his debt, returns
her to her father. Mādhavī, now unable to bear any more children, becomes
a brahmacārin. Ironically, the myth exalts the morality of Ṛṣi Gālava for
having fulfilled his duty to his guru and even praises Mādhavī for fulfilling
her duty as a daughter and for choosing a life of asceticism. However, not
once in the myth is there mention of how the men, seeking to fulfil their
obligations, injure a woman. It is a tragic myth in terms of human dignity.
After being prostituted by her father and other men, and being treated as no
better than a son-making machine, Mādhavī probably feels so violated and
repulsed by the consequences of kāma that she renounces all desire.
This subversion of kāma in the Mahābhārata is abundantly evident in
one of the gravest episodes of men’s exploitation of women, even within the
sanctity of marriage. This is the myth of King Sudarśana and his wife,
Oghavatī (Mbh 13.2). Sudarśana, the grandson of Agni, desires to conquer
death and takes a vow that he will do so by following his householder
dharma to perfection, and to ensure that his wife will help him fulfil his
vow, he tells her: ‘You should extend yourself in welcoming guests, even if
you have to offer your own body to please the guest’ (Mbh 13.2.39). Sure
enough, one day a brāhmin comes to Sudarśana’s home while he is away,
and Oghavatī offers him hospitality, but the brāhmin, refusing all else,
demands only that she fulfil his sexual desire. Oghavatī is consumed with
shame and guilt for having to give herself to the guest, and she is repulsed
by the act, but she obeys her husband’s command and lets the brāhmin fulfil
his kāma. When Sudarśana returns and calls out to his wife, she cannot
respond, because she is in bed with the brāhmin, but the brāhmin
shamelessly responds to Sudarśana, telling him what they are about.
Sudarśana applauds his wife and basically tells the brāhmin to carry on and
enjoy himself. Thus, through his wife’s sacrifice, Sudarśana’s boon of
conquering death is granted. What is most disturbing about this myth is that
the brāhmin who uses Oghavatī is Dharma himself. He blesses Sudarśana,
calling him virtuous and chaste and he applauds him for mastering his
kāma. He also absolves Oghavatī of her shame and declares that only half
of her will now follow Sudarśana, because the other half will become the
river Oghavatī (Mbh 13.2.86)—to be an example of how women should
sacrifice themselves. In this myth, violation of a spousal relationship and a
woman’s sexual submission are made equivalent to dharma, just so a male
can fulfil an impossible desire. It is not only an endorsement for men to
prostitute their wives for personal benefit, but it also declares this
immorality as ethical—a societal norm. In addition, on a side note, it
reduces the purity of rivers to the analogy of an indiscriminate woman,
creating the well-known derogatory adage that women are like rivers who
service all men indiscriminately.
It is possible that the ideal of kāma under the umbrella of puruṣārtha was
at one time related to marital bliss, and it allowed women more respect.
There are instances in the frame story of the epic that uphold the sanctity of
marriage over raging kāma, such as Draupadī’s relationship with her five
husbands, and Gāndhārī’s relationship with Dhṛtarāṣṭra. In the best-case
scenarios, marital kāma even led to profitable alliances, such as Arjuna’s to
Ulupi, Chitrangada, and Subhadra, and Bhīma’s to Hiḍimbā. However,
more often, even in marriage, kāma was vulnerable to the danger of misuse;
uncurbed kāma in men led to disaster. For example, when Pāṇḍu desires
Mādrī, he dies, and Mādrī considers herself guilty. Also Śaṃtanu’s kāma
for Satyavatī ultimately becomes the foundation for the war. Even Kuntī’s
kāma-invoking mantra to call any god without the sanction of marriage
results in Karṇa—a child she abandons with disastrous results. In fact,
Kuntī is degraded even in marriage. Although it appears that she is
empowered by having the power to call upon any man or god and indulge
in intercourse, she really isn’t. Her ‘power’ reduces her to being nothing
more than a receptacle for her husband’s desire to have sons.
Many myths in the epic also demonstrate that if men’s kāma went awry,
it was not they who were curbed, but the women who were the targets of
their kāma, and consequently, proclamations were made to restrict women’s
sexuality and freedom. A good example of this is the story of Mamata and
Bṛhaspati in the Ādi Parva (Mbh 1.104.10–37). In this myth, Bṛhaspati
propositions his pregnant sister-in-law, Mamata, and when she refuses him,
he curses her to give birth to a blind son. The blind Dīrghatamas is an
indulgent man engaged in many vices, but his wife, Pradveśi, following her
strīdharma, takes care of him. When Dīrghatamas is thrown out of the
hermitage because of his continuous adharmic behaviour, he begins to
oppress his wife even more, till she has no choice but to leave him.
Dīrghatamas, who himself is hardly a paragon of virtue, then makes a new
edict for women:
I make this rule among men that every woman shall stick to one husband only all through her life.
Whether the husband is dead, or whether he is alive, she must not have connection with another man,
She who will have it, will be considered fallen. A woman without a husband will always be liable to
be sinful. Even, if she has wealth, she will not be able to enjoy it truly. Calumny and evil report will
always follow her. (Mbh 1.104.34–7)

A similar story of men’s kāma and women’s victimization through

restrictive laws is of Śvetaketu and his mother (Mbh 1.122.11–20). In this
myth, Ṛṣi Uddālaka’s wife is propositioned by another brāhmin in the
presence of her husband and her son, Śvetaketu. Śvetaketu is so angered
that he curses not just his mother but also all women and ‘establishes the
practice’ that any woman who is promiscuous will commit a sin as grave as
destroying the embryo (Mbh 1.122.17). It is true that Śvetaketu also lays a
similar law for men who will neglect their own loving wives and go to other
women who have taken the vow of purity (Mbh 1.122. 17–18). However,
the point to note here is that Śvetaketu’s mother is not the one
propositioning the brāhmin, yet Śvetaketu curses women, as though their
very being is responsible for inciting men’s illicit kāma. This is what
Bhīṣma is referring to when he says women are tamas or when Ṛṣi Cyavana
imbues women with a portion of mada. Hence, the fact cannot be ignored
that women were blamed for men’s lack of mental and physical restraint.
This blame transformed into restrictive societal practices for women, which
ultimately became binding as tradition.
Uma Chakravarti (2009: 26) thinks that
The new law laid down by Śvetaketu … clearly marks an important ‘moment’ when women’s
reproductive potential is being bounded within a particular circle of men, closing off access to other
men; on the face of it, this is a law to regulate men’s access to women by privileging one set of men
over others. But, at the same time, it is also denying women the possibility of sexual agency in a
consensual relationship; it is also the first stage in institutionally creating a double standard of sexual
morality in which women, as wives, bore the burden of the new sexual mores.
According to these new mores, women’s desire to fulfil their sexuality was
violently condemned. They were considered ‘polluted’ and their desire was
‘unlawful’. The story of Rāma Jamadagni’s mother, Reṇukā, is a good
example of this restraint over women and their kāma: One day, Reṇukā sees
the handsome Gandharva, Citrarartha, and ‘becomes polluted with this
unlawful desire’ (Mbh 3.116.6–7). As a consequence, her husband,
Jamadagni, asks his four sons, one by one, to kill her. But the sons refuse,
and the father turns them into birds and beasts. The fifth son, Rāma, obeys
his father and cuts off his mother’s head with an axe and is praised for the
act. Although, later, Jamadagni grants Rāma a boon and restores Reṇukā’s
life, the fact remains that just for feeling the pangs of kāma for another
man, Reṇukā is punished by the men in her life. Quoting Wendy Doniger in
reference to this myth, Chakravarti (2009: 29) says,
[While] there is a male gaze in this myth, there is also a powerful female gaze: it is by gazing, not
being gazed at that Reṇukā discovers, and revels in her eroticism …she is a subject, not a mere object
or victim of a male subject … [but] precisely because the male author of the text deems the female
gaze unacceptable, Reṇukā must be beheaded, her gaze silenced as it were.

From these and other similar myths, it appears that the creators of the
Mahābhārata’s tradition could hardly conceive of lustful women in the fold
of Aryan society. Most often, those females who were openly lustful and
felt empowered to pursue their kāma were not seen as Aryan women, but as
rākṣasīs, like Hiḍimbā, nāgas, like Ulūpī, or apsarās, like Urvaśī.
Sometimes, even the lustful apsarās were punished for their desire, as is the
case with Sarabhī, Samīcī, Budabudā, Latā, and Vargā who desire a
brāhmin and are cursed to become crocodiles, and who are later released
from it by Arjuna (Mbh 1.216–17). Clearly, men had supreme power over
women. They could victimize them or save them, as they desired.
In comparison to women, the standard for brāhmin males was beyond
the scope of societal laws. When they lusted for women, neither was their
desire unholy nor was it unlawful. Instead, it was glorified, and its
consequence was praiseworthy. For example, when Ṛṣi Parāśara desires
Satyavatī and indulges in kāma, the result is not only that her body becomes
fragrant but she also gives birth to Vyāsa, the most exalted of men. Both
Drona and Kṛpa are also born of their fathers’ uncontrolled sexual desire
and both ṛṣis are ennobled in the epic. Vyāsa’s own lust for the apsarā
Ghṛtācī produces a son Śuka, who is so elevated that he is one of the few in
the epic to realize mokṣa (Mbh 1.216–17).
A significant point to note in all these brāhmin kāma incidents (aside
from Satyavatī, who is probably raped), is that the brāhmins’ sperm do not
gestate in a woman’s womb; the sons that are produced are born in
symbolic elements: Drona is born in a vessel, Kṛpa in the weeds, and Śuka
through the rubbing together of two sticks. The suggestion here seems to be
that because these were ‘pure’ and ‘exalted’ brāhmins, they had to remain
untouched by the contaminating power of women, and even a woman’s
womb would have defiled their purity.
Some scholars, like A.N. Bhattacharya (1992: 104), suggest that even
though women were mistreated by men, the end result of their sacrifice was
‘for the benefit of many’—this is the ‘philosophy of utilitarianism’. This is
a doctrine based on utility or use of goods and services by and for the
satisfaction of the consumer, and the more consumers that are satisfied the
more the object’s utility. By this definition, Bhattacharya’s views are on the
mark, because women are certainly ‘objects of utility’, and the use of their
‘goods and services’ are made to fulfil the desires of various ‘consumers’ to
their satisfaction. However, even in that, there is no rationale in any of the
myths that proves that women’s sacrifice benefit many. For example, how
does Oghavatī’s husband’s personal goal to conquer death benefit anyone
but himself? How does Mādhavī’s prostitution benefit anyone other than
her father and the men for whom she bears sons? Most importantly, the so-
called sacrifice of women actually creates a tradition which hurts, rather
than benefits, the females in society. How, then, is this ‘for the benefit of
many’, unless, of course, only the male members of society are the ones
factored into the ‘many’? Additionally, it is exactly this condescending
attitude towards women that is cemented in tradition and has prevailed in
Hindu society. It is also responsible for creating traditions that force women
to accept all degradation. They are cajoled into believing that their sacrifice
is their strength, because it is for the good of mankind; therefore, women
continually subject themselves to abuse and suffering. How is it that men
are never held up to any sacrifice? In fact, even the sacrifices they do make
are for personal aggrandizement, such as the elevation in status Arjuna and
Bhīṣma enjoy as a consequence of the kāma they ‘sacrifice’: when Arjuna
sacrifices his desire for Urvaśī and she curses him to become a eunuch, the
curse helps him to live undetected during his year of concealment. And
when Bhīṣma sacrifices his kāma to fulfil Satyavatī’s wishes, he is elevated
from Devavrata to Bhīṣma.
On the other hand, the women of Mahābhārata embody the rigid
principles of strīdharma, which does not include kāma, because that would
have been empowerment. They are, instead, expected to be servile and
mindless. That is the advice even Draupadī gives to Kṛṣṇa’s wife,
Satyabhāmā: ‘a woman is in service of her husband and her goal is to
acquire trivialities like jewels, perfumes, clothes, which her husband will
bestow on her’ (Mbh 3.2.4–7). Of course, Draupadī herself does not fall
into this category. While she does serve her husbands to the utmost, she
feels empowered enough to pursue her kāma and to state her opinions. But,
because of her non-traditional behaviour, Draupadī is not held up as a role
model even today, (as opposed to Sītā, whose whole life is spent in
sacrifice). It is only recently that feminists have made Draupadī a poster
child. However, although women like Draupadī and Gāndhārī and, to some
extent, Kuntī, can be considered more empowered and independent, we
cannot ‘push the point too far. Because even these women lack the true
evidence of equality and independence’ (Sutton 2000: 104).
Most people believe that the idea of equality of genders is a relatively
new phenomenon in the world, and it is mostly a western endeavour.
Therefore, it is easy to pass off this inequality of women in ancient Hindu
texts, such as the Mahābhārata, as true to their time. But this is a
misconception. In truth, feminism may very well have been a Hindu
tradition, and it involved not just equality between male and female but
also, often, supremacy of feminine power. The Hindu goddess myths are a
testimony to this. For example, the mother goddesses, Kali and Durgā,
individually fulfil the triple function of a supreme divine—creation,
preservation, and destruction. Even those goddesses who are consorts, such
as Lakṣmī and Pārvatī, have an undeniably high status. They are equal
partners to their husbands and, often, the husbands are incomplete without
them, because the feminine is the embodiment of śaktī, as is portrayed in
the Shiva Śaktī myths. In fact, in these consort myths, the very foundation
of creation is dependent on a balance of the male and female.
 Additionally, contrary to Bhīṣma’s condemnation of the female energy as
tamas or ignorance, the goddess in the epic is the embodiment of wisdom.
In the Śāntī Parva, the goddess Sarasvatī is called Truth and is named Ṛta
(Mbh 12.342.37). In fact, without the feminine principle of the goddess,
creation would not have been possible, because when Brahmā does not
have the intelligence to create, and he stands before Nārāyaṇa befuddled,
Nārāyaṇa, with the help of yoga, ‘applies to the Goddess of Intelligence’
and requests her to help Brahmā accomplish the task by entering Brahmā.
Thus, only when the goddess has infused herself into his befuddled being,
can he fulfil his desire to create (Mbh 12.349.15–20). The goddess is
actually so revered in the epic that she is called to give her blessing even
before the gods, such as in Vana Parva, when Arjuna decides to acquire
divine weapons, Draupadī prays for him and calls upon the goddesses Hrī,
Śrī, Kīrtī, Dhṛtī, Puṣtī, Umā, Lakṣmī, and Sarasvatī to protect him on his
journey (Mbh 3.37.32-33).
These myths are proof that the goddess was respected at the time of the
Mahābhārata, and that the feminine helped fulfil desires other than sexual.
What is surprisingly contradictory is that while the goddess remained
transcendent in tradition, becoming not just a part of the Hindu trinity but
also a totality, such as the Devī in Devī Mahātamaya, women rapidly lost
their status in a male-dominated society pursuing kāma. Somehow, the
connective natural progression from the goddess concept to women got
severed, and, as the two strains of Hinduism—mythical and ethical—
progressed separately, most Hindus, while continuing to believe in the
mythical and the goddess supreme, practised the ethical codes of the
Dharmaśāstras that derogated women, not questioning the disconnect.
These dharmaśāstric laws, compounded with the teachings in the epics,
especially in the Śāntī and Anuśāsana Parvas of the Mahābhārata, became
deified, and thus they overshadowed the goddess tradition and created a
whole new tradition of degradation of women.
This denigration of the divine feminine in the Śāntī and Anuśāsana
Parvas ‘does of course raise the question about the status of the epic as
scripture … [in which] values are projected back into a reinterpreted
tradition rather than tradition speaking as an authoritative voice to the
present’ (Sutton 2000: 422–423), and this backward evolution is one of the
main problems in the epic tradition. In the formulation of tradition, rather
than a reconnection to the positive and ascendant goddess, the goddess
myths were reinterpreted to align with the devolving status of women.
While the ethical framework of the Mahābhārata includes ideologies and
doctrines that encompass many dynamic traditions, such as karma and
puruṣārtha, nivṛtti and pravṛtti, their potentiality is lost in inconsistencies
and ambiguities. Rather than reconciling the differences of the
multifariousness, the epic tradition deepens the schisms, which has, over
time, resulted in misdirection and societal inequities. The Bhagavad Gītā
attempts to resolve some of the epic’s ethical problems, but sadly, it fails,
because there is little affinity between what it expounds and what the moral
agents practise and project. Compounding this gap between societal ethics
and individual morality is the exemplification of immoral practices and
behaviours of characters, which, in turn, created morally corrupt customary
laws that are accepted as tradition.
While tradition may be validated by being passed down from one
generation to another, its continuance does not prove it to be moral or right
or good. Most often, the keepers of tradition were self-serving brāhmins
and/or misogynistic elders like Bhīṣma; hence, the traditions of dharma,
artha, and kāma that were validated, and are still prevalent in Hindu
cultures today, are biased, and they continue to violate the human dignity of
many people in various sections of society.

1 Ironically, the lotus is the key symbol of the feminine divine; it is associated with Sri/Lakṣmī
3
Dharmakṣetra and Adharmakṣetra
Framing the Kṣetra

The Mahābhārata does not define concepts of good and evil, but it shows
what they are through their lakṣaṇa1 (Badrinath 2006: 13–14). In other
words, the text does not state what a dharmakṣetra or an adharmakṣetra is,
but it demonstrates the lakṣaṇa of both. These lakṣaṇa can be gauged
through an enquiry into how the events of the epic create kṣetras of dharma
and adharma, and what kind of kṣetra the characters evoke with their
individual actions and behaviours. This, then, is also how good and evil and
dharma and adharma are revealed, and the context in which these are
revealed is the kṣetra.
However, it is important to note that the dharmakṣetra of the
Mahābhārata is not just the battlefield of Kurukṣetra; in a larger context, not
only this battlefield, but also the whole itihāsa of the Mahābhārata is
symbolized by Kurukṣetra; hence, in actuality, the entire Mahābhārata is a
dharmakṣetra in itself. Therefore, this boundless Kurukṣetra cannot be seen
from a single dimension of the war and the actions of the warriors in the
war. It must be seen from many levels of behaviour, even those that moral
agents demonstrate during peacetime. Moreover, all layers of the
Mahābhārata—those that were part of the Ur Mahābhārata, and also all
those that may have been interpolations—must be taken into consideration
for this enquiry, because even when this text may have been just a Sauta
literature (a narrative about battle and warriors) it was an enquiry into good
and evil. Dr V.S. Sukthankar (quoted in Karve 2008: 6) suggests that the
Mahābhārata worked on many levels of dharma even as it was created and
told for the first time, and all later levels just added to its meaning.
Therefore, any study of the kṣetras of the Mahābhārata must take into
account all these layers, because they are part of the same complexity.
In certain strata of the Mahābhārata, such as the archetypal and cyclical
battle of devas and asuras, it is difficult to polarize good and evil, because
in these levels, dharma is static, similar to the cosmic and fixed order of ṛta
of the Vedas. There is no active and empirical morality in these strata, as
compared to other layers, in which moral agents experience dilemmas of
dynamic and perplexing moral actions in a kṣetra where, as Kṛṣṇa says,
‘dharmāṇāṃ gatiṃ sūkṣmāṃ duranvayām, ‘the ways of dharma are subtle’
(Mbh 8.69.28).
The two most significant active kṣetra-defining layers in the
Mahābhārata are Vaiṣṇava and Śaivic sectarianism and the Pāṇḍava–
Kaurava conflict regarding the legitimacy of the throne of Hāstinapura. The
former, although mythopoeic, is empirical in the kṣetra it creates, because in
it, the moral agents act as per their perception of dharma and contend with
one another to prove the dhārmic supremacy of the divine to whom they are
allegiant—Śiva or Viṣṇu/Kṛṣṇa. Thus, while the kṣetra itself is a
juxtaposition of two dharmakṣetras, the cult conflict it generates impels the
moral agents into acts of adharma that corrupt both dharmakṣetras. The
latter—the framing layer of the Pāṇḍava–Kaurava conflict over the
legitimacy of the throne—is in itself a dharmakṣetra that precedes the actual
battlefield. However, this kṣetra is contaminated long before the Pāṇḍavas
and the Kauravas enter it, because the very foundation—the question of
kingship, which is the fulcrum of the war—is polluted by numerous factors
that include traditions and normative codes and prior actions of other moral
agents, who are father figures, such as Bhīṣma, Vidura, Dhṛtarāṣṭra, and
Pandu. Furthermore, even before the battle begins, the Pāṇḍavas are pre-
established as dharma warriors and the Kauravas as adharmic. This
demonstrates a clear antecedent bias in the kṣetra before dharma is even
tested on the battleground.

THE KṢETRA OF SECTARIAN CULTS

By the time Smṛti literatures were created, numerous belief systems had
been incorporated into three overarching ideologies—Neo-Vedic
Vaiṣṇavism/Kṛṣṇaism, Śaivism, and Śramaṇism. However, in this context of
kṣetra-oriented dharma and adharma, the Śramaṇic cult is irrelevant
because it dealt with liberation—an ideology in which the practitioners
renounced the kṣetra. The Mahābhārata and the Gītā make occasional
references to this cult, but it is not a kṣetra on which empirical good and
evil can be examined. On the other hand, Śaivism was not only
contemporaneous to Kṛṣṇaism, but it was also an aggregate alternative
belief system, and, although it was a fringe cult, its practitioners were active
moral agents. Therefore, the two key sects that characterized the
dharmakṣetra during the time of the Mahābhārata were Śaivism and
Vaiṣṇavism. Although both these sects coalesced into one theistic core, their
practices differed, mostly because Śaivism’s ideology was based on life
negation and an annihilative ultimate objective, and Vaiṣṇavism’s key
principles were of life-affirming puruṣārtha. Therefore, the behavioural
kṣetras these two sects characterized also differed. Consequently, the
practitioners of these sects were often intolerant of each other’s differences;
they saw the other cult as adharmic and opposed it, and, in the process,
these kṣetras of sectarianism became wrought with violence and injury.
Notwithstanding the immorality of these behaviours, they were given the
guise of dharma, because they preserved the ascendency of the sect.
A key reason why Śiva was seen as a rival candidate to Viṣṇu is that he
was the Destroyer, capable of bringing about the dissolution of all life,
which K. Sivaraman (2001: 43) considers ‘cosmic operation par
excellence’. ‘[Śiva] alone is the causal ground of phenomena who can
retract the phenomena wholly without residue unto himself’, because in
order to recreate, the created world needs to be retracted entirely. Thus,
‘Dissolution “precedes” Creation’ (Sivaraman 2001: 43–4). From the
perspective of this Śaivic siddhānta, in the Mahābhārata, both Vaiṣṇavism
and Śaivism are juxtaposed to fight for this ultimate cosmic victory; divines
of both sects not only reveal creational theophanies but also seek to bring
about annihilation—Kṛṣṇa through the eighteen-day war and Śiva through
Aśvatthāman’s night raid in the Sauptika Parva. Kṛṣṇa does destroy the
world via the eighteen-day war, and only the five Pāṇḍavas, Kṛṣṇa, Sātyaki,
Kṛtavarman, Aśvatthāman, Yuyutsu, Kṛpa, and Karna’s son, Vṛṣaketu,
survive. In Aśvatthāman’s night raid, too, the entire Pāñcāla camp is wiped
out, down to the very foetus in Uttarā’s womb, but the Pāṇḍavas and Kṛṣṇa
escape.
Comparisons between Śiva-centric and Kṛṣṇa-centric incidents are easy
to draw in the Mahābhārata. For example, Śiva’s two theophanies in
Aśvatthāman’s night raid are similar to Kṛṣṇa’s two theophanies, the first of
which occurs after his embassy to the Kaurava court and the second occurs
at Arjuna’s request, during his recital of the Gītā. However, there is a slight
difference in the nature of these theophanies: in his first theophany, Kṛṣṇa is
clearly the creator from whom beings emerge; in the second, they retreat
into him. In Śiva’s first theophany, he is in the form of a sacrificial fire altar
from which beings also emanate, but unlike in Kṛṣṇa’s emanation, these
beings have distorted faces and bodies. In the second theophany, Śiva,
converging in the body of Aśvatthāman, is the Destroyer. But the
implication of the theophanies is quite similar—both are cosmic forms that
are the cause of creation and can also bring about annihilation. In fact, even
the words they use to define the purpose of the theophany of destruction are
the same: Kṛṣṇa tells Arjuna during the second theophany:
kālosmi lokakṣayakṛt pravṛddho
lokān samāhartum iha pravṛttaḥ
ṛtepi tvāṃ na bhaviṣyanti sarve
yevasthitāḥ pratyanīkeṣu yodhāḥ
[I am now the full manifestation of Death and destroyer of the worlds. All these warriors standing in
different division will cease to be, even if you do not kill them.] (BG 11.32)

And Śiva tells Aśvatthāman that the kāla had come for the Pāñcālas:
kṛtas tasyaiṣa saṃmānaḥ pāñcālān rakṣat ā mayā
abhibhūtās tu kālena naiṣām adyāsti jīvitam
[By protecting the Pāñcālas I have honoured him [Kṛṣṇa]. They have however been assailed by Time.
The lease of their lives is over.] (Mbh 10.7.65)

Hence, both divines portray themselves as the executors of Great Time.

Both cults also claim to offer liberation. Śiva facilitates Ganga’s
liberating presence on earth, and as Mahākāla and a close associate of
Yama, he has eschatological power. Viṣṇu/Kṛṣṇa, too, takes on this function
through the fourth puruṣārtha of mokṣa, which was perhaps added to the
trivarga so that Vaiṣṇavism would be on par with Śaivism. In fact, this
element of mokṣa even reduced the might of Śiva’s significance as the
finality, because it gave man the power to his own liberation. This is
evidenced significantly in the Mahābhārata, when even the character of
Vṛtra, the Vedic arch-enemy of the gods, alters, in order to reflect this
Vaiṣṇava aspiration. In the myth that Bhīṣma tells Yudhiṣṭhira, Vṛtra is an
aspirant of mokṣa. He is a devotee of Viṣṇu (instead of Śiva, who is most
commonly favourable to the nāgas and asuras) and after he dies, he ascends
to the ‘highest abode’—‘the region of Viṣṇu’ (Mbh 12: 283.60–1).
Additionally, Vṛtra’s priest Uśanas, who is the guru of the asuras, calls
Viṣṇu ‘pre-eminent’ and ‘that Infinite place’ (Mbh 12.280.2). Thus, the shift
of mokṣa’s association from Śiva to Viṣṇu is evident from Uśanas’ change
of kathenotheistic allegiance. Uśanas also invites Sanatkumāra, the mind-
born son of Brahmā, to teach Vṛtra about how mokṣa is possible through
Yoga (Mbh 12.280.1–57). This discipline of Yoga is normally associated
with Śiva, who is Yogiśvara himself, but here Uśanas and Sanatkumāra
clearly make Yoga a Vaiṣṇava discipline. Hence, Vaiṣṇavism unmistakably
carved out an equal share in all methods of achieving mokṣa, or final
liberation, which used to be a Śaivic monopoly. This bid for an equal status
is also clear in Bhīṣma’s words, who concludes Vṛtra’s story by first telling
Yudhiṣṭhira that Kṛṣṇa is the final liberation—the Creator and Liberator
(Mbh 12: 280.58–78)—and then by connecting Śiva and Viṣṇu. He first
deifies Nārāyaṇa for retrieving the Vedas from the dānavas Madhu and
Kaiṭabha (Mbh 12: 347.20–70), as Hayaśiras (the horse-headed), and for
being the ‘Supreme God, the receptacle of Vedas, of Sāṃkhya, of the yoga
of renunciation and of the yoga of Karma,’ and for being ‘The deity who is
Puruṣa’ (Mbh 12.347.78–96). Then Bhīṣma deifies Śiva as above both
Prakṛti and Puruṣa and says it is he [Śiva] who created ‘Brāhmaṇa’ (Mbh
13.14.5–6).
However, most often, the Śaivic element diverges to the point that it
becomes a catalyst for many of the key conflicts in the story. Most likely,
the reason why Śaivic elements appear more irascible than the Vaiṣṇava
elements is because the Mahābhārata is composed by Vaiṣṇava brāhmins,
who shifted the blame of the conflicts to their rivals. Perhaps, this is also
the reason why Śiva/Rudra’s inclusion in the divine triad of Vaiṣṇavism is
in the form of Anirudha/Nārāyaṇa’s anger that springs from his forehead
(Mbh 12.341. 11–18).2 These early forms of Śaivism and Vaiṣṇavism3 and
the conflict between them form a significant kṣetra in the Mahābhārata,
because the sectarian battles they trigger evoke good and evil behaviour
from the practitioners of these sects.
There are a number of myths in the Mahābhārata which can be seen as
inspired by Śaivism, and these become the backdrop for incidents that raise
questions about the morality/immorality of behaviours. One of the myths is
of Dakṣa’s sacrifice and Śiva’s destruction of it. Klaus Klostermaier (2007:
111–12) gives a historical basis to this myth and considers the Śiva-Dakṣa
myth a Śaiva conquest of Kanakhala, a tīrtha close to Haridwar mentioned
in the Mahābhārata. Klostermaier believes that this tīrtha was an important
one at the time of the Mahābhārata; its holiness was comparable to that of
Prayāga, and its occupation was legitimized by Śaivism. Klostermaier
(2007: 113) further suggests that this was a real event and it occurred after
Vaiṣṇavism had already replaced Vedic orthodoxy. The myth of Dakṣa’s
sacrifice describes Viṣṇu battling with Śiva, and this violence became a part
of each sect’s traditions; so much so that each divine receives his
identifying marks as a result of the conflict: Śiva throws a burning dart that
strikes Viṣṇu on the chest, and his hair turns green, which is why Viṣṇu is
also called Munjakeśa. In retaliation, Viṣṇu grabs Śiva by the throat, till his
throat turns dark, and from then on he is known as Śitikaṇtha (Mbh
12.342.112-115). Notably, in this myth, Śiva is the victor. His Vīrabhadra
form battles with the gods and defeats them, and even Dakṣa, the
progenitor, loses his head. Thus, to ensure that the sacrifice is preserved, the
Vaiṣṇavas not only accept the legitimacy of Śaivism, but they also see Śiva
as a god of the pantheon, worthy of the sacrifice. Klostermaier (2007: 115)
believes that the historic magnitude of this cannot be ignored because
variations of this myth are told in all traditions, Vaiṣṇava, Śaivic, and Śakta.
From Bhīṣma’s narration of this same myth in the Śāntī Parva (Mbh
12.284.1-67), it is evident that an attempt had been made to accept Śaivism
into Vedic tradition, but it had failed, and the practitioners of the former
continued to press their cause, often using violent means to achieve it. In
this Bhīṣma version, Dadhīci tells Dakṣa that he should have invited Śiva to
the sacrifice, but Dakṣa doesn’t agree. Hence, Śiva’s anger turns into
Vīrabhadra, who is then joined with Mahākālī, hence connecting Śaivism to
Śaktism. This connection indicates that the myth may have been a later
addition, which means that the sectarianism of the two cults became more
compartmentalizing with time.
Perhaps the reason Śiva held on jealously to his monopoly over
destruction was because, in many myths, he was not allowed to participate
in creation; hence he was denied a key role necessary in the triple functions
of creation, preservation, and destruction that is integral to the recognition
of a divine as supreme. In Sauptika Parva, Kṛṣṇa too cites a similar reason
for Śiva’s anger. He explains that at the beginning of creation, Brahmā had
asked Rudra, the first born, to create the world, and Rudra went away to
practise austerities for the purpose, but he was gone for so long that Brahmā
asked another being to engender creation. When Rudra reappeared, he was
so upset that creation had been completed by someone else, that he broke
off his generative organ and threw it into the ocean, because he felt that his
ability to create was of no use now (Mbh 10.17.11–25).
All these myths about Śiva’s anger and the conflicts he had with other
gods show that Śiva (who could have been a pre-Aryan god), became a
definite contender in the race for being the number one supreme, and his
adherents tried to establish this supremacy through means which were often
in opposition to the adherents of the Vaiṣṇava cult. While this opposition in
itself cannot be seen as adharmic, the way it was executed was clearly
indicative of the ethics of good and evil, because it dictated the conduct of
the practitioners of the sects. A good example of this causative
morality/immorality is in Aśvatthāman’s night raid and destruction of the
Pāñcāla camp. This incident clearly reveals not only the opposing moral
codes of the Śaivas and Vaiṣṇavas, but also the immorality of human
behaviour that the sectarian battles evoked. Moreover, the question of the
evilness of the act is not left to conjecture or ambiguity but is emphatically
measured against the codes of dharma, and is sometimes even opposed by
the sectarian god himself. For example, in this incident, Kṛpa, realizing the
immorality of Aśvatthāman’s plan, pleads with him to refrain from this
dastardly act of killing the Pāñcālas in their sleep, because it breaks all
kṣatriya codes (Mbh 10.5.1-18). He tells Aśvatthāman to wait till the
morning and fight a righteous battle, but Aśvatthāman is so full of rage at
Dhṛṣṭadyumna’s killing of his father that he is willing to forego dharma for
revenge. However, in the Pāñcāla camp, he discovers that it is being
guarded by a terrible being spewing flames from his mouth and eyes.
Aśvatthāman tries to battle with this being, but his weapons prove
ineffectual, and when they are exhausted, the sky fills with images of
Janārdana (Mbh 10.6.4). Obviously, this terrible being is Śiva, but he is
syncretized with Kṛṣṇa to protect the Pāñcālas, who are Kṛṣṇa worshippers,
and also to remind Aśvatthāman that kṣatriya codes of war are non-
sectarian and their violation is wrong in all instances.
This myth has many other elements that convey that the sects shared
societal codes; however, sectarian differences were still emphasized to the
extent that sectarian gods themselves were personified in the conflict. For
example, in the continuing events of this incident, Aśvatthāman, though
disheartened, decides to propitiate Giriśa—the same Śiva—and is prepared
to give up his own self as sacrifice, another action that was non-sectarian
and dhārmic for both sects. However, the interesting point here is that even
as Aśvatthāman thinks about this self-sacrifice, a golden, blazing altar
appears before him, and a distorted image of Śiva’s theophany is presented:
the flames of the altar reach across all the cardinal points in the horizon, and
in the flames are hundreds of beings in all forms and shapes—animal,
human, and bird. There are bodies with no heads but huge stomachs; heads
with a thousand eyes and mouths with four tongues; faces that look like
conches and bodies garlanded with conch shells. Some of the beings also
carry weapons and some hold serpents. Some are blue-bodied, and some are
covered with dust. There are beings playing musical instruments, while
others run around like wild elephants. Some are flesh eaters and others
drinkers of blood. They are worshippers of Mahādeva who have come to
see his final act of destruction, and when Aśvatthāman offers his own soul
and body as a sacrifice and enters the burning fire of the altar, Śiva finally
manifests himself (Mbh 10.7.18–63).
Śiva’s appearance at this juncture, especially in the form of sacrifice,
leaves no doubt that this is an incident of sectarian violence in which
Aśvatthāman (who is a Śaiva and a partial incarnation of Śiva) will
proclaim Śiva’s supremacy, because, like Viṣṇu, Śiva, too, is associated
with sacrifice, as described in the Yajur Veda (Bhattacharji 2000: 117).
However, the fact that this sacrificial altar is fearful, and the creatures
emanating from it are deformed, proves that this is a Vaiṣṇava
representation of the other cult’s ‘distorted’ beliefs.
The distortion could also indicate that as the purpose of this sacrifice is
destruction, its manifestations can only be terrifying; but this view seems
unlikely in light of Kṛṣṇa’s destruction theophany in the Gītā. In that
theophany, Kṛṣṇa is ‘adorned with celestial garlands and robes’ (Mbh 6.35:
11), and he is holding the ‘diadem and discus which is glowing on all sides’
(Mbh 6.35.17). He is also surrounded by all the celestials, and the sun and
moon are his eyes. There is a fire, too, that is emanating from his mouth,
but, instead of being fearful, this fire is ‘heating the universe with [Kṛṣṇa’s]
energy’ (Mbh 6.35.19). The only fearful image in this theophany is that
tusks thrust out of Kṛṣṇa’s mouth, but that is only a magnified
representation of Viṣṇu’s Varāha (boar) incarnation—one in which he
retrieved the Vedas and re-established Vaiṣṇavism. Obviously, this
difference in imagery is the Vaiṣṇava attempt to show that while Śiva may
be the final god of destruction, his destruction is ugly and deformed as
compared to Kṛṣṇa’s, who too could bring about destruction, but his
annihilation will be gentle and splendid.
The various other exchanges and stories in the Sauptika Parva also
reveal interesting insights into how rampant sectarianism was. For example,
Śiva tells Aśvatthāman that he has protected the Pāñcālas because he has
been worshipped by Kṛṣṇa, who is very dear to him, and that by protecting
the Pāñcālas, he has honoured Kṛṣṇa. Now, however, he says, the time of
the Pāñcālas has come (Mbh 10.7.65). It is almost as though, reminded by
Aśvatthāman of their separate identity, the Śaivas needed to reclaim their
power and prove that they were not subordinate to followers of Kṛṣṇaism.
Furthermore, when Dhṛtarāṣṭra asks Saṃjaya why Aśvatthāman had not
performed this massacre before, Saṃjaya tells him that Aśvatthāman was
afraid of the Pāṇḍavas and Keśava (Mbh 10.8.154), which could mean that
the practitioners of Śaivism were aware of the power of the Vaiṣṇava cult
and may have been threatened by them on occasion. This is made evident in
another verse in this parva as well, where there is undisguised enmity
between sects. In a dialogue between Kṛṣṇa and Yudhiṣṭhira, Kṛṣṇa reveals
that Aśvatthāman had come to him to request him for his disc because he
had learnt that he could not use the Brahmaśiras weapon, which would
bring complete destruction. Kṛṣṇa had given him the disc, but Aśvatthāman
could not lift it, and was very disappointed. When Kṛṣṇa asked
Aśvatthāman why he wanted the disc, Aśvatthāman replied, ‘to fight you’
(Mbh 10.12.15-36).
This violent power struggle between the two sects—made evident
through the active participation of their gods—becomes the key theme of
Sauptika Parva, and also of the whole Mahābhārata. Once Aśvatthāman
propitiates Śiva, the god of destruction gives Aśvatthāman a sword and
enters his body, infusing him with his own energy. Hence, Aśvatthāman,
filled with Śiva and accompanied by invisible beings and rākṣasas, goes
into the Pāñcāla camp and massacres everyone ‘like animals in a sacrifice’,
including Dhṛṣṭadyumna, Śikhaṇḍin, and Draupadī’s sons with
‘superhuman force’, ‘thundering like a lion’, till he is ‘bathed in blood’
‘appearing like death himself’ (Mbh 10.7.66–68 & 10.8.1–87). In fact, in
this massacre, Aśvatthāman is called the ‘Great Destroyer himself let loose
by Time’ (Mbh 10.8.77) and is also equated to ‘Destiny’ (Mbh 10.8.75–76).
The warriors in the Pāṇḍava camp see him as ‘Death-night of black visage,
having a bloody mouth and bloody eyes, wearing crimson garlands and
smeared with crimson unguents, clad in single piece of red cloth, with a
noose in hand, and resembling an elderly lady, singing a dreadful song,
standing erect before their eyes, about to lead them away’ (Mbh 10.8.70).
When morning comes, Aśvatthāman is covered in blood and is holding the
sword so tightly that his hand and sword seem like one, and he ‘looks like
the blazing fire at the end of the cycle, reducing all creatures to ashes’ (Mbh
10.8.143–4).
Obviously, here, Aśvatthāman has not just assumed Śiva’s
kathenotheism in the sectarian battle, but he has also assumed his function
of pralaya. A function that Śiva fulfils exclusively. Even Kṛṣṇa states that
in the night raid ‘it was not Drona’s son that performed that act. It was done
through the power of Mahādeva’ (because Mahādeva is the master of
pralaya) (Mbh 10.18.26).
The paradigmatic cosmic theme of Śiva’s destructive powers and
Aśvatthāman’s divine transformation revealed in this incident raise
important questions about the relationship of myth and ethics. The fact is
that myth, even in its simplest definition, reveals the truth of the human
experience, and the truth here is that in this myth Aśvatthāman is not simply
a symbolic manifestation of Śiva and his cosmic pralaya. He is a moral
agent accountable for his dharma/adharma, whose lakṣaṇa defines the
kṣetra as good or evil. What he does and how he acts needs to be judged on
the scale of dharma’s ethics, and there can be no doubt that this moral agent
commits extreme violence and, consequently, corrupts the dharmakṣetra.
Aśvatthāman’s behaviour, when seen as that of a moral agent, also sheds
light on the immorality of the other side—the Kṛṣṇa side, which parallels
the Śaiva one in similar evil acts of mass killing. A good example of this is
Arjuna’s and Kṛṣṇa’s burning of the Khāṇḍava. The two incidents are so
similar, in fact, that even the description of the massacred Pāñcāla bodies is
similar to that of the massacred animals and birds in the Khāṇḍava. In
addition, just as some beings escape the Khāṇḍava fire, such as Takṣaka’s
son, Aśvasena, the demon Maya, and the Śāranga birds, in the Sauptika
pralaya, too, the Pāṇḍavas escape. Hence the destruction (from either side)
is not complete. But, in moral terms, both Arjuna and Aśvatthāman
perpetrate ruthless acts of violence and evil in the name of sectarianism.
Additionally, when seen in comparison, Arjuna’s actions in the Khāṇḍava
appear more heinous because his violence is purposeless, as opposed to
Aśvatthāman’s, who at least is avenging his father’s death and fighting for
the cause of victory. Admittedly, Aśvatthāman goes a step further and tries
to complete the destruction by releasing the Brahmaśiras weapon ‘which
appears capable of destroying the three worlds like the all-destroying Yama
at the end of the cycle’ (Mbh 10.13.22). But then, at this time, Kṛṣṇa, too,
impels Arjuna to discharge his Brahmaśiras. The world is saved by the
Vaiṣṇava brāhmins, Nārada and Vyāsa, who intervene and tell the heroes to
withdraw these weapons that could bring about total destruction to the
world, and true to sectarian biases, while Arjuna, who is considered more
ascetic, is able to withdraw his weapon, Aśvatthāman is not; hence he
directs it to the wombs of the Pāṇḍava women and kills the foetus in
Uttarā’s belly (Mbh 10.14.12–16, 10.15.1–35 & 10.16.1).
This whole exchange clearly depicts the conflict that existed between the
two sects. Though each tried to best the other, once again the Vaiṣṇava cult
is shown to be superior, because it is represented by Arjuna who is
considered to be full of dharma, practises brahmacarya, and is an observer
of vows. Also, Kṛṣṇa revives the foetus in Uttarā’s womb, (10-16.2–3), so
the destruction that Śiva/Aśvatthāman tries to bring about is countered
through Kṛṣṇa’s māyā. On the other hand, Aśvatthāman, who does not have
brahmacarya qualities and, to make matters worse, is living the life of a
kṣatriya while being a brāhmin, is cursed to wander the earth (just like
Śiva). From a sectarian point of view, Aśvatthāman’s lack of brahmacarya
and his adharma is a Vaiṣṇava condemnation of what is really
Aśvatthāman’s belief in Śaivism. And, of course, Arjuna is full of dharma
because he is a Kṛṣṇa worshipper. Perhaps this is also why Arjuna’s and
Kṛṣṇa’s act of destruction in the burning of the Khāṇḍava is never
questioned; instead, they are both held up as models of dharma fighting in a
dharmakṣetra as opposed to Aśvatthāman’s kṣetra, which is seen as
adharmic. But, if Aśvatthāman’s act is defined as evil and he is penalized
for it, what is it about Arjuna and Kṛṣṇa’s act that changes the definition?
Scholars consider Arjuna’s and Kṛṣṇa’s actions in the Khāṇḍava as a
glimpse into pralaya; hence, devoid of moral/immoral value. But from this
perspective, the violence Aśvatthāman perpetrates is also pralaya, and this
is more validating of Śiva’s yugadharma, because it is a divine function
normally associated with Śiva. This would actually exonerate Aśvatthāman,
but the Mahābhārata tradition is biased; the extreme violence that the
Vaiṣṇavas and their divines commit is often passed off as simply necessary.
Moreover, justifying these sectarian acts of violence as perpetrated by
pralaya-evoking divines makes the Mahābhārata predominantly
apocalyptic, whereas it is obvious from its treatment of human behaviours
that the text is much more complex than that.
The juxtaposition of the sectarian divines is also worthy of note. Śiva
often poses situations which test not only the dharma and adharma practices
of the Vaiṣṇavas but also the imperatives of their divines. Śiva’s dice
playing in the Ādi Parva is a good example of this. In this incident, Śiva
contravenes the very norms of Vaiṣṇava societal codes and, consequently,
creates a catalytic situation that causes the Vaiṣṇava kṣetra to become a
yuddha kṣetra—a kṣetra where good and evil is clearly in conflict. First,
Śiva decides the fate of five Indras with the throw of dice, then he curses
the Indras to reincarnate on earth as the Pāṇḍavas, which is followed by Śrī
reincarnating as Draupadī, and a portion of Viṣṇu as Kṛṣṇa and Saṃkarṣaṇa
(Mbh 1.197.15–35). On the surface, this myth appears quite innocuous—
unrelated to sectarianism. It is told as one justification for Draupadī’s
marriage to five husbands; hence it seems unrelated to anything else that
follows. In actuality, Śiva’s role in this myth not only delineates the very
kṣetra on which good and evil actions occur, but it also creates the catalyst
that leads to the war. In addition, it disorients the Kṛṣṇa/Pāṇḍava camp and
tests the conduct of all moral agents, including the dharma-knowing,
Kṛṣṇized elders, such as Bhīṣma and Drona. Moreover, through the fruition
of this myth, Śiva and Kṛṣṇa themselves are cast in the roles of moral
agents.
Śiva’s dice playing parallels the main dice game in the Sabhā Parva,
which is the key catalyst of the war. Hiltebeitel (1991: 93–6) states that Śiva
actually ‘orchestrates this game’ that is set at Yudhiṣṭhira’s Rājasūya, a
yajña which must end with a dice game, and in which the very wood for the
yajña altar must be from the house of the akṣāvāpa (dice keeper). He also
suggests some key points of comparison between Śiva’s dice playing and
the dyūta between the Kauravas and Yudhiṣṭhira: (1) Śiva and Pārvatī’s dice
symbolize the four yugas, and in the latter, Śakuni is Dvāpara, and
Duryodhana is Kali. (2) Śiva’s dice brings down the Indras, one after
another, and in the Mahābhārata dice game the Pāṇḍavas suffer a
synchronous fall. (3) In Śiva’s game, Indra, through his folly, is separated
from Śrī; in the dyūta, through Yudhiṣṭhira’s folly, Śrī/Draupadī is also
separated from the Pāṇḍavas. (4) In Śiva’s game, Śrī weeps tears that
become golden lotuses; after the dyūta Draupadī’s tears and laments are
unceasing. (5) At Śiva’s command, the Indras must be ‘born’ on earth, just
like the Pāṇḍavas who must be ‘born’ again after they go through a forest
exile and a year in disguise, (6) Viṣṇu approves of Śrī reuniting with the
Indras and being born as Draupadī; Kṛṣṇa tells Draupadī that she will once
again be the ‘queen of kings’ (Hiltebeitel 1991: 97).
Notwithstanding the many similarities, it is the differences between the
two dice games that test the moral agency of the Pāṇḍavas, and especially
of Kṛṣṇa: the two key differences are that Śiva is intoxicated with dicing,
but Kṛṣṇa disapproves of dicing. And while Śiva himself is present at the
dice game and is playing it, Kṛṣṇa is absent. Hiltebeitel (1991: 97–9)
attributes this latter point to the pattern of Śiva always being present when
dharma is violated and Kṛṣṇa being absent at these times. Śiva’s motives
can be seen purely as his deva dharma because he does not play a mortal
role. Hence, the dice in which he seems intoxicated is his concentrated role
in yugadharma (as is evident from the names of the dice throws). Also, his
presence, whenever dharma is being violated, can be considered his
yugadharma, because with the change of each yuga, dharma loses more
ground. However, on a mortal, sectarian level, the ‘orchestration’ by Śiva—
of Draupadī marrying five husbands, which is a violation of the marital
codes—is a deliberate ploy to corrupt Vaiṣṇava societal norms. On the other
hand, Kṛṣṇa’s absence, even though dharma is being violated, negates his
deva dharma because the very purpose of his reincarnation is to restore
dharma. In addition, and more importantly, because the Rājasūya yajña
cannot be considered complete without the dyūta, Kṛṣṇa’s absence from it
falsifies him on even the human level, because he obviously doesn’t protect
the yajña till the end, as he promises to do (Hiltebeitel 1991: 97–9).
Thus, this event of sectarianism tests dharma on both the cosmic and
human level. Both divines are responsible for dharma, but from opposite
ends: Śiva ensures dharma’s decline to usher in another yuga, and Kṛṣṇa is
supposed to ensure its restoration. But, while Śiva fulfils his role, Kṛṣṇa
doesn’t. Therefore, whatever adharma occurs on this kṣetra of cult conflicts
must be attributed to Kṛṣṇa. In addition, if Śiva, and by extension the dice
game, is to be seen as the catalyst for the war, then, once again, Kṛṣṇa is
more at fault, because, while Śiva creates the situation in which to test
dharma, it is Kṛṣṇa’s duty to preserve dharma. Kṛṣṇa, however, is absent
from the dice game. If he had been present, he could have prevented the
resulting catastrophe, as he himself admits (Mbh 3.13.3).
The dice game, which Śiva cosmically orchestrates, is not just a catalyst
—it is also a representation of the war, another situation of extreme conflict
and testing of dharma that Śiva creates. There are many indications of this
in the Sabhā Parva. For example, both Śakuni and Sahadeva claim that
Śakuni’s dice are like arrows (Mbh 2.77. 39). And just as the dice game is
part of the sacrifice, so is the war a sacrifice of weapons, as Karṇa tells
Kṛṣṇa (Mbh 5.141.30). The difference, of course, is that the treacheries and
deceits are reversed. Although Kṛṣṇa is absent in this particular dice game
and he disapproves of it; he is certainly present in that other game—the war
—and even though he does not actively play, he strategizes for the
Pāṇḍavas. He is the Śakuni of that game, just as Śiva is the Śakuni of the
cosmic dice game. Also, just like the Indras are lost with each throw of
Śiva’s dice, so is every one of Yudhiṣṭhira’s belongings with each throw of
Śakuni’s dice; and also with each ‘throw’ of Kṛṣṇa’s ‘dice’, the Kauravas
fall: first Bhīma, then Drona, then Karṇa, and then Duryodhana himself. So,
the key players in the kṣetra of both games are really Kṛṣṇa and Śiva.
The two dice games—Śiva’s in Ādi Parva and the dyūta in Sabhā Parva
—also become the testing ground for the moral behaviour of human agents,
especially those who believe in Vaiṣṇavism. This is most evident in
Draupadī’s situation. Even if it is accepted that Draupadī’s unorthodox
marriage to the Pāṇḍavas is preordained because of Śiva’s orchestration,
Śiva only lays the ground for the situation; he does not force the Pāṇḍavas
to make Draupadī their joint wife. They, especially Yudhiṣṭhira, have the
free will to abide by śāstras and tradition and refuse, or at the least present
an argument against it. But the Pāṇḍavas do neither. The text suggests a
moral justification of their participation in the violation of dharma—that
they are fulfilling their mother, Kuntī’s desire. But this raises an important
question about Vaiṣṇava customary law: is this the definition of ‘good’ in
Vaiṣṇavism, then, to blindly fulfil the desire of parents and elders,
regardless of whether the act or the desire is good or evil? For an answer,
the consequence of this action must be considered. While the Pāṇḍavas’
polyandrous marriage does unite them in a strange incestuous bond, the
physical, mental, and emotional strain on Draupadī to maintain
patnīdharma towards five husbands must have been tremendous (this is
never examined in the epic). Furthermore, this polyandry breeds feelings of
jealousy among the brothers, especially in Arjuna. But the one who suffers
the gravest repercussion of this act is Yudhiṣṭhira, because when he violates
his duty towards Draupadī in the dyūta, he doesn’t just victimize his own
wife but also the wife of his brothers, and consequently, even the brothers
themselves. Hence the kṣetra that Śiva creates is a test of dharma, which all
moral agents fail.
Another demonstrative incident of sectarianism and the evil that invades
the characters fighting its cause is that of Jarāsaṃdha and his destruction.
The incident occurs when Yudhiṣṭhira is to perform his Rājasūya. Kṛṣṇa
tells him that his key opposition would be Jarāsaṃdha, and that if he can
subjugate him, he can be samrāṭ. Jarāsaṃdha’s very birth is indicative of
his affiliation with Śiva. When he is born split from the wombs of two
mothers, he is put together by Jarā, a rākṣasī—a being over whom Śiva has
dominion. Also, when Candrakauśika, the Gautama ṛṣi who ordains his
birth, blesses him, he tells his father that Jarāsaṃdha will be a powerful
ruler full of dharma and that ‘with his physical eyes, he will see the god of
gods, Rudra’ (Mbh 2.19.15). That Jarāsaṃdha is a Śaiva is further proved
by his enmity with Kṛṣṇa and the Yādavas, and it is actually for this
sectarian reason that Kṛṣṇa wants to destroy Jarāsaṃdha, using
Yudhiṣṭhira’s Rājasūya as an excuse.
When Kṛṣṇa, Arjuna, and Bhīma enter Jarāsaṃdha’s kingdom through
deceit and meet him in his court, Jarāsaṃdha proclaims himself as a king
full of dharma (which is not only the Śaiva dharma he subscribes to, but
also the non-sectarian general dharma of a kṣatriya) and all his actions and
behaviours described are testimony to this. Yet, Kṛṣṇa urges Bhīma to kill
the Magadha king by violating a code of single combat and fighting with
the old king non-stop for thirteen days, and thus tiring him to the point of
death (Mbh 2.23.32–3). This is the very evil for which Śiśupala,
consequently, condemns Kṛṣṇa at Yudhiṣṭhira’s Rājasūya (Mbh 2.42.1–5).
Once again, with sectarian overtones, Kṛṣṇa destroys Śiśupala, another
Śaiva, to establish his own supremacy. Furthermore, the fact that hundreds
of kings witness this killing and applaud Kṛṣṇa’s actions instead of
objecting to them, proclaims the ruthlessness of sectarian alliances.
On the other hand, Śiva, in his role of sectarian contender, rarely ever
kills any Vaiṣṇava; his opposition is more subtle, creating situations in
which the dharma of characters is put to the test. For example, many boons
that are granted to those who are against the Pāṇḍavas are given by Śiva.
The most important of Śiva’s boons is to the dānavas through which
Duryodhana is born (Mbh 3.253.8), and to contend with this particular
orchestration, the Pāṇḍavas have to resort to war. Another such boon is to
Ambā so that she can destroy Bhīṣma, who, very clearly, is a strong
believer in Kṛṣṇa. He is also a mighty warrior, proud of his adherence to
Kṛṣṇa bhakti, his oath of celibacy, and his kṣatriyahood. That he is reduced
by a woman’s power of asceticism could have been a Śaiva ploy to belittle
him, and from this perspective, the fact that it is, in actuality, Arjuna (and
not Śikhaṇḍin) who kills Bhīṣma could be considered a Vaiṣṇava attempt to
rescue Bhīṣma’s Vaiṣṇava manhood.
In this kṣetra of sectarianism, aside from the numerous instances of
conflict, there are also incidents of compromise, especially when the two
divines, instead of trying to best one another, accept each other as equals.
Śiva’s acknowledgment of Viṣṇu’s supremacy and his collaboration with
Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna in various incidents may be an interpolation by the
Vaiṣṇava brāhmins who took over the telling of the Mahābhārata. Or
maybe, considering that the composition of the epic spans centuries, these
sectarian battles had their ups and downs—times when the two cults were
in bitter opposition and times when there were attempts to unify them.
However, even during the occasional alignment and periods of peace, the
moral agents could not uphold dharma. One of the most revealing of these
incidents is Śiva’s boon to Jayadratha, who propitiates the god after his
attempt to kidnap Draupadī and his humiliation at the hands of the
Pāṇḍavas. Here, Śiva acknowledges Nārāyaṇa as the ‘unmanifest, Pradhān
Puruṣa’ (Mbh 3.272.31) and calls the created universe ‘Vaiṣṇava’ (Mbh
3.272.70). He also validates Kṛṣṇa by telling Jayadratha that he is Viṣṇu’s
incarnation (Mbh 3.272.72). Therefore, when the Sindhu king asks Śiva for
the ability to destroy all the Pāṇḍavas, the god does not grant that boon;
instead he grants Jayadratha the boon to be victorious in one encounter over
all the Pāṇḍavas, excepting Arjuna, who is protected by Nārāyaṇa. The
consequence of this boon is hardly moral. In the war, as Śiva promises,
Jayadratha is able to hold back the Pāṇḍavas in one encounter; but to what
end? To allow a mass of Kaurava commanders to kill Abhimanyu—an act
that is clearly immoral—in the context of both the war and society. This,
then, is followed by more adharma, and this time it is carried out by both
Arjuna and Kṛṣṇa under the pretext of a vow that the Pāṇḍava hero takes to
kill Jayadratha. Ironically, and even more incriminating for Arjuna, on the
eve of Jayadratha’s vadha, Śiva helps Arjuna in the battlefield. Arjuna sees
this in a dream in which he and Kṛṣṇa visit Śiva, and the god of destruction
once again gives him the Paśupata weapon (Mbh 7.81.22). Later, Vyāsa tells
Arjuna that Maheśvara was protecting him all along (Mbh 7.203.21–3).
However, despite having both divines on his side, Arjuna fails in dharma.
He kills Jayadratha by trickery that Kṛṣṇa orchestrates.
The clearest incident of Vaiṣṇavas and Śaivas working together in the
same kṣetra is seen in Arjuna’s encounter with Śiva as Kirāta in the Vana
Parva. Once again, favoured by the two divines, Arjuna is filled with a
sense of entitlement and, even supported by them, he falters as a moral
agent. In this incident, initially, Arjuna seeks Śiva single-mindedly,
performing the most arduous of penances, and when Śiva appears in the
form of Kirāta, a mountain hunter, they both strike Mūka, a dānava
disguised as a boar, at the same time. A battle breaks out between them over
who first struck the boar, but Arjuna is incapacitated by Śiva’s strength and
māyā, and when he gains consciousness and realizes who he is battling, he
bows before Śiva and praises him as being the supreme being, the creator,
preserver, and destroyer and equates him with Viṣṇu, saying, ‘You are Śiva
in the form of Viṣṇu, and Viṣṇu in the form of Śiva’ (Mbh 3.39.76). Then,
Arjuna asks Śiva for the Brahmaśiras weapon (Mbh 3.40.9). This weapon
has a ‘Brahman head’, hence the implication is that it is a cosmic weapon
that would destroy the world. Śiva refuses Arjuna this weapon, reminding
him that he is a mere mortal, and then he gives him his Paśupata instead
(this is a more personal weapon since Śiva himself is Paśupata) (Mbh
3.40.15). But the fact that Arjuna feels entitled to an absolute cosmic
weapon shows that in times when Vaiṣṇavas felt they had managed to fully
bring the Śaivic elements into their fold, they grew vainglorious.
Arjuna is a complete warrior, possessing the power of all the gods; hence
there is more responsibility on him to uphold dharma. He could have been
an ideal vehicle of a concurrence of the sects. However, in the final
analysis, Arjuna fails. In his cosmic act of evoking pralaya to match the
power of Aśvatthāman’s Brahmaśiras weapon, Arjuna reveals himself to be
no more than an unthinking, ignorant mortal (ignorance being analogous to
adharma). His intent may not have been to destroy the world, but the fact
that Arjuna does not even consider the implications of discharging his own
pralaya weapon makes him culpable, because ignorance or lack of foresight
is as much an evil as the action itself. In addition, it reeks of abuse of
power, which may have been how the Vaiṣṇavas behaved whenever they
gained advantage. But the way the brāhmins panic when the weapons are
released indicates the destruction this cult conflict could have let loose.
To give the Vaiṣṇavas credit, they sometimes did try to curb sectarian
violence; but, to do so, they either discredited Śiva’s powers or subsumed
them into Viṣṇu—the same was true of Śaivites. These methods made the
practitioners of both sects susceptible to acts of adharma. Admittedly, in
this warrior culture, it may not have been possible to refrain from all acts of
violence. The only other way to stop violence or adhere to absolute dharma
would have been by totally ceasing all action. In fact, there is one such
incident of non-action in the Mahābhārata which, ironically, is initiated by
Aśvatthāman, although he does it inadvertently. This event also indicates
that peace between the sects was not wholly impossible; they were just not
willing to concede. This incident (Mbh 7.202.55–96) occurs when
Aśvatthāman uses the Nārāyaṇa weapon after Drona’s death. The power of
this weapon is such that it destroys anyone who is holding weapons (except
for Nara and Nārāyaṇa, who are immune to any weapon or being as a result
of a boon from Śiva). The effect of the weapon is rendered useless because
Kṛṣṇa, knowing its power, tells all the Pāṇḍavas and their troops to lay
down their weapons (only Bhīma continues to defy this). Obviously, the
Nārāyaṇa weapon is a weapon of peace, and, most importantly, both Śiva
and Nārāyaṇa are responsible for its effectiveness. Thus, while the kṣetra on
which Śaivism and Vaiṣṇavism dwelt was a sectarian ground, evoking
violence, it was also a kṣetra in which individual moral agents could decide
to end the violence. But, in the Mahābhārata, they chose war over peace,
and this compulsion continued in tradition.

KṢETRA OF THE FRAME STORY: THE PĀṆḌAVA AND

KAURAVA CONFLICT
The key kṣetra of the Mahābhārata which must be examined as a
dharmakṣetra is that of the frame story. It is in this kṣetra that the moral
agents have no archetypal, mythopoeic, or sectarian excuses. Their
behaviour is guided by pure human impulses and adherence or lack thereof
to puruṣārthic dharma; hence, their dhārmic or adharmic characteristics
define the good and evil of the kṣetra. As Sukthankar (1998: 19) says, the
Mahābhārata is ‘clearly intended by the author or authors of the poem to
portray different aspects of human personality, to visualize the different
types of subtle psyche of man’ therefore, the characters are ‘as active and
potent today as they were in the time of the Mahābhārata’. Hence, this
tradition of the text, in which the ‘psyche of man’ continues to be
dynamically visual, is one of the most important.
This kṣetra is set with the birth of Dhṛtarāṣṭra, Pāṇḍu, and Vidura: ‘Thus
were begotten on the field (wives) of Vicitravīrya by Dvaipāyana three
sons, as effulgent as the celestial children, the expanders of the Kuru race’
(Mbh 1.106.32), and it reaches fruition with the birth of the Kauravas and
Pāṇḍavas, which spawns the question of who will be the legitimate king of
Hāstinapura—Duryodhana, the eldest Kaurava, or Yudhiṣṭhira, the eldest
Pāṇḍava? Trying to prove legitimacy, the moral agents war—with each
other, with their relationships and circumstances, and with their inner selves
—but, more often than not, they lose their morality in the process of their
battles. Therefore, in this field, the epic is more an adharmakṣetra than a
dharmakṣetra. In addition, in this field, dharma itself becomes biased—
suspect of partiality—even before the battle lines are drawn; rather, even
before the moral agents are allowed to demonstrate their (im)morality,
dharma takes sides and predetermines that no matter what nature of
puruṣkāra the two sides demonstrate, the Pāṇḍavas will be considered moral
and the Kauravas immoral. Hence, victory is already preordained, since it is
known that where there is dharma, there is victory. Therefore, the question
of dharmakṣetra or adharmakṣetra and the definition of good and evil
through the lakṣaṇa of the moral agents becomes moot at the outset.

Corruption of the Kṣetra of Kingship and Legitimacy: Bhīṣma,

Vidura, Pāṇḍu, and Dhṛtarāṣṭra
The yuddha kṣetra created by the Kauravas and Pāṇḍavas to decide the
issue of the legitimacy is not simply a question of who is the rightful king
as per the codes of kingship. If it were, it would be easy to resolve, because
then it would be a matter of just matching up the qualities of an ideal king
(that Bhīṣma, Vidura, and Nārada describe) with the candidates and
declaring the winner. For example, Bhīṣma equates the king to Indra and
says he has total power and is the one who sustains dharma and ensures its
execution. This ideal king is an independent ruler, and he protects his
kingdom from being taken over. Also, when the need arises, he ‘assails the
kingdom of the stronger one by means of weapons of fire and the
administering of poison’ (Mbh 12.69.15–16). Also according to Bhīṣma, a
king satisfies his debt when he defeats his foe or kills him at once. And a
good king takes care of ‘his own self, his ministers, his treasury, his
servants, his friends, his provinces, and his capital’ (Mbh 12.69.64–5).
Considering these qualities, the ideal king would be Duryodhana. He fits all
the criteria that Bhīṣma describes. In fact, Duryodhana is such a good king
that both his people and the gods attest to it. For instance, just before
Dhṛtarāṣṭra goes into the forest at the end of the war, his subjects thank him
and tell him that under King Duryodhana, ‘[they] were well protected and
well ruled’ and ‘they lived depending on [him] as trustfully as [their] own
father’ (Mbh 15.10.20–1). And when the dying Duryodhana himself
proclaims his kingly virtues, the heavens shower flowers to honour him,
and the Gandharvas, siddhas, and apsarās sing his praise (Mbh 10.61.18).
Yudhiṣṭhira, on the other hand, may be a man of dharma, but he neither fits
the kṣatriya qualities that Bhīṣma describes, nor does he care about his
people. If he cared for his people, would he have staked them in a dice
game? If he was so worried about Duryodhana’s adharmic character, would
he have wagered his kingdom, subjecting his people to the immorality of
his cousin’s kingship? This fact alone would immediately cancel
Yudhiṣṭhira’s candidacy.
But the question of kingship doesn’t just address the qualities of a good
king; it also pertains to the matter of legitimacy of birth. It is a right passed
down from father to eldest son. This is the key problem. Who is the eldest
son, the legitimate heir to the throne of Hāstinapura—Yudhiṣṭhira or
Duryodhana? Legitimacy cannot be conclusively determined because of the
actions of certain progenitors, who, by virtue of their free will, make the
‘wrong choices’, thereby creating a domino effect of consequentiality in
which legitimacy becomes dubious. The first culprit of this problematic
situation is Bhīṣma, a character who is considered exemplary in tradition
and also by most scholars. For example, Sukthankar (1998: 45) sees Bhīṣma
as the ‘Perfect Man’, the character whose idealism is unequalled in epic
poetry. According to Sukthankar, Bhīṣma is that character of the
Mahābhārata who achieves self-actualization, because he acts on
asirdhārāvrata (a vow as fine-edged as an arrow) and proves his mettle
(Sukthankar 1998: 45). However, the fact is that Bhīṣma takes this vow to
protect Hāstinapura, yet he forfeits the fate of the kingdom for his own
glory; not once, but twice. The first time he chooses putradharma over
Hāstinapura. In that choice, he endangers the kingdom, because, to make
his father happy, he promises Matsyagandhā’s father that he will take the
oath of celibacy. He does not once consider whether Matsyagandhā’s
(Satyavatī’s) union with Śaṃtanu will be fruitful or not. What if Śaṃtanu
and Satyavatī had not been able to have children? In his haste to be a good
son and to prove to the world his asceticism, he allows selfish achievement
to cloud his love for Hāstinapura. Then, again, he jeopardizes Hāstinapura
for his own glory when his half-brothers, Vicitravīrya and Citrāngada, die
without children and Satyavatī requests him to follow the accepted practice
of niyoga and father sons on Ambikā and Ambālikā, his brothers’ widows.
Bhīṣma refuses. He is willing to play with the fate of Hāstinapura rather
than break the oath that has won him such personal glory amongst both
mortals and immortals. Further, trusting Satyavatī’s word, he allows Vyāsa
to impregnate the queens without considering whether the sons born from
that union will be suitable for kingship or not, once again jeopardizing the
kingdom. In fact, that is exactly what occurs. The queens give birth to sons
who are both unsuited to be king: Dhṛtarāṣṭra is blind, and Pāṇḍu is
impotent.
It can be argued that Bhīṣma cannot really be blamed for the infirmities
that Ambikā’s and Ambālikā’s children suffer, because that, as the epic
keeps repeating, is daivya or fate. However, Bhīṣma’s choices are his own,
even when it seems that fate is inexorable. If he had forfeited his oath in
lieu of fathering children, the ensuing progeny may have been more
suitable. He even had an ideal candidate for motherhood in Ambā, who,
unlike Ambikā and Ambālikā, did not shy away from sexual union; in fact,
she invited it. Having obscured forever the legitimacy of Hāstinapura’s heir,
Bhīṣma continues to err. In the process of trying to sustain Hāstinapura, he
hurts many people, especially women: Ambikā and Ambālikā are forced to
bear intercourse with Vyāsa, a man so ugly that they can hardly bear it;
Gāndhārī is married to a blind husband and binds her own eyes forever; and
Kuntī and Mādrī are married to an impotent man. He also hurts Ambā, who,
consequently, commits suicide, and ultimately causes Bhīṣma’s destruction
and, perhaps, his salvation too. Then there is the case of Draupadī, which is
not directly related to the question of legitimacy of kingship that Bhīṣma
muddles, but Bhīṣma’s non-action does deepen the obscurity of dharma in
this question of kingship, as well as the legality of the issue. He has the
authority to stop the dice game, but he doesn’t. He just sits there, watching
Draupadī’s humiliation. In fact, at that moment, if he had fulfilled the role
of the grandfather that he is, the protector of Hāstinapura that he proclaims
himself to be, the keeper of traditions—the title Kṛṣṇa confers upon him—
and had supported the dharma of protecting the kulavadhu, the war would
have been averted. Irawati Karve (2008: 17) says he does not really do any
explicit wrong in this; he is just indifferent to the fate of these women. This
indifference is, perhaps, Bhīṣma’s greatest wrong, because it is indicative of
his apathy towards social justice—whether it pertains to women, legitimacy
of kingship, or war. His sin is as grievous as that of a person who watches a
woman being raped and does nothing to prevent it, even though he is in a
position to do so. Therefore, Bhīṣma is as much to blame, if not more, for
Draupadī’s suffering, just as the men who directly cause it. Hence, by his
lack of action at this crucial time, he becomes instrumental in the violent
solution that the two sides find to the problem of legitimacy.
Bhīṣma’s ‘sacrifices’, which scholars like Sukthankar see as ideal
examples of niṣkāma karma, are also not as selfless as they appear.
Sukthankar (1998: 47) believes that he joins the war and fights on the
Kaurava side because he is bound by dharma to fight for the monarch—
Dhṛtarāṣṭra. Hence he fights without desire, or rather his desire is desireless.
In other words, the motive of his sacrifices is the greater good. However,
not only do his sacrifices hurt innumerable people and thrust Hāstinapura in
the āpad situation of war, but also his actions are not niṣkāma. By his own
admission, one of his motives to join the Kauravas in the war is his desire
for wealth, and his actions in the war are ruled by his hubris and his desire
for power. The consequence of the latter is one of the reasons for the
thorough massacre in Kurukṣetra: Arjuna cannot touch him, because he is
the grandfather, Duryodhana cannot remove him from the commandership
of his armies out of respect for him, and he himself cannot die because of
his boon. So, instead of a quick war, the Kauravas and Pāṇḍavas have to
massacre many, many enemy warriors over eighteen days to gain victory.
Additionally, Bhīṣma’s refusal to let Karṇa fight is because his ego will not
allow him to acknowledge that Karṇa may be a greater kṣatriya and warrior
than him. Perhaps, if Karṇa had been actively fighting in the war from day
one, the outcome would have been decided without the total bloodbath.
Tradition upholds Bhīṣma as the ideal man, whose choices in life are all for
the service of others and for the kingdom. The truth is, Bhīṣma, through his
bad choices and adharma of hubris, can be seen as a character who lays not
only the first seeds of adharma in this kṣetra but also many rotations of bad
seeds, including the seed of a disputed kingship.
The other culprits who complicate the question of legitimacy are the
fathers, Pāṇḍu, Dhṛtarāṣṭra, and Vidura. The culpability of Pāṇḍu and
Dhṛtarāṣṭra can be demonstrated through a dialogue that Kṛṣṇa and Nārada
have in the Śāntī Parva: when Kṛṣṇa, distressed by the disunity in his own
clans of Bhojas and Vṛṣṇis over distribution of wealth, seeks Nārada’s
advice, the ṛṣi tells him that this is a result of his own actions. Kṛṣṇa gave
away the kingdom to Babhru and Ugrasena, who were Vṛṣṇis, thus
upsetting the Bhojas, and this, Nārada says, is the root cause of the disunity.
He says to Kṛṣṇa, ‘You cannot take back that wealth, even as you cannot
swallow again the food that you have vomited yourself.’ Taking it back
would create intestine feuds (Mbh 12.81.16–17). Nārada also warns Kṛṣṇa
that ‘even if the attempt succeeds, it will do so after… a great slaughter and
a great loss of wealth … perhaps even total destruction’ (Mbh 12.81.18).
Nārada’s statements echo the very situation in Hāstinapura: Pāṇḍu gave
away the kingdom to Dhṛtarāṣṭra; now his sons, the Pāṇḍavas, cannot take it
back. Similarly, Dhṛtarāṣṭra does give a portion back to the Pāṇḍavas and
creates more ‘intestine feuds’. Then, Yudhiṣṭhira gives away his wealth and
kingdom to Duryodhana in a dice game, once again creating more disunity
and inviting slaughter. Therefore, how can Duryodhana be blamed for
fighting over what was his two times over, and how can the Pāṇḍavas claim
a right to it? And, to make matters worse, there is Kṛṣṇa’s meddling. He
created problems in his own clans with his interference, despite Nārada’s
warning to him that ‘disunion will create destruction’ and that he, being the
‘foremost among them’, should act in such a way that the two parties ‘may
not meet with destruction’ (Mbh 12.81.25). And now he is causing similar
discord between the Pāṇḍavas and Kauravas.
The other question that must be raised here in terms of legitimacy is that
of birth and birthright. The throne is contested because the Pāṇḍavas are
considered Pāṇḍu’s progeny by niyoga, but who are the Pāṇḍavas? Who are
their fathers? In this patrilineal society, the identity of the fathers was
imperative. The divine parentage of the Pāṇḍavas is only mythic. In reality,
Pāṇḍu was probably impotent (or from a myth perspective, rendered
impotent by Kiṃdam’s curse), and Kuntī and Mādrī had five sons between
them. Who really fathered these five sons? Scholars like Irawati Karve
(2008: 69) believe that Yudhiṣṭhira, who is the chief candidate for kingship,
is really Vidura’s son. From this perspective, Vidura is the third father and
culprit of this situation.
Right at the outset in this question of legitimacy, it is important to state
Vidura’s status in the hierarchy of caste. The king could only be a kṣatriya
or, in certain situations, a brāhmin, but not a vaiśya, and never a śūdra.
Vidura is the son of a śūdra woman (Mbh 1.108.9). There is quite a bit of
proof in the Mahābhārata that shows that Vidura is Yudhiṣṭhira’s father:
Vidura is Dharma himself, but cursed to be born as a low caste. This
incarnation of Dharma in both Vidura and Yudhiṣṭhira implies the father–
son relationship between the two. This fact is also supported by numerous
statements in the epic; for example, when Dhṛtarāṣṭra, Gāndhārī, and Kuntī
give up their mortal bodies, Nārada tells them that they will go to their
desired places and Vidura will ‘enter into the high soul of Yudhiṣṭhira’
(Mbh 14.20.20), and by Yoga power, Vidura enters the body of Yudhiṣṭhira
limb by limb; he unites his vital airs with those of Yudhiṣṭhira, and his
senses with Yudhiṣṭhira’s senses (Mbh 15.26.20). And when Yudhiṣṭhira
wants to cremate Vidura’s body, a heavenly voice tells him not to, because
‘In him is your body’ (Mbh 15.26.25). These are the very words Ulūpī had
used to introduce Arjuna to his son Babhruvāhana, who had struck him
dead during the horse wandering of the Aśvamedha. Ulūpī’s words were:
‘The son is one’s own self’ (Mbh 14.81.18)—words that are also echoed in
the Law Code of Manu (9: 32–56 and 9: 132; Olivelle 2004: 156, 164).
To further support this argument of Yudhiṣṭhira’s parentage is Vidura’s
unwavering support of him. Just as Dhṛtarāṣṭra dotes on Duryodhana like a
favourite child, so Vidura supports and protects Yudhiṣṭhira in subtle and
not-so-subtle ways. For example, when Vidura warns Yudhiṣṭhira of the
incendiary nature of the house of lac, he sends him a message in the
Mleccha tongue that only the eldest Pāņḍava understands. This is a
language that Bhīṣma considers sinful, because Mlecchas are outside the
Aryan fold (Mbh 12.188.17), but Vidura knows it, perhaps because of his
caste. The fact that Yudhiṣṭhira too knows it, suggests that Vidura spoke
Mleccha often enough that his ‘son’ picked it up. Otherwise, why would
Yudhiṣṭhira, who is supposedly a dharma- and caste-bound Aryan prince, be
allowed to learn a language that was considered sinful and outside the
bounds of Aryanism? Another fact that is suggestive of their filial bond is
Kuntī’s intimate relationship with Vidura. That is why, when the Pāṇḍavas
go to the forest, Kuntī decides not to join them in exile but chooses instead
to stay with Vidura. All these are subtle references to the father–son
relationship between Vidura and Yudhiṣṭhira, but in the Āśramavāsika
Parva, Vyāsa states this father–son bond quite clearly. He tells Dhṛtarāṣṭra:
‘He [Vidura] was a deity of deities … and from that Deity of Virtue,
through Yoga power, the Kuru King, Yudhiṣṭhira also took birth.’ And also,
‘He who is Dharma is Vidura, and he who is Vidura is the eldest son of
Pāṇḍu’ (Mbh 15.28.16 &118). Thus, it is more than likely that Vidura is
Yudhiṣṭhira’s father; therefore, by virtue of his low-caste parentage,
Yudhiṣṭhira has no claim to the throne.
Yudhiṣṭhira’s parentage changes everything, and the question of ‘who is
king’ need not even be asked. In fact, in this respect, there is even precedent
for why Yudhiṣṭhira cannot be king: when both Dhṛtarāṣṭra and Pāṇḍu were
seen as unsuited for kingship, their half-brother, Vidura, who was the
epitome of dharma, and was able-bodied, could not be made king because
his mother was a śūdra, even though his father was Vyāsa himself. In
Yudhiṣṭhira’s case, Aryan paternity law of kingship is even more against
him, because it is his father who is a śūdra. On the other hand, Duryodhana
is a legitimate, unquestioned son of the kṣatriya princess Gāndhārī and the
king of Hāstinapura, Dhṛtarāṣṭra. The answer to the question of who should
be king is clear. But it isn’t because, obviously, this story is about more than
just the legitimacy of a kingship or, even if it is, these determinations are
not conclusive. Hence, the onus now falls on dharma; and, therefore, the
kṣetra on which the question of kingship rests becomes a true dharmakṣetra.
So now the initial question of who is the legitimate king can be qualified as:
who, by virtue of dharma, is the legitimate king? The answer to this can
also be simple, because one of the candidates (even though his birth is cast
in doubt) is Dharma manifest; therefore, he can be crowned the winner. But
this claim is also equivocal, because dharma itself is ambiguous, and by the
same standard adharma too is indistinguishable. There are no litmus tests to
prove the red and blue of these opposing factors and whether Yudhiṣṭhira
truly is the dharma king.

A Biased Kṣetra of War

Since dharma is ambiguous and the legitimacy of the throne cannot be
proved otherwise, the only deciding factor is battle, because one seemingly
irrefutable fact of this battle of good and evil is that yato dharmas tato
jayaḥ. This means that victory itself is equivalent to dharma, or that dharma
itself is victory. Thus, it can be assumed that the faction which gains victory
in the war will be emblematic of dharma. Clearly, in the battlefield of
Kurukṣetra, one faction is the victor, and this faction does become
emblematic of dharma. But does this faction truly display the lakṣaṇa of
dharma? The answer to this question will determine whether this kṣetra is a
dharmakṣetra or not, and if it is proved that this faction did not uphold
dharma, then the very truth of the dharmakṣetra and of the statement, ‘yato
dharmas tato jayaḥ’ is falsified. In this case, Kurukṣetra becomes an
adharmakṣetra.
One of dharma’s explicit and unequivocal qualities is goodness;
therefore, this quality can be accepted as the barometer of the kṣetra. If the
Pāṇḍavas are to be accepted as embodiments of good by virtue of their
birth, and their yuddha with the Kauravas is for the victory of that good,
their victory must be unequivocally good. There are two determinants to
decide this: firstly, if karma (action, which is the means) is undertaken with
the intent of good and, secondly, if the consequence (the end) of that karma
is also good, then it can be said that the good, that is, the Pāṇḍavas, has
been victorious. Since the intent of war is tied up with the ambiguity of
legitimacy, it cannot be determined if the Pāṇḍavas are fighting for right
and their intent was good. However, what is not at all ambiguous is that the
consequence of their actions hardly begets good. In fact, after the war, even
Kurukṣetra itself, the field on which this battle of the victory of good is
fought, is left as ugly as sin:
Covered with numberless killed men, horses and elephants … The bodies that were adorned with
golden trappings are now covered with blood … carcasses of killed horses, mangled with arrows,
breathing hard in agony and vomiting blood … the elephants with shattered tusks, vomiting blood,
crying piteously in anguish … strewn with the heads of bodies of thousands of heroes wounded with
arrows … covered with dead bodies of Kuru and Sṛñjaya warriors … the entire field is blackened
with carcasses, corpses, broken chariots and arrows that Arjuna and Karṇa shot. (Mbh 8.94.1–16)

In fact, even the victory itself is equivocal; Yudhiṣṭhira’s words at the end
of the war testify to this: ‘The enemies who were defeated have become
victorious. Ourselves, again, while victorious are defeated’ (Mbh 10.10.11).
Furthermore, he says, ‘Misery appears like prosperity, and prosperity looks
like misery. This, our victory, is turned into defeat … Having gained
victory, I am obliged to grieve as an afflicted wretch … In sooth, I have
been doubly defeated by the enemy’ (Mbh 10.10.12–15). In addition, it is
revealed that after the war, the celestial paraphernalia that Arjuna had
received to fight this battle for good disappear—the celestial ape that was
on the banner of his chariot vanishes, and the chariot itself, along with its
quivers, reins, horses, yoke, and shaft suddenly bursts into flames and is
instantly reduced to ashes (Mbh 9.62.12–14). The explanation Kṛṣṇa
provides is that the chariot, which had earlier been burnt by Drona and
Karna with various weapons, was holding together because he (Kṛṣṇa) was
sitting in it, and now that the war’s objective was achieved and Kṛṣṇa was
no longer in it, it became ashes (Mbh 9.62.18–19). However, the objective
of the war was not just victory; it was victory of dharma. If dharma had
been the purpose, dharma the means, and dharma the end of this
dharmayuddha, wouldn’t Arjuna’s accoutrements of battle remain as
emblems of his dharma and warriorship, especially since these were given
to him by Varuna, the ‘protector of the world’ and ‘foremost of all the
Lokapālas’ to accomplish great warrior feats to benefit the world (Mbh
1.225.3–4)? Isn’t that how dharma sustains? Especially of note is that,
conversely, Duryodhana’s beloved golden mace, with which he fought
valiantly in every battle, ‘does not abandon the illustrious hero’ and remains
right beside him ‘like a loving wife’, even as he dies (Mbh 10.9.11–13).
Thus, in this equivocation, even the lucidity of the quality of goodness is
lost in the falsity of the dharma that the Pāṇḍavas demonstrate.
One key element to consider in this misconstrued dharma victory of the
Pāṇḍavas is that it is actually predetermined by many factors. One of the
most elemental factors is that the Pāṇḍavas and Kauravas themselves are
the archetypal representation of gods and demons. Even Saṃjaya in his
description of the troops presents them as such to Dhṛtarāṣṭra. He says,
‘daityendra seneva ca kauravāṇāṃ; devendra seneva ca pāṇḍavānām’ [the
Kuru troops looked like the army of the dānava chief, while the Pāṇḍava
troops looked like the army of the celestials] (Mbh 6.20.5). But, while the
archetypal predetermination of the ultimate victory of the gods can be
accepted on an allegorical level (because in this victory dharma is static), on
the material plain, dharma must be determined empirically through its
lakṣaṇa. However, in the battlefield of Kurukṣetra, dharma is not given a
chance to prove itself through its lakṣaṇa. The Pāṇḍavas are made
emblematic of dharma even before the battle and even before they prove
their dharma.
There are many factors that establish the outcome of the war, and all
these become unfair advantages for the Pāṇḍavas. The following are just a
few key instances: Draupadī is wedded to the Pāṇḍavas, which is a clear
indication that they will be the victors, because she is a reincarnation of Śrī,
who is prosperity and also the goddess who determines kingship with her
favours (Mbh 1.197.29). In the Śāntī Parva, Bhīṣma tells Yudhiṣṭhira that
Śrī was born from the lotus that sprang from Viṣṇu’s brow. She then
became Dharma’s consort and Artha was born from their union. Hence
Dharma, Artha, and Śrī are established in a king (Mbh 12.59.132-134).
Bhīṣma also eulogizes Śrī by citing from the response she herself gave
Nārada when he questioned who she was: ‘I am called Lakṣmī, Bhūtī, and
Śrī … I am Faith; I am Intelligence; I am Affluence; I am Victory and I am
Immutability … I am patience. I am success and I am prosperity. I am
Svāha, I am Svadhā, I am Reverence, and I am Fate, and I am Memory … I
live at the vanguard and on the standards of victorious and virtuous kings,
as well as in their homes, cities, and kingdoms’ (Mbh 12.228.18–23). Thus,
‘Śrī is associated with prosperity, well-being, royal power, and
illustriousness … She is the embodiment of these qualities, and it is
commonly understood that when these qualities are evident, Śrī herself is
present or reveals herself’ (Kinsley 1988: 19). Hence, the fact that Śrī
wholly favours the Pāṇḍavas determines that they will gain victory.
Although Yudhiṣṭhira foolishly loses her in the dice game, Śrī does not only
continue to favour the Pāṇḍavas, she also helps them gain her back.
In addition, with Draupadī, the Pāṇḍavas also have the power of Kṛṣṇa,
because she is not only his mortal ‘sakhī’ but also his celestial consort:
‘Krishna incarnate[s] Viṣṇu, and Draupadī quite emphatically incarnates
Viṣṇu’s consort Śrī’ (Hiltebeitel 1991: 62). Also, because Draupadī bears
the name of Kṛṣṇā, Hiltebeitel (1991: 63) connects her and Kṛṣṇa through
the colour black. He says that since Kṛṣṇa assumes different colours—
śukla, rakta, pīta, kṛṣṇa (white, red, yellow and black)—for the various
yugas and his colour is black for Kali Yuga, so is Śrī/Draupadī ‘similarly
related to periodic coloric’ to show ‘mythological consolidarity’. Therefore,
having Draupadī on their side is a guarantee that the Pāṇḍavas cannot lose
this war, because not only are they married to Śrī incarnate, but also,
through her, they have the benefaction of Kṛṣṇa.
Kṛṣṇa then is the other unfair advantage that the Pāṇḍavas have—both in
his individual divinity and in the Nara–Nārāyaṇa connection between
Arjuna and Kṛṣṇa, but especially the latter, because it gives Arjuna a special
status. Kṛṣṇa openly declares this connection many times but never so
clearly as in Drona Parva, when, for the second time, he intends to break
his vow of unarmed alliance. After Abhimanyu’s death and Arjuna’s vow to
either kill Jayadratha the following day or self-immolate, Kṛṣṇa tells
Dāruka, his attendant, ‘Tomorrow Dāruka, you shall see the army crushed
with my discus and overthrown by my enraged self for the sake of Arjuna.
Tomorrow the celestials, the Gandharvas, the piśācas, the nāgas and the
rākṣasas will all know me to be the true friend of Savyasācin. He that
injures him injures me, and he that follows him follows me’ (Mbh 7.79.31–
33). With Kṛṣṇa ensuring Arjuna’s victory, even at the cost of his own vow,
how can Arjuna lose?
Pratisṃṛti or foreknowledge is another element that acts in Pāṇḍava
favour. This advantage is given to the Pāṇḍavas by Vyāsa, when in Vana
Parva, he gives them the ability to know the future. Vyāsa even calls it
‘success personified’ (Mbh 3.36.24), and he advises Arjuna to go and seek
weapons from the gods so that he can bring this knowledge to fruition.
Hence, the Pāṇḍavas not only have knowledge of the future, they are also
aided by Vyāsa and the celestials. On the other hand, the pratisṃṛti of
victory that Duryodhana receives in a dream from the dānavas after they
reveal the truth of his birth, is false, because it is provided by the dānavas,
who are always falsified by the devas. Therefore, even before they go to
war, the Pāṇḍavas know they will win, because their foreknowledge of
victory is true.
The most significant unfair advantage that the Pāṇḍavas have, and it also
becomes a lakṣaṇa of adharma, is the fact that Bhīṣma and Drona, two of
the Kaurava generals, though fighting for the Kauravas, are not only rooting
for the Pāṇḍavas but are also sabotaging the war. This is made clear when
Bhīṣma becomes general and openly declares that he will not kill the sons
of Pāṇḍu (Mbh 5.156.20). And then he sets another condition: that either he
will fight or Karṇa will, and Karṇa lays down his weapons, swearing that as
long as Bhīṣma is alive, he will not fight (Mbh 5.156.23–24). Bhīṣma’s
enmity and denigration of Karṇa is inexplicable, and his insult to Karṇa,
that he is only half a ratha (Mbh 5.168: 8) because he has lost his earrings
and protective mail, breaks Karṇa’s spirit, a fact that cuts at the very
certainty on which Duryodhana’s victory is dependent. Bhīṣma’s double-
cross is quite evident when Karṇa says to him in disgust that his partiality to
the Pāṇḍavas already puts his allegiance in doubt and he is really an enemy
of Duryodhana rather than an ally (Mbh 5.168.12–13). Bhīṣma and Drona’s
sabotage is further proved by Saṃjaya who, describing the behaviour of
warriors, tells Dhṛtarāṣṭra that when Drona and Bhīṣma rise in the morning,
they pray to the gods with concentration for ‘Victory to the Pāṇḍavas’ (Mbh
6.17.9).
The role of the key charioteers, Kṛṣṇa and Śalya, also works to the
Pāṇḍavas’ advantage. Kṛṣṇa’s role is, of course, key to Pāṇḍava victory, but
Śalya’s betrayal is a crucial factor in the Kauravas’ defeat. While Kṛṣṇa is
the epitome of a charioteer in both the literal and symbolic sense, and his
guidance helps Arjuna win the war, Śalya, who becomes Karṇa’s charioteer,
misguides Karṇa and breaks his confidence, as per his promise to
Yudhiṣṭhira prior to the war, instead of encouraging and guiding him as a
charioteer would do. This promise is in itself a double violation—of the
traditions of hospitality that Śalya fails to honour and yuddha dharma that
Yudhiṣṭhira corrupts. Śalya pledged to fight for the Kauravas because
Duryodhana’s hospitality had won him over, but Yudhiṣṭhira emotionally
blackmailed him to make a traitorous promise that he would ‘kill the energy
of the son of Sūta [Karṇa] and do what is calculated to bring his defeat’
(Mbh 5.8.44), and this Śalya does throughout the time that he drives
Karṇa’s chariot. So Karṇa is brought down not just by his enemies but also
by his own charioteer.
Thus, the framing of the kṣetra reveals that not only do the Pāṇḍavas
have many unfair advantages even before they go to war, but also many of
these advantages are established through violations of dharma and through
elders who, as custodians of dharma, warp norms and traditions to their
own advantage. These are clearly indicative of how the war will play out
and how the two sides will serve dharma. Yet, the war begins with the
illusion that dharma is with the Pāṇḍavas, and that their chief opponent,
Duryodhana, is the embodiment of adharma. Hence the Kauravas must
necessarily lose because this is a dharmakṣetra in which dharma must be
victorious. Adding to the tilt is the precarious sectarian slope of Śaivism
and Kṛṣṇaism, which keeps the moral agents on both sides constantly
grappling with each other to gain elevation. But, because Kṛṣṇaism was the
call of the day, those who did not hearken to the call were labelled evil,
regardless of their dharma lakṣaṇa, and conversely, those who embraced
Kṛṣṇa were perceived as dharma heroes, irrespective of their morality or
immorality. This hypocritical dharmakṣetra is what the Mahābhārata
tradition upholds; therefore, this is the paradigm of good and evil that
ordinary Hindus know and practise in the kṣetra of their own lives. To
discern these false perceptions, both dharma and the characters who
demonstrate it must be re-examined.

1 Here, the word lakṣaṇa is used not in its philosophical meaning of ‘definition’, but as
‘something symptomatic’—a characteristic or distinguishing feature. In the rest of this book, lakṣaṇa
will be used in this meaning of the word.
2 In the Vaiṣṇava creation myth of the divine triad, Brahmā originates from the Nārāyaṇa’s navel-
lotus and is Nārāyaṇa’s joy, and Rudra originates from Nārāyaṇa’s forehead and is his anger.
 3 Considering that the orality of the Mahābhārata is about a thousand years prior to its first
Sanskrit composition, it is possible that the Śaivic elements were all later interpolations; however,
these were early enough to become integral to the frame story—and even the Critical Edition
includes most ślokas related to it.
4
Dharmakṣetra and Adharmakṣetra
Delineating the Kṣetra

The good and evil in Mahābhārata’s kṣetra appears to be a reflection of how

its characters are perceived. However, this delineation is a static form of
dharma, because it does not encompass thought-provoked intent and
consequence. It is more a mirror of the deva–asura archetype, in which the
Pāṇḍavas are semi-divines, all having gods for fathers, and the Kauravas are
born through Gāndhārī’s unnatural, asuric act of inducing a near
miscarriage by striking her belly. Thus, while the Pāṇḍavas are born full-
bodied, beautiful, and effulgent like the gods, the Kauravas are birthed by
Gāndhārī as a ball of flesh that has to be sliced into a hundred plus one
pieces. In addition, at Duryodhana’s birth, bad omens portending the
destruction of the Kurus are seen and heard, leaving no doubt that he will be
the embodiment of evil. Moreover, throughout the epic, Duryodhana is
given no benefit of free will and puruṣkāra to change his pattern of karma.
Hence, no matter what the Kauravas do, they are condemned as evil, and no
matter what the Pāṇḍavas do, they are seen as good, and their immoral
actions are either immediately forgiven or justified by fate.
To examine the Mahābhārata as an active dharmakṣetra, it is imperative
to see its characters not only through an unbiased lens but also as dynamic
moral agents; only then will their lakṣaṇa truly determine morality and
immorality.
The Bhagavad Gītā begins with Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s query to Saṃjaya:
dharmakṣetre kurukṣetre samavetā yuyutsavaḥ
māmakāḥ pāṇḍavāś caiva kim akurvata saṃjaya
[What did my sons and the Pāṇḍavas do, O Saṃjaya, when desirous of battle they all assembled on
the dharma field of Kurukṣetra?] (Mbh 6.25.1)

Thus, Kurukṣetra is laid out as the field on which dharma will be tested, or
the field on which a battle will be fought for dharma, or a field in which the
battle that will occur will prove the victory of dharma over adharma. But
this ultimate field of the Kurus will be revealed as equivalent to a
dharmakṣetra only through the good and evil actions and behaviours of the
sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra and Pāṇḍu—the moral agents.
In this field, it is revealed that Yudhiṣṭhira, believing himself to be the
embodiment of dharma, considers his actions so inviolable that he compels
everyone into committing destructive acts of adharma. It also reveals how
Arjuna, in his kṣetra of everyman warrior, enjoys privileges that hardly
make him representative of everyman and how his dilemmas, instead of
resolving the issues of dharma, mislead the everyman into paths of
adharma. On the other hand, Duryodhana, despite committing many
adharmas, delineates this kṣetra through puruṣārthic dharma. In addition,
his lakṣaṇa of good and evil are so representative of a moral agent that he is
more an everyman warrior than Arjuna. Further, Karṇa’s role in the kṣetra
shows how, despite the adharmas heaped on him by others, he tenaciously
retains his own dharma and does not allow either circumstances or crises to
corrupt this dharmakṣetra. Finally, in this level, Kṛṣṇa is revealed as the true
delineator of the dharmakṣetra, because his very name is synonymous with
dharma and victory: ‘yataḥ kṛṣṇas tato dharmo yato dharmas tato jayaḥ’
[where Kṛṣṇa is, there is dharma, where dharma is, there is victory] (Mbh
6.66.35). However, Kṛṣṇa not only makes the victory of dharma imperfect,
he also makes the dharmakṣetra an adharmakṣetra.

HOW DURYODHANA DEFINES THE KṢETRA

The general perception of Duryodhana is that he is a treacherous, malicious,
power- and money-hungry man of asuric nature, who will do anything to
become king of Hāstinapura. This is how the Mahābhārata portrays him,
this is how he is perceived in tradition, and this is how many scholars of the
epic also view him. For example, in his introduction to the English
translation of the Critical Edition of the Mahābhārata, J.A.B. Van Buitenen
(1973: 15) describes Duryodhana thus: ‘Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s [son is] vile. It is
Duryodhana’s undying ambition to possess himself of the throne of
Hāstinapura, by any means, but mostly foul … Surely his character has
been blackened even more in the course of time, but equally surely was he
cast in the role of the villain from the beginning, treacherous and lawless
…’. Considering these impressions, it seems obvious that Duryodhana in
the Mahābhārata would define a kṣetra in which morality and ethics are
violated. However, this image of Duryodhana is misconceived. In actuality,
there is very little difference between the evil and goodness of Duryodhana
and the goodness and evil of the Pāṇḍavas. In fact, in some instances,
Duryodhana even surpasses the Pāṇḍavas in goodness and the Pāṇḍavas
surpass Duryodhana in evil. Therefore, neither is the tradition that
Duryodhana establishes one of evil nor are his lakṣaṇa as a moral agent
representative of flagrant adharma.
Duryodhana is possibly the last of the pre-Kṛṣṇized heroes—the last of
the heroes of the orthodox Vedic beliefs. He is a kṣatriya of the Indra brand
—a Vedic hero who wholeheartedly believes in the pursuit of the trivarga of
dharma, artha, and kāma. He is, in fact, the warrior that the Mahābhārata
actually extols over and over again, through the words of many—Bhīṣma,
the ṛṣis, and even the Pāṇḍavas, Draupadī, and Kuntī. However, although
his character and lakṣaṇa are in alignment with the idolized warrior’s,
Duryodhana as an individual is condemned. In actuality, the behaviours for
which Duryodhana is most condemned are the very behaviours that the
Pāṇḍavas themselves commend. For example, Duryodhana is maligned for
provoking a civil war to acquire wealth; but the advice Arjuna gives to
Yudhiṣṭhira echoes these very same reasons. Trying to alleviate the guilt his
elder brother feels after the war, Arjuna tells him, ‘When the very gods have
won their prosperity through civil war, what fault can there be in such
quarrels’ (Mbh 12.8.28). Moreover, Kuntī’s words of advice for Yudhiṣṭhira
that she conveys through Kṛṣṇa after his Embassy to goad her sons to war
are the very words that exactly describe Duryodhana and his actions. She
asks Kṛṣṇa to tell her sons, ‘Being the reverse of wrathful, you cannot be
reckoned among men …’ (Mbh 5.133.6). And, ‘those are indeed men who
are wrathful and who exercise no forgiveness. Being destitute of wrath and
given to the exercise of forgiveness is neither a woman nor a man;
satisfaction destroys prosperity as does softness of heart. Making your heart
one of steel, hunt for the recovery of your lost wealth; one is called a man
(Puruṣa) for he vanquishes the enemy … Compassion is only suitable for a
coward’ (Mbh 5.133.32–35). She also uses the example of Indra, saying that
he became the great Indra only after he slayed Vṛtra (Mbh 5.134.24), and
advises her sons that ‘the kṣatriya, who is born in this world knowing the
duties of a kṣatriya does not bow to anyone from fear or from consideration
of livelihood … He should stand erect and never bend down; for energy is
manliness. One may break down his knots [weaknesses] but he should not
bend down. That great-minded man, the kṣatriya, should move about like
an infuriated elephant …’ (Mbh 5.134.38-40). Every single one of these
qualities and characteristics that Kuntī loudly declares are the very ones that
Duryodhana not only embodies but also proudly demonstrates. In fact,
ironically, just prior to this conversation that Kuntī has with Kṛṣṇa,
Duryodhana himself declares that he will not bow down from fear before
anyone—not even Indra (Mbh 5.127.13). However, while injunctions such
as these are cited over and over again to lead the Pāṇḍavas to war and to
justify their actions, Duryodhana is castigated for following them. The
question, of course, is why this inequity?
Duryodhana was that warrior who had no place in the new Kṛṣṇized
society that was just then becoming popular. His brand of Indra-like
herodom and Vedic and brāhmanical kṣatriyahood, based solely on the
trivarga of puruṣārtha, was outdated in the evolving norms of Kṛṣṇa’s
deification. As Katz (1990: 141) says, ‘[Duryodhana] is seen as evil
specifically because [he] rejects Kṛṣṇa’. Gotimer (1992: 224) too remarks
on this ‘flaw’ of Duryodhana:
The wrongdoings of Duryodhana tend to be subsumed under a single flaw … [It is] not Duryodhana’s
ruthless usurpation of the kingdom, which includes the humiliation of Draupadī. It is not even his
opposition to the Pāṇḍavas per se … all these become his subsumptive sin: opposition to Kṛṣṇa
Vāsudeva. In theology this has been taken to mean blindness to Kṛṣṇa’s divinity.

But Duryodhana is not ‘blind’ to Kṛṣṇa’s divinity; it is just that his

kṣatriya dharma is more important to him, and he refuses to be awed by the
Kṛṣṇa factor. He clearly proclaims this when he is dying:
manyamānaḥ prabhāvaṃ ca kṛṣṇasyāmita tejasaḥ
tena na cyāvitaś cāhaṃ kṣatradharmāt svanuṣṭhitāt
[I am not ignorant of the glory of Kṛṣṇa. He did not make me disregard kṣatriya duties.] (Mbh
9.65.29)

Most importantly, Duryodhana actually believes that through his passionate

adherence to his dharma, he has ‘obtained him [Kṛṣṇa]’: ‘Sa mayā
samanuprāpto’ (Mbh 9.65.30); but no one in the epic seems to recognize
Duryodhana’s achievement. He is only seen as a man opposed to Kṛṣṇaism.
Even Kṛṣṇa himself, who urges Arjuna to recognize Kṛṣṇa’s true essence, is
not able to see that Duryodhana is the one who has acquired this wisdom. It
is actually Kṛṣṇa who is ‘blind’ who cannot see that in his opposition to
him, Duryodhana is opposing Kṛṣṇa the celebrity phenomenon, not Kṛṣṇa
the essence of all dharma. Perhaps this is the reason for Kṛṣṇa’s first
theophany during his Embassy to the Kaurava court. It is to scare
Duryodhana and to awe him; conversely, Duryodhana’s intention to bind
Kṛṣṇa at this time is, perhaps, his attempt to constrict the fast-spreading
wave of Kṛṣṇaism and to curb the mortal Kṛṣṇa’s self-importance.
The fact that this theophany of Kṛṣṇa in the Kaurava court is not one of
pralaya but one of creation is important in discerning how Kṛṣṇa views
Duryodhana: during the manifestation, from Kṛṣṇa’s body emerge thumb-
sized gods amidst sun-like rays. Brahmā sits on his brow and Rudra on his
breast, and the other celestials arise from his arms. From his two eyes issue
Arjuna and Saṃkarṣaṇa, and behind them the other Pāṇḍavas and the
Vṛṣṇis, and when he raises his arms, weapons and conch shells and dice
issue forth, and all the while his mouth emits fire and his body emits rays
(Mbh 5.131.5–14). It is possible that the reason why Kṛṣṇa shows this
‘creation’ to Duryodhana is to tell him that a new era is dawning where the
gods of his belief—Indra and the other celestials—are re-born through
Kṛṣṇa. However, it is important to note that with this theophany Kṛṣṇa is
not wooing Duryodhana, nor is he bestowing a vision to a devotee, as he
does for Arjuna in his Universal Form during his telling of the Gītā. This
theophany is only to re-establish the fact that Duryodhana is outside this
circle, because as K. Sivaraman (2000: 44) says, creational theophanies do
not bring change: ‘Dissolution is logically, objectively prior to creation as it
conditions, and is not conditioned by creation … the seed has to change its
form before it can sprout …’ Hence, Kṛṣṇa’s theophany is not meant to
convert or to change Duryodhana. Moreover, Duryodhana’s own orthodox
Vedic roots are too deep; without destroying them, Kṛṣṇa could not hope to
plant ‘new seeds’. In fact, rather than convert, this display seems to
concretize Duryodhana’s rejection of Kṛṣṇa and his followers. And Kṛṣṇa,
by deriding Duryodhana for his beliefs and by raising the Pāṇḍavas to the
level of celestials in the theophany, further alienates Duryodhana. Others
present at this theophany, who also experience it—Bhīṣma, Drona, and even
Dhṛtarāṣṭra—are already aware of Kṛṣṇa’s identity and the former two are
already converts. Therefore, obviously, this theophany is to let Duryodhana
know that Kṛṣṇaism is the new establishment.
Duryodhana’s kṣatriya orthodoxy makes him a dānava/asura in this new
system, because he chooses to remain outside its fold. His dream before the
war, in which he discovers that he is Śiva’s boon to the dānavas, validates
this (Mbh 3.252.1—27). He awakens from this dream convinced that he
will win the war, but the foreshadowing of Kṛṣṇa’s theophany has made it
clear that he cannot, because his time (and the time of others like him of
orthodox views) has passed.
Duryodhana’s brand may be passé, but the question is, does his rejection
of the new system make him evil? The answer to this must necessarily
relate to the context of the societal codes to which Duryodhana prescribed.
The milieu that Kṛṣṇaism invaded was wholly kṣatriya-centric; it shaped
warriors whose goal was victory in war and whose way of life was the
trivarga of puruṣārtha (dharma, artha, and kāma). Kṛṣṇaism, on the other
hand, while still puruṣārthic, demanded exclusive loyalty to Kṛṣṇa. But the
beliefs of an earlier time cannot simply be classified as immoral if they do
not cohere with the beliefs of the current time. Morality must be seen as
relational, and, Duryodhana’s strict adherence to his own beliefs makes him
virtuous. Therefore, if his behaviour is immoral, it is only because the ideal
itself may have been flawed. But can a man be faulted or called evil for
living by the established codes of the society in which he lives, flawed
though they may be? Moreover, it is only in the context of changing norms
that these practices came to be seen as unethical. Duryodhana’s only fault
then is that, while people around him bought into the system of change, he
refuses to change. Perhaps he does not believe that the changes are good. In
fact, the ethical system that Duryodhana adheres to appears more humane
and more tolerant, especially in terms of the biases of the caste system,
which, in the changing times, became more rigid. Duryodhana’s secularity
was a recognized aspect of his character, although the larger Mahābhārata
tradition does not acknowledge it because that tradition favours caste
stringency. However, this characteristic of Duryodhana is revealed in the
text through various subtle descriptions of the hero. For example,
bemoaning his son’s defeat in the war, Dhṛtarāṣṭra tells Saṃjaya how, as a
consequence, the whole earth will suffer because ‘even her Mlecchas
[nomad tribes] depend on his [Duryodhana’s] grace’ (Mbh 9.32.4). The
remnants of Duryodhana’s lack of caste prejudice are still evident in oral
folk traditions. For example, in the Kolam district of Kerala there is a
temple dedicated to Duryodhana and his rājadharma, which was equal and
magnanimous towards people of all castes. According to folk belief, the
Poruvazhy Peruviruthy Malanada temple is the site where Duryodhana
accepted toddy from a śudra woman of the Kurava caste. He had stopped
here, tired and thirsty, on his search for the Pāṇḍavas during their exile.
When he realized that the woman who had offered him hospitality was of
the low Kurava caste, instead of rejecting her, as any caste-conscious
kṣatriya of his time would have done, he sat on a nearby hill and
worshipped Śiva for the welfare of the people of that area and then gave
away hundreds of acres of agricultural land to the community. Even today,
the land tax receipts in Poruvazhy village are issued in the name of
Duryodhana, and the temple’s administrative committee includes special
status members from the Kurava caste.
In the Mahābhārata text too, Duryodhana’s rejection of caste bias is
amply proved through his attitude towards Karṇa. When Karṇa is mocked
by the Pāṇḍavas in the archery contest for being a charioteer’s son and his
own mother refuses to save him, it is Duryodhana who steps forward and,
breaking caste barriers, makes Karṇa king of Anga (Mbh 1.136.36). No
matter what misdeeds are ascribed to Duryodhana, his act of forming a
friendship with Karṇa is commendable; even those who see Duryodhana as
purely evil acknowledge this.
There are those who say that Duryodhana only makes Karṇa his friend
because he hopes to use his warrior prowess against the Pāṇḍavas. This
hardly seems the case, because when Karṇa asks Duryodhana what he can
give him in return, Duryodhana’s response is genuine: ‘atyantaṃ sakhyam
icchāmīty āha’, ‘I am desirous of your friendship’ (Mbh 1.136.40). The
genuineness of this friendship is further proved at Karṇa’s death, when a
devastated Duryodhana urges his driver to station his chariot at the edge of
the troops so that, single-handed, he can hold the enemy at bay and fight
Karṇa’s killers, Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna, to pay his debt to Karṇa (Mbh 9.3.19).
These sentiments hardly seem those of man who only wanted personal gain
from the friendship. Duryodhana not only uplifts Karṇa but also exposes the
evil of a societal norm that had become demeaning in the new system.
Whatever Duryodhana’s motive may have been, it is evident that the
standards he lived by are not only ethical but also applaudable.
In the context of his epic society, Duryodhana’s nobility cannot be
denied. Even the authors of the text describe him as nothing less than a
noble warrior. This is evident from the description of him as he rises out of
the lake he is resting in at the end of the war, fatigued in body and dejected
in mind at the utter loss of friends and relatives, having solidified the lake’s
water with the power of his illusion so that he will be undetected and
undisturbed for a while. When the Pāṇḍavas accuse him of fleeing from
battle and hiding, he tells them honestly that he is not hiding but exhausted,
and since he has lost all his men, he needs a little rest before he can join the
battle again and fight them single-handedly. However, when Yudhiṣṭhira
continues to taunt him, provoking him to get out of the lake and fight the
Pāṇḍavas right then and there, he accepts the challenge of a single combat
and, choosing Bhima as his opponent, breaks the crystalized water and rises
(9.31.39–43 & 9.32.11–36):
Agitating the waters with great force, that brave warrior rose like a prince of elephants from within
the lake, sighing heavily in rage and armed with his heavy and strong mace of iron decked with gold.
Cutting through the solidified waters [Duryodhana] rose … like the sun himself consuming
everything with its rays … resembling a mountain crest or the trident-wielding Rudra himself casting
angry looks on living beings … Indeed all creatures then regarded that mighty-armed chastiser of
foes as he stood with his mace on his shoulders after rising from the waves like Death himself armed
with a rod. (Mbh 9.32.37–44)

This description is of a warrior supreme—an image of flawless perfection.

Arjuna, on the other hand, is never portrayed in this light. In fact, Arjuna
has a marked flaw—his high cheek bones—or, as suggested by Nīlakaṇṭha,
his big calves, or as Daniel H.H. Ingalls suggests—his big testicles (quoted
in Katz 1990: 199, notes: 9, 10 & 11), that reduces his nobility. Hence, even
without divine parentage, Duryodhana is clearly no less than Arjuna, and
combined with his warrior qualities, he is visibly superior to Arjuna.
Duryodhana remains true to his kṣatriya dharma to the very end. He also
dies like a warrior, despite the treachery that the Pāṇḍavas deal him; so
much so that even the celestials honour him by showering flowers on him.
When he is challenged to single combat by Yudhiṣṭhira, he is not afraid,
even though he is without armour, and he is tired and wounded. Most
importantly, when he accepts the challenge, not only does he refrain from
using harsh words for the Pāṇḍavas, but he also sees this fight as not for the
kingdom but a way to pay his debt to those who supported him in the war:
Today I shall release myself from the debt I owe to the many illustrious kṣatriyas, to Valhika and
Drona and Bhīṣma and the great Karṇa, to the heroic Jayadratha and Bhagadatta, to Śalya, the ruler
of Madras and Bhūriśravas, to my sons, to Śakuni, the son of Subala, and to all my friends and well-
wishers and relatives. (Mbh 9.32.21)

But, sadly, he is so misunderstood and maligned that Yudhiṣṭhira is still not

willing to acknowledge his deliberate and concerted warriorship and
kṣatriyahood. Yudhiṣṭhira calls it merely ’good luck’ and says it is his ‘good
luck’ that he knows the duties of a kṣatriya and ‘good luck’ that he is a hero
and ‘good luck’ that he knows the conventions of battle (Mbh 9.32.23-24).
However, if it were merely ‘good luck’, Duryodhana could have easily
bested the Pāṇḍavas and won back the kingdom by choosing to fight with
one of the weaker brothers when Yudhiṣṭhira gives him the option to choose
an opponent (Mbh 9.32.25). But Duryodhana, who is a consummate warrior
proud of his warriorship, picks Bhīma, who he knows is a warrior of
strength equal to his. Even Kṛṣṇa recognizes that if Duryodhana had chosen
Nakula or Sahadeva, he would have defeated them with his mace in no time
at all (Mbh 9.33.10).
Additionally, in this incident, while Duryodhana strictly adheres to the
codes of single combat, the Pāṇḍavas resort to treachery. During the mace
fight, when Bhīma begins to lose, he is directed by Kṛṣṇa to strike
Duryodhana on the thigh—a strike considered illegal in single combat.
What accentuates the Pāṇḍava immorality even more is that Duryodhana
himself remains a true warrior. For instance, when Bhīma tires in the battle,
Duryodhana stops to let his opponent rest (Mbh 9.58.41-42). On the other
hand, after Bhīma fells Duryodhana through deceit, he kicks the fallen
warrior’s head with his left foot, not once but twice, and would have
crushed it if Yudhiṣṭhira had not stopped him (Mbh 9.59.4-5 & 14). But, as
Duryodhana falls, the cosmos proclaims the injustice of his slaying: the
environment is filled with fierce winds, loud sounds, showers of dust,
trembling trees, thunder, and meteors; wild beasts and birds begin to scream
and screech, and headless beings arise from the bowels of the earth and
begin to dance (Mbh 9.58.41–60). These omens are noteworthy because
these very same omens at Duryodhana’s birth had been interpreted as
inauspicious, proclaiming Duryodhana as the cause of his clan’s
destruction. Perhaps, when he was born, the natural omens were portending
not his life, but his treacherous death. Even Baladeva, Kṛṣṇa’s elder brother,
a master mace warrior who taught both Duryodhana and Bhima mace
fighting and bore ‘the same affection for Duryodhana as he did for Bhima’
(Mbh 5.157.33), is pained by the deceitfulness of Duryodhana’s killing and
condemns both Kṛṣṇa and Bhīma. He says the ‘fall of Duryodhana through
unjust tactics has humiliated even me’ (Mbh 9.60.9) and, calling
Duryodhana a ‘dharmātma’, he declares his prowess equal to his own.
Despite Kṛṣṇa’s feeble justification that such acts are in keeping with the
Kali age and that whatever happened to the Kuru heroes happened as a
result of Duryodhana’s own avarice and sinfulness, Baladeva curses Bhīma
that he will be remembered in the world as a ‘jihm yoddhā’, ‘crooked
warrior’ (Mbh 9.60.26), and bestows on Duryodhana the title of ‘ṛju
yoddhā’, ‘upright warrior’ (Mbh 9.60: 21–28). In fact, Balarāma declares
Duryodhana’s sacrifice (in battle by the final ablution of glory) completed
and successful (Mbh 9.60.29).
Duryodhana’s death by treachery shames the Pāṇḍavas and creates a
kṣetra of not just adharmic yuddha, but also one in which the consequence
proves the Pāṇḍavas’ guilt for the rest of their lives. Yudhiṣṭhira admits to
the dying Duryodhana, ‘You will surely go to heaven! We are, on the other
hand, creatures of hell, and shall continue to suffer the bitterest grief!’ (Mbh
9.59.29). If karma is just desert, then this consequence that the Pāṇḍavas
have to suffer proves how gravely immoral their acts have been.
Duryodhana himself describes the ideal life of a kṣatriya, which he has
lived, thus showing the Pāṇḍavas’ act as more grievous, making their
victory an ethical defeat. Duryodhana declares:
I have made various studies according to the ordinance, governed the wide Earth with her seas, and
trumpeted over the heads of foes. Who is there more fortunate as myself? That end again which is
sought by kṣatriya observant of the duties of their own order, viz., death in battle, I have also met
with mine. Who, therefore, is so fortunate as myself? I have enjoyed pleasures, such as were worthy
of the very gods and such as could with difficulty, be obtained by other kings. I have attained the
highest prosperity. Who then is so fortunate as myself?’ (Mbh 9.61.50–3)

Obviously, his dharma was true because fragrant flowers fall from the
heavens to celebrate Duryodhana’s life, and seeing these signs and ‘this
worship offered to Duryodhana, the Pāṇḍavas with Vāsudeva at their head
are put to shame’ (Mbh 9.61.58).
However, the immorality of the Pāṇḍavas is such that even their regret is
short-lived. They forget their shame immediately after they realize it, when
Kṛṣṇa reminds them that all these warriors (Bhīṣma, Drona, Karṇa, and
Bhūriśravas) were invincible in war, and if he, Kṛṣṇa, had not used deceit,
the Pāṇḍavas would never have won the war. Then Kṛṣṇa justifies the
immorality by using the analogy of the archetypal battle of gods and
demons, and the Pāṇḍavas blow their conches and are filled with joy at their
victory. However, this victory does not prove the Pāṇḍavas’ warriorship or
their dharma. It simply proves their blind faith in Kṛṣṇa’s divinity, which is
clearly indicative of the immorality of the new system that is replacing the
old system of a virtuous fight. This kṣetra that is supposed to be a
dharmakṣetra by virtue of good action and good behaviour is reduced to a
system where the end justifies the means. But, the consequentiality of evil
actions that prove the adharma of the action cannot be negated, as is evident
in Duryodhana’s last words to Yudhiṣṭhira, ‘This empty earth, O king is
now intended for you. What king would like to rule a kingdom divested of
friends and allies? Go, O king and rule the Earth destitute of kings,
warriors, wealth and without citadels, as you like’ (Mbh 9.31.48–53). And
Yudhiṣṭhira is ‘anguished’ with these words, because they hit home. If this
is a dharmakṣetra, a kṣetra that ensures the victory of dharma, then dharma
here is shown as impoverished.
However, despite Duryodhana’s righteousness in the battlefield of
Kurukṣetra, the overall impression of this eldest Kaurava is that he is
wicked and unrighteous. One reason for this impression is that he is labelled
as such from birth and is set up with a predetermined future that could only
be replete with wickedness: Even as he is born, omens occur at his birth that
are seen as inauspicious, and Vidura tells Dhṛtarāṣṭra to abandon him, or
else he will be ‘the exterminator of [the Kuru] race’ (Mbh 1.115.35), and
Vidura constantly repeats this every time Dhṛtarāṣṭra comes to him for
advice. It must be remembered that Vidura is possibly Yudhiṣṭhira’s father;
hence, his constant berating of Duryodhana, a legitimate contender to the
throne to which his own son is aspiring, is to discredit the prince.
However, it cannot be denied that some of Duryodhana’s acts are, in fact,
immoral. One of the early incidents of Duryodhana’s wickedness is when
he poisons Bhīma and throws him into the Ganga. This is certainly a
vicious and malicious act—one that is meant to deliberately hurt Bhīma.
However, before this act is judged, its causality must be taken into account.
Prior to this incident, Bhīma has been bullying and humiliating the
Kauravas relentlessly. He pulls their hair and then laughs at them. He
breaks their bones and throws them in the water till they almost drown.
Basically, Bhīma prides himself by tormenting the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra (Mbh
1.128.16-24), and Duryodhana, just like any other adolescent, cannot bear it
any longer, so he finally decides to get even as any bullied child would do.
It must be noted that Duryodhana is introduced in this incident with
authorial comments that already label him ‘wicked and unrighteous’ who
‘through ignorance and ambition of possessing wealth is inclined to commit
acts of sin’ (Mbh 1.128.26). But, at this time, Duryodhana is a young boy,
hardly considering wealth, hardly considering ambition. He is only reacting
to Bhīma’s constant bullying. Also, can Duryodhana’s actions really be
condemned as ‘evil’ at this time, when he is only a child? Especially in light
of the societal law that Ṛṣi Animāṇḍavya has already established, stating no
sinful act committed by a child under fourteen would be considered a sin.
As a matter of fact, this law was made in consequence of Dharma’s own act
of punishing a child, and it was considered such a wrongful act that Dharma
had been cursed for it to be born in the womb of a śūdra woman—as Vidura
(Mbh 1.108.13). Therefore, these comments that paint Duryodhana as sinful
even in his childhood raise questions about the validity of his
characterization.
Another incident that is held against Duryodhana is his evil scheme to
kill the Pāṇḍavas in the house of lac. The immorality of this act cannot be
denied. It was deliberate and it was designed to destroy the Pāṇḍavas.
However, this act too must be seen in context, that is, in light of the
guidance Duryodhana receives and also in light of the kṣatriya code against
enemies—a code that Duryodhana unashamedly follows. Duryodhana is
advised by Kaṇika, the ‘best of ministers, learned in politics and expert in
counsels’ that ‘a king should first gain the confidence of men, who are his
enemies; and then he should spring upon them like a wolf … As a hooked
staff is used to bend down the bough of a tree to pluck ripe fruit. So this
method should be used in destroying one’s own enemies’, because ‘the
killing of a harmful foe is always praiseworthy. Destroy him by any means
open or secret’ (Mbh 1.140.11–20). Kaṇika goes on to counsel Duryodhana
about the means a king should use, even of the greatest cruelty, to destroy
his enemies, including burning down their house (Mbh 1.140.35). This
rājadharma advice is no different from what Bhīṣma gives Yudhiṣṭhira in
the Śāntī Parva: ‘[A king] should assail the kingdom of the stronger by
means of weapons of fire and the administering of poison’ (Mbh 12.69.18).
It can be argued that Duryodhana is not king and, moreover, the Pāṇḍavas
are not enemy kings; they are his cousins. But this point becomes moot
because Duryodhana does see himself as future king, much as the Pāṇḍavas
see themselves. It is true that the Pāṇḍavas are Duryodhana’s cousins, but
according to kṣatriya code, ‘He, and none else, is one’s enemy who has
common pursuits with another,’ and ‘if this be kinsman, then he should be
treated as any other enemy’ (Mbh 2.55.15).
Regardless of the justifications, there is no doubt that this act of
Duryodhana is immoral and it causes suffering to the Pāṇḍavas. However, it
must be considered alongside the heinous act that Yudhiṣṭhira commits by
deliberately setting fire to the house of lac when a Niṣāda woman and her
five sons are in it so that their bodies can be mistaken for the Pāṇḍavas’.
Not only does Yudhiṣṭhira murder six innocent people who have done him
no harm, but he also violates atithidharma, because this family was a guest
in his house. While it is true that Duryodhana tries to destroy his cousins’
lives to secure wealth, he does it because he truly believes that the wealth is
rightfully his, and, more importantly, he owns up to his immoral actions that
are impelled by his desire to be king and his jealousy towards his cousins
by honestly confessing to his father that these ‘consume him like a fire’ and
‘pierce his heart like a dart’ (Mbh 1.142.24). The Pāṇḍavas, on the other
hand, secretly take six innocent lives to secure their own escape, and they
call it fate (Mbh 1.148.3). Therefore, while both incidents delineate
adharma because they both cause injury to others, Pāṇḍava adharma is more
reprehensible in this incident.
Another incident which not only makes Duryodhana a pariah in Hindu
society but also becomes the catalyst for the war is his rigging of the dice
game and humiliating Draupadī. However, this act, too, cannot be
condemned as downright ‘evil’, because it involves the ambit of the entire
epic, and its complexity makes it impossible to view in simple black-and-
white terms of good and evil or dharma and adharma. It is important to see
the cause of Duryodhana’s actions, and then to see what compulsion he had
as a moral agent and a human being to commit the act. To begin with, the
most precise and basic cause is that Duryodhana is simply human. After he
sees the Pāṇḍavas’ assembly hall and the splendour of the Rājasūya, he
feels jealous. But what is significant and redeeming is that he feels guilty
about his jealousy and also realizes that he shouldn’t feel this way. In fact,
even Śakuni admonishes Duryodhana for feeling jealous and advises him
that whatever prosperity the Pāṇḍavas attained, it is through their own
energy and efforts; therefore, Duryodhana should not resent them for it
(Mbh 2.48.3–6). Jealousy is a normal human emotion; everyone has
experienced it, and Duryodhana himself accepts that any man would be
jealous to see his enemies thrive (Mbh 2.47.24–28). Therefore, Duryodhana
is like any ordinary human being; however, unlike most ordinary human
beings, he recognizes this trait in himself. What he can be faulted for is that
despite acknowledging the wrongfulness of this emotion, he acts upon it.
From one perspective, it can even be said that Duryodhana actually rises
above the inaction, which is inherent in fate, and challenges his fate with
action. However, the action he decides on is not ethical, because he allows
the tamasic nature of his human trait to override his sense of dharma. But
Duryodhana is not alone in letting his jealousy goad him. Even Arjuna
experiences this emotion on many occasions; especially noteworthy is his
reaction to Ekalavya’s archery skills. However, unlike Duryodhana,
Arjuna’s dharma is never questioned; instead his status of being the greatest
archer is aggrandized, despite the fact that the consequence and his jealousy
culminates in the extreme suffering of the Niṣāda prince.
 Duryodhana sees the dice game as a means to an end and, in this sense,
Duryodhana’s act can be seen as evil. But a point to note is that according
to Duryodhana’s varṇadharma and rājadharma motive, neither is this dyūta
evil, nor is the goal that Duryodhana desires from this means. In fact,
Duryodhana’s question to Śakuni prior to the dice game proves that his
motive is only to destroy the Pāṇḍavas, whom he perceives as his enemies.
At the same time, he wants to ensure that this means of destruction will be
‘without any danger to [his] friends and other illustrious men’ (Mbh
2.48.18). It is true that Śakuni and Duryodhana come up with the plan of a
dice game in which Śakuni will employ all his swindling skills to conquer
the Pāṇḍavas. This treachery is, undoubtedly, evil, and Duryodhana knows
it is treachery. Perhaps he also knows that even in kṣatriya code it will be
seen as an act against the virtue of a kṣatriya. However, in actuality, no
normative codes of kṣatriya dharma condemn it, because ultimately it falls
within Duryodhana’s rājadharma of destroying an enemy who is becoming
powerful. These same norms are also stated by Bhīṣma, who cites them as
the advice Bṛhaspati gave to Indra. To teach Yudhiṣṭhira the conventions of
rājadharma, Bhīṣma tells him, ‘Knowing the beginning, the middle, and the
end of his enemy, a king should secretly entertain feelings of hostility
towards them. He should corrupt the forces of his enemy, determine
everything by positive evidence, creating disunion, making gifts, and
administering poison. A king should never live with his foes’ (Mbh
12.103.14). Moreover, this same advice is what Bhīma gives Yudhiṣṭhira in
the Vana Parva: ‘a man who does not chastise his enemies is a low-born
and that if a man destroys his enemy on the day he goes to hell, that hell
will become heaven’ (Mbh 3.35.7–8). Additionally, the precedent of using
deceit to destroy an enemy has already been established by Kṛṣṇa himself in
the killing of Jarāsaṃdha.
Furthermore, and in all fairness, Śakuni’s cheating in the dice game
cannot really be classified as treachery because treachery, by definition, is a
deliberate act of perfidy, where one person violates another person’s trust.
In other words, the one who is committing the treachery uses the trust and
good faith of the one against whom the treachery is committed for the
purpose of cheating him. Śakuni, on the contrary, makes no bones about
either his skill in cheating or the fact that he will use his cheating skills in
the game. In fact, he openly admits that dicing is all about knowing the
secret of winning and losing, and that the skilled dice player knows how to
baffle the opponent with deceit. He calls himself a skilled dice player and a
master cheater, and he openly declares this to Yudhiṣṭhira, challenging him
to refuse to play (Mbh 2.59.8). Moreover, it is not just Yudhiṣṭhira who
knows that Śakuni will cheat in the game; everyone present in the assembly
knows it too. Vidura even warns Yudhiṣṭhira about this when he goes to
invite Yudhiṣṭhira to the dice game at Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s behest. The king of
Khandava is also aware that Śakuni is one of ‘the most desperate and
terrible gamblers who always depend on deceit in their play’ (Mbh 2.58.14).
Yet, Yudhiṣṭhira makes the choice of his own free will to disregard what he
surely knows will happen. He simply attributes it to fate and to his inability
to refuse the challenge. Hence, there really is no treachery in the dice game.
Śakuni is not cheating in secret. He is openly cheating and openly
challenging Yudhiṣṭhira to counter that. Yudhiṣṭhira not only has a choice to
refuse to play a swindling gambler, but also to walk away from dicing,
which itself is an activity that everyone, even Śakuni, declares as evil.
Another evil act during the dice game for which Duryodhana is
condemned is his humiliation of Draupadī. Duryodhana’s treatment of
Draupadī is certainly reprehensible; it also violates his dharma on many
levels—social dharma of honouring women, family dharma of a brother-in-
law, and svadharma of humanness that he owes himself. And the insult to
womanhood perpetrated in this act creates a kṣetra of such adharma that it
shakes the very foundation of Kuru society. However, what has often been
misperceived in this incident is that it is only Duryodhana who violates
codes of dharma. Actually, not only do both Duryodhana and the Pāṇḍavas
make Draupadī suffer utter humiliation, but also Duryodhana’s infractions
against dharma are slightly mitigated by the glaring violations that are
perpetrated by the Pāṇḍavas themselves. Therefore, the issue that must be
considered here is the severity of adharmas: Who wrongs Draupadī the
most? Her eldest husband, who stakes her like a piece of property and
condemns her to a fate of a slave, and those other husbands who have sworn
by dhārmic law to protect and honour her at all times but stay silently
watching? Or Duryodhana? In actuality, Duryodhana had no intention of
bringing Draupadī into the game, or for that matter, the Pāṇḍava brothers;
he just wanted the Pāṇḍavas’ wealth. Therefore, he sets the game up only as
dyūta, gambling with inanimate wealth; it is Yudhiṣṭhira who changes the
nature of this game from dyūta to samāḥvaya1. Additionally, it is
Yudhiṣṭhira who decides to wager Draupadī, even though he knows that if
he loses, Draupadī will become a slave, and surely he knows how slaves
could be treated; yet, without compunction, he gambles with Draupadī’s
fate. Shamashastry, in his translation of Arthaśāstra, which was a
contemporaneous text, points out that the practice of keeping a female slave
naked, hurting and abusing her, and violating her chastity existed in that
society; although such practices could be punished with forfeiture of the
value paid for her (Kautilya’s Arthashastra, 1915: 261). Therefore, it is not
likely that Yudhiṣṭhira, who takes his rājadharma very seriously, is unaware
of this eventuality. Also, by ordering Duḥśāsana to disrobe Draupadī, who
Yudhiṣṭhira has thrust into slavery, Duryodhana, too, is, most likely, aware
that he is violating the slave law, but, like everyone in the assembly hall, he
is so aghast at Yudhiṣṭhira’s staking of his wife, that in the heat of the
moment, he grabs this opportunity and uses it to humiliate the Pāṇḍavas; at
that moment, Draupadi’s suffering is simply collateral damage. His
awareness of this violation is also perhaps the reason why he does not
object when Dhṛtarāṣṭṛa ultimately returns the value for which Draupadī has
been wagered—the freedom of her husbands and the Pāṇḍavas’ wealth.
Similarly, Duryodhana’s sexual overture of baring his thigh to Draupadī,
for which he has been condemned over millennia, is really a means to insult
the Pāṇḍavas. It is true that this action of Duryodhana is injurious not just to
Draupadī but to all women in general, and it is against social laws. But once
again, Duryodhana’s insults are not targeted at Draupadī but at the
Pāṇḍavas, his enemies. Draupadī is simply incidental—a means to get to
them. The Pāṇḍavas, on the other hand, have specifically married Draupadī
with Vedic rituals and vowed to take care of her and honour her and protect
her. Isn’t their staking and abandonment of their wife a greater adharma
than Duryodhana’s? And, it is important to reiterate here that Duryodhana
only issues this insult after Draupadī has been staked as property and won
and declared a slave.
Then there is the question of Bhīṣma and Drona’s silence at this act,
which is grievous adharma on the part of the elders—the knowers of
dharma, who are fully aware that ‘where women are honored, the very gods
are said to be propitiated,’ and ‘if the women of a family, on account of the
treatment they receive, are made to suffer grief and tears, that family soon
becomes extinct’ (Mbh 13.46.5–6). Despite Draupadī’s repeated pleas to
these elders, they remain silent and do nothing. Perhaps this is because they
also know that, according to the laws of samāḥvaya and societal mores
about the status of women, Draupadī is bound to Yudhiṣṭhira and must
suffer the consequence of his actions. As per Manusṃṛti ‘neither by sale nor
by repudiation is a wife released from her husband’ (Laws of Manu, 9.46).
Hence, even as Yudhiṣṭhira becomes a slave, so does Draupadī. Thus,
technically, Duryodhana’s actions are not an infringement of established
dharmas. He can, however, be faulted for using Draupadī’s situation to his
advantage.
It cannot be denied that Duryodhana is full of jealousy, anger, and
possessiveness. But these very qualities make him more human than
Arjuna, who is hailed as everyman warrior. Even Arjuna’s moral dilemma
before the war, that is hailed as representing the psyche of every man, is
matched by Duryodhana when, during the war, he realizes the consequences
of his anger and jealousy. His genuine regret for his many faults makes him
more human and ultimately absolves him of them. He says to Drona:
O Preceptor, behold this great carnage of those whose heads have undergone the sacred coronation
bath … Those allies of ours, desirous of our victory and welfare have gone to the abode of Yama.
How can I repay the debt of obligation that I owe to them? Those lords of the earth, who desired for
me the sovereignty of the earth, having abandoned all earthly prosperity, are lying on the earth.
Coward that I am I have caused this great slaughter of my friends; and therefore cannot encourage
myself to believe that I shall be able to purify myself by celebrating even a hundred horse-sacrifices.
Desirous of securing victory for myself who is covetous and sinful and a rebel against virtue, these
kings have gone to the abode of the sons of Vivasvata. I have fallen from virtue; evil-minded and an
enemy to my friends as I am, why not the earth yields me a hole to bury me in …. (Mbh 7.151.31–8)

And when Duryodhana meets his friend Sātyaki as an enemy in battle, the
tragedy he feel is unmistakable:
Fie on wrath, O friend, and fie on vindictiveness, fie on kṣatriya urge and fie on might and prowess.
In as much as you aim weapons at me and I am directing mine at you … In the days of childhood,
you were dearer to me than my very own life and I also was to you. Alas! All those deeds of boyhood
that I recollect of both yourself and mine, become as nothing on the field of battle. Alas! Impelled by
rage and covetousness, we are here today for fighting with each other … where have those sports of
our childhood vanished and alas how has this battle come upon us … urged though we are by a desire
of wealth, what use have we of wealth that meeting each other, we now engage in battle, urged by
avarice. (Mbh 7.190.23–28)

Clearly, Duryodhana not only recognizes his errors but also regrets the pain
and suffering he has brought upon his friends and relatives. He might not
have followed the strict codes of dharma, but his words make him a human
with a heart. His regret is so heartfelt that he even acknowledges the
damage he has done to his relationship with his cousins. This is evident in
an incident during the combat between Arjuna and Karṇa, when
Aśvatthāman urges Duryodhana to make peace with the Pāṇḍavas and
jointly rule Hāstinapura with them. At these words, Duryodhana pauses to
think for a while (Mbh 8.88.20–2). This is a significant point—that he
pauses to think—which implies that he is not all brashness and
impulsiveness, and also that he does consider the idea of peace and the
implication of his continued war. In this instance, after thinking over
Aśvatthāman’s words, Duryodhana becomes sorrowful and states with
regret that Duḥśāsana’s violent death by Bhīma rankles in his heart; how
then can he make peace? In addition, he says, that when Karṇa kills Arjuna,
how will Arjuna’s son be able to abide this and his enmity (Mbh 8.88.29–
31)? Hence, there is no more choice for him but to continue to war.
Then, after Karṇa’s death when Kṛpa advises Duryodhana to make
peace, which would most likely result in Kṛṣṇa persuading the Pāṇḍavas to
give him the kingdom and make him king, Duryodhana tells Kṛpa, in all
honesty, that he would not expect the Pāṇḍavas to accept his peace terms,
considering that he defeated them wrongfully at the dice game and also
mistreated Kṛṣṇa when he came to him as an emissary. In addition, he
knows that Draupadī, who was made to weep piteously in the middle of the
assembly hall, will not forget or forgive these grievances. Also, he doubts
that Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna, who still mourn Abhimanyu’s death, will forgive
him (Mbh 9.5.3–6).
All these examples prove that Duryodhana holds himself accountable for
all the infractions that have occurred; but then, like the true warrior that he
is, he stands proud and talks about all that he has enjoyed and done
according to dharma and life’s affirmation, and he does not see himself
begging for his kingdom back when, as a kṣatriya, his greatest honour is to
die at war (Mbh 9.5.20–1). In addition to his regret, Duryodhana truly
appreciates his friends and the sacrifices they have made for him. He
recollects with gratitude all the heroes who have given their lives for him
and wants to pay his debt to them rather than think of acquiring a kingdom:
‘It will be useless for me to enjoy the kingdom destitute of kinsmen and
friends and well-wishers and submitting to the son of Pāṇḍu. I, who was the
master of the universe will now acquire heaven by fair fight. It will not be
otherwise’ (Mbh 9.5.26–47).
Another significant point that redeems Duryodhana is the fact that he
takes the blame for the carnage left in the wake of tha battle at Kurukṣetra,
and despite his anger towards the Pāṇḍavas, he does not call them evil or
wicked even once. He derides and blames them for their treacheries but not
once for the massacre, which, he realizes, is as much his fault as it is theirs.
On the other hand, the Pāṇḍavas, even in the midst of their grief at the end
of war, do not accept their responsibility for any of the deaths and killings
that have occurred in Kurukṣetra; instead, they only continue to blame
Duryodhana. For example, on the verge of victory, on the eighteenth day,
Arjuna tells Kṛṣṇa that Duryodhana was foolish and wicked-minded for not
stopping the ‘slaughter’ after the death of each of his commanders (Mbh
9.24.11–24). But weren’t the Pāṇḍavas equally responsible for the
slaughter? If the Pāṇḍavas were so aggrieved by it, why didn’t they stop it?
This statement is only one of many the Pāṇḍavas make that are indicative of
the impunity with which they live their lives and the ease with which they
shift the blame onto someone else. However, when something is repeated
often enough, it begins to sound like the truth, and this ‘truth’ of
Duryodhana’s wickedness, repeated by everyone in the Mahābhārata,
becomes the accepted truth. Over the years, Duryodhana’s character lost
more and more morality in people’s perception, and today he is seen as the
villain of not just the epic, but also of Hindu society; so much so that his
‘wickedness’ has become part of the Indian idiom.
However, Duryodhana wasn’t always perceived as vile or wicked. There
was a time, not long after the Mahābhārata had reached its zenith of
composition, that Duryodhana was still seen as the noble and humane
warrior that he was—not an evil man or a good man, but just a man
experiencing the joys and sorrows of life, practising his karma and dharma
and recognizing the consequences of his actions. This is the Duryodhana
portrayed in the plays of Bhāsa, the Sanskrit dramatologist. And this may
actually be the true picture of the Kuru king, because at the time that Bhāsa
was writing his plays, the epic was still relatively current in its context. In
fact, it had become part of popular culture, and considering Bhāsa’s themes,
people were quite familiar with the events and characters described in the
Mahābhārata.2 From the manner in which Bhāsa portrays Duryodhana, it is
quite apparent that Duryodhana not only engaged people’s minds, but he
was also seen as a character worthy of being the protagonist. In many of the
plays, Duryodhana is portrayed as noble and loyal and also full of
compassion. For example, in Pañcarātram, a drama about the last few days
of the Pāṇḍava agyātavāsa in Virāṭa, but before their thirteen-year exile is
over, Duryodhana makes an oath to his preceptor, Drona, and promises to
give half the kingdom to the Pāṇḍavas if they can be found in five days.
While both Bhīṣma and Drona recognize that Duryodhana can be drawn to
anger quickly, they also know that he keeps his word and respects his
elders. Hence, Bhīṣma and Drona, suspecting that the Pāṇḍavas are in
Virāṭa, attack that kingdom in a mock battle to draw out Arjuna and make
the Pāṇḍavas reveal themselves (but Duryodhana does not know it is a
mock battle). The Pāṇḍavas are discovered, and Bhīma takes Abhimanyu.
This appears to be a kidnapping to Duryodhana, who is unaware that the
foot soldier who grabbed Abhimanyu was Bhīma. In the last act of the play,
Duryodhana is bent upon securing Abhimanyu’s release because he says his
quarrel is with his father not with his children. ‘He is my child first, and
only then of the Pāṇḍavas’, he says (Bhāsa 2008: 52). What is most
interesting is that Abhimanyu is living with the Kauravas in Hāstinapura
and supporting them in their fight, indicating that the Mahābhārata was
really seen as just a conflict between brothers—not the epic battle of good
against evil it eventually came to be considered. D.D. Kosambi says that
such constant fighting within the family was common practice, because it
increased the power of the king. Also, ‘possible rivals, whether princes,
former chiefs, or strong oligarchs, had increasingly often to be restrained in
some way or driven out (aparuddha) to preserve internal peace’. Thus, even
the Pāṇḍavas’ exile, for which Duryodhana is deprecated as opportunistic
and callous, may actually have been his attempt to safeguard Hāstinapura’s
peace (1965:88).
 Throughout this play, there is no indication that Duryodhana is in any
way evil or his actions adharmic; on the contrary, he is portrayed as a noble
Kuru warrior who cares about his family, friends, and subjects This is
especially apparent in the beginning of the drama, where Duryodhana is
hailed as a mighty and good king who, through his immense fire sacrifice,
has made the world happy and ‘all the men and beasts and birds are
content’. People also proclaim the ‘merits of such a king who makes this
earth surpass heaven’ (Bhāsa 2008: 27). Obviously at this time, while
Vaiṣṇavism and Kṛṣṇa bhakti were the new order, old orthodox Vedic
practices were still in vogue and kings were still applauded for following
them. Therefore, rejecting Kṛṣṇaism was not considered evil. If the
audiences at that time had viewed Duryodhana as immoral or evil, would
they have perceived him in such sympathetic light?
Bhāsa’s most recognized play is Urubhaṅgam (The Shattered Thighs),
perhaps because this play breaks with the convention of the happy endings
of Sanskrit drama and ends in a tragedy—the death of Duryodhana. This is
a significant point, that Duryodhana’s death is considered a tragedy, not
vindication or a celebration of the destruction of evil. In fact, in this play,
Duryodhana is a tragic hero who has been struck down by treachery. Most
of the play focuses on his sorrowful and heart-wrenching last meeting with
his parents, his two wives, and especially his son, who wants to sit on his
father’s lap but is unable to because his father’s thighs are shattered.
Another significant point about the play is the extreme remorse Duryodhana
feels at the devastation of the war and his acceptance of the fact that his
pride caused the war. The play also shows that Duryodhana is not a
vindictive man through a scene in which Balarāma wants to avenge him and
punish Bhīma for his treachery, Duryodhana stops him, and when
Aśvatthāman apprises him of his intention of destroying the remaining
Pāṇḍavas, Duryodhana tries to stop him too. In this play, Duryodhana is
portrayed as a man worthy of attaining heaven. When he dies, he is received
with honour by the celestials (Bhāsa 2008: 107–125). It is noteworthy that
this last event is retained in the legacy of the Mahābhārata tradition; that is
why his presence in svarga appears contradictory, and it has been the cause
of much speculation. However, when Duryodhana is seen from Bhāsa’s
perspective, his heavenly afterlife is hardly surprising.
 Bhāsa’s plays are proof that Duryodhana was not conceived as an evil
man in the early narrations of the Bhārata. However, the interpolations that
the brāhmins added in the text maligned and debased his character. There
could have been many reasons for this. In the atmosphere of ideological
differences, Kṛṣṇaism needed to thrive so that it could enfold and unify
other beliefs. Also, in order to keep their hegemony, the brāhmins needed to
clearly define their perception of good and evil and dharma and adharma, so
that they could use the system to their advantage. In addition, and most
importantly, since this was a time when ideas of theology and eschatology
were rapidly developing, it was necessary to model characters like Arjuna
who could represent the everyman facing dilemmas of the evolving human
psyche. However, while Arjuna may be seen as the everyman warrior faced
with moral dilemmas, experiencing existential crises that would lead to self-
analysis and a realization of the self, Duryodhana is the noble warrior, the
tragic hero of the everyman warrior’s aspect who may not hold up as an
ideal, but whose greatness evokes a sense of awe. He lives a noble life,
aspiring to the highest goals of puruṣārtha. Admittedly, he is flawed in his
hubris, but his genuine regret at the consequences of his errors of judgment
make him better than most humans; for, in the fashion of a tragic hero, his
own high ideals and hubris devastate him. But, in his devastation, his
nobility becomes even more pronounced and awe inspiring. Duryodhana
might not be the protagonist of the Mahābhārata, but he is certainly not the
evil antagonist that Hindus consider him to be.
If Duryodhana was just a character in an epic tale, this misconception
would not be of such great significance. The fact is that the characters of the
epic are more than storybook heroes and villains, and their actions are more
than mere narrative progressions. These characters are moral agents whose
actions establish traditions of dharma and adharma, and they delineate
society’s kṣetra as a dharmakṣetra or adharmakṣetra. It is true that
Duryodhana perpetrates much adharma in his life, but does he define evil to
such an extent that his defeat and death by the Pāṇḍavas elevate the kṣetra
of the Mahābhārata to a dharmakṣetra where dharma is victorious? The
answer, of course, is no. Duryodhana is not evil and his treacherous death
by the Pāṇḍavas, who are hardly paragons of dharma, instead of elevating
the kṣetra to a dharmakṣetra, is a cause of shame.
 HOW KARṆA DEFINES THE KṢETRA
The only Kaurava in the Mahābhārata who is actually a Kaurava by choice
and not by birth is Karṇa. The kṣetra that Karṇa inhabits is that of a tragic
hero; however, he is not the tragic hero in the classic Western sense of the
term. In other words, he is not undone by his own hamartia; rather he is the
hero of a tragedy—a tragedy in which, not so much his own actions, but the
actions and behaviours of others devastate him. All his life, Karṇa suffers
the consequences of other people’s choices and actions, especially those of
his birth mother, Kuntī. Hence, Karṇa’s kṣetra is an adharmakṣetra which is
not of his own making; yet, despite this atmosphere of adharma, he attempts
to adhere to the codes of dharma throughout the epic.
Karṇa is a mighty warrior, noble and true to a kṣatriyahood that society
has denied him. In Karṇa Parva, this is how Kṛṣṇa describes Karṇa to
Arjuna:
I regard that mighty chariot-warrior Karṇa as being equal, if not superior, to you in prowess … he is
valorous like Agni, swift like the speed of the wind, furious like the Destroyer, strong and powerful
like the lion … He is eight ratnis in height and of long arms. His chest is expanded and strong and he
is almost invincible. He is, moreover, chivalrous and an eminent hero and of graceful figure. He
possesses all the necessary attributes of a warrior and is a dispeller of the fears of his friends … That
son of Rādhā cannot be slain by anyone, not even by the gods with Vasva himself at their head … No
one made of flesh and blood, not all the warriors, nor even gods would succeed in defeating that
mighty chariot-warrior in fight, even if they combine together to do so. (Mbh 8.72.28–31)

Aside from extolling his handsomeness and valour, Kṛṣṇa also tells Arjuna
that Karṇa ‘has no self-interest in this quarrel with the Pāṇḍavas’ (Mbh
8.72.34). In fact, what Sukthankar (1998:47) says about Bhīṣma being the
ideal man, who acts without desire, is actually true of Karṇa. He is a true
warrior who considers the battle to be ‘citramtulyarūpam’, ‘beautiful like a
picture’ (Mbh 8.79: 61); he sees Kurukṣetra not as a battleground in which
one side will gain victory over the other, or as a gauge of good and evil, but
as a sacrifice of weapons in which Duryodhana will be the sacrificer, Kṛṣṇa
the adhvaryu priest, and Arjuna the hotṛa priest. In Karṇa’s perception, in
this sacrifice the Gāṇḍīva will be the ladle, the celestial weapons the
mantras, and all the other warriors will play a in one way or another. Karṇa
also believes that this sacrifice will only end when Duryodhana himself will
be killed and that will make the sacrifice complete (Mbh 5.141.21–41).
Therefore, for Karṇa, Kurukṣetra, the sacrificial ground, is unquestionably a
dharmakṣetra. Karṇa’s only desire is to be a part of this sacrifice. He desires
to win, but only because it is the dharma of a warrior to fight for victory. He
knows he will perish, but for him both death and victory in battle are of
equal value. ‘Whether I kill them or they kill me, I will stand true to
purpose’ (Mbh 8.79.52), he tells Śalya. But while he considers the
battlefield the emblem of a dharmakṣetra, he is not a warmonger. The desire
he expresses to Śalya when he faces a celebrated enemy is, ‘Perhaps Arjuna
will send me this day to my last account, and there will be an end of this
[the war] with my fall’ (Mbh 8.79.55). This is an obvious bid for peace.
This is the ideal niṣkāma karma performed for the greater good—the
sacrifice that will bring an end to the hostilities.
In addition to recognizing the war as his niṣkāma karma, Karṇa is the
true dharma yoddhā who is unwilling to forego his virtue as a warrior just
to win. A good example of this is when Karṇa faces Arjuna in the final
battle (Mbh 8.90.13–31), and Aśvasena, Takṣaka’s son, steals into Karṇa’s
quiver in the shape of an arrow so that he can strike Arjuna and avenge his
mother who was killed in the fire of the Khāṇḍava forest. Karṇa is unaware
of Aśvasena’s stealth and he shoots the arrow, but Kṛṣṇa recognizes
Aśvasena and presses down the chariot one cubit into the ground so that the
arrow misses its mark and, instead of piercing Arjuna, it strikes his diadem.
When Karṇa aims again, he realizes Aśvasena’s presence, and the serpent
tells him, ‘Do what I say. I will help you achieve victory.’ To this Karṇa’s
response is: ‘Karṇa does not wish victory today in battle depending on
another’s strength. I shall not discharge a shaft twice even if I can kill a
hundred Arjunas’ (Mbh 8.90.44–47). It is clear that, compared to Arjuna,
who is fighting for the goal of acquiring a kingdom and, that too, with
deceit and divine help, Karṇa is fighting a true fight, because for him the
fight itself is dharma. And, perhaps, it is for this reason that Karṇa rarely
boasts of his warrior prowess, even though he is on par with Arjuna in
warrior skills.
Arjuna and Karṇa are equally matched in the war. When the two finally
meet in battle, Saṃjaya describes them to Dhṛtarāṣṭra:
They [are] both skilful in war and possess select weapons and they make the skies ring back with the
noise of sounding their arm-pits. Both of them [are] famous for their courage and strength and they
are skillful like the asuras and the king of gods in war. Both resemble Kārtavīrya and Daśaratha’s son
Rāma in battle and look like the god Viṣṇu himself in prowess, or Bhava himself … Both of them
[have] white horses and select chariots and the best of drivers. Those two warriors look beautiful and
brilliant on their chariots. (Mbh 8.87.20–8)

In addition to their well-matched appearance, the battle between Arjuna and

Karṇa is also balanced. Even Śalya, who is Karṇa’s reluctant and traitorous
charioteer, cannot help but take pride in him. When Karṇa asks Śalya (just
as Arjuna has asked Kṛṣṇa): ‘O friend, tell me the truth what would you do
if I am killed today by Pārtha?’, Śalya replies, ‘O Karṇa, if you are today
killed by this grey-horsed Arjuna, I alone on a single chariot will put both
Mādhava and Phalguna to death’ (Mbh 8.87.53–59).
Moreover, this battle between the two is so significantly on par that
everyone in the cosmic world also takes sides as the two fight. However, all
the immortals, even those who the gods normally oppose, and also the
beasts associated with the gods, are on Arjuna’s side: the asuras, the
Yatudhanas, the Guhayakas, the birds, the Vedas, the UpaVedas, the
Upaniṣads, Vāsuki, Citrasena, Takṣaka, UpaTakṣaka, the mountains, the
descendants of Kadrū, the nāgas, Airāvata, Saurabhī, Vaitakī and Bhojnī
and their descendants, the wolves, the deer and wild animals, birds, the
Vāsus, the Māruts, the Siddhas, the Rudras, the Viśvadevas, the Aśvins,
Agni, Soma, Indra, Pavana… The only ones favouring Karṇa are the
vaiśyas, śūdras, and sūtas and, of course, Surya, Karṇa’s divine father (Mbh
8.87.36–51). The reason for this disparity is that Karṇa sides with
Duryodhana, therefore making it seem that he rejects Kṛṣṇa. Hence, when
the divines decide the outcome of the battle, they acknowledge that both
warriors are superior, but since Karṇa sides with the dānavas, he must be
defeated. Basically, the idea is that the entire Aryan cosmos is opposing
Karṇa; therefore, this battle too becomes the archetypal battle of devas and
dānavas. However, there is a key difference: everyone on the side of devas
agrees that Karṇa is a righteous warrior; that is why they decide that even
though Karṇa will not win the battle, he will attain heaven (Mbh 8.87.71 &
82–3). Hence, although Karṇa himself proves true to the test of kṣatriya
dharma, it is the divines who contaminate the dharmakṣetra with the
adharma of nepotism.
It isn’t that Karṇa rejects Kṛṣṇa; in fact, in Udyoga Parva, after his
Embassy, when Kṛṣṇa talks to Karṇa to try to persuade him to leave
Duryodhana and join the Pāṇḍavas, Karṇa acknowledges Kṛṣṇa’s divinity.
He also accepts the fact that destruction will occur because of the Kauravas.
He realizes that virtue and dharma are seen on the side of the Pāṇḍavas and
knows that the Pāṇḍavas will be victorious for the dharma values they
represent (Mbh 5.143.3–5). However, he has sworn loyalty to Duryodhana
and is honour bound, and he is willing to sacrifice his own salvation for his
honour. He is not, however, willing to sacrifice his loyalty for the sake of
the entire earth, pleasure, gold, or fear (Mbh 5.141.12). The ethical question
that needs to be asked about Karṇa’s undeterred and selfless loyalty towards
his friend is whether dharma is served when that loyalty is towards a friend
who may possibly be involved in wrongdoing, or is the dharma of loyalty
and friendship itself absolving? Simple though this question sounds; it is
not easy to answer, especially because none of the texts—the Mahābhārata
or the Dharmaśāstras—describe any specific rules of conduct between
friends. However, in order to explore this question, an example of another
great friendship in the Mahābhārata can be used as a prototype—that of
Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna. Aside from the fact that this pair has a history in the
concept of Nara–Nārāyaṇa and that Arjuna is representative of Kṛṣṇa-ite
theology, their friendship in the Mahābhārata is very human in nature. They
enjoy exploits together that bring them closer, such as Arjuna’s abduction of
Subhadra; Kṛṣṇa is also a constant source of encouragement to Arjuna in
his moments of weakness; Arjuna shares his grief and joys with Kṛṣṇa more
than with anyone else; and most importantly, Kṛṣṇa is willing to break his
vows of dharma to ensure his friend’s well-being, such as the two times in
the war when Kṛṣṇa picks up his weapon to protect Arjuna, even though he
has taken an oath to remain unarmed. If Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna’s friendship is
hailed as exemplary, then how can Karṇa’s friendship with Duryodhana be
questioned? And if protecting Arjuna and his vows—despite the wrongness
and deceit involved in it—is Kṛṣṇa’s highest dharma, then how can it be
said that remaining loyal to Duryodhana, even if Duryodhana is wrong, is
not Karṇa’s highest dharma?
This friendship between Karṇa and Duryodhana can also be seen from
another perspective. Perhaps what Karṇa sees in Duryodhana is different
from what the Pāṇḍavas see or what the authors of the Mahābhārata reveal.
He sees in Duryodhana a mirror of himself: they are both alienated by the
Pāṇḍavas, and they are both misunderstood by society. In fact, this
equivalency is perhaps what draws Duryodhana to Karṇa in the first place.
In addition, Karṇa sees in Duryodhana goodness and virtue similar to his
own rather than just shortcomings, and it is to this bond that Karṇa owes the
dharma of friendship. Hence, Karṇa and Duryodhana’s friendship is their
natural inclination, and it is their svadharma to nurture that bond.
Karṇa’s motivation in life is only dharma—both in kṣatriyahood and in
friendship. However, this is one hero who has to constantly fight the world
to remain true to his dharma. His efforts are foiled by his own mother’s
actions, society’s denigration of him as a consequence of his mother’s
action, and also fate, because situations always turn against him and,
despite his adherence to dharma, he seems to have no control over the way
his life plays out. He tells Śalya, ‘The virtuous always say that virtue
protects the virtuous. We, however, always practice virtue to the best of our
knowledge and power. But virtue, instead of protecting us, is now
destroying us who are its votaries’ (Mbh 8.90.86). His life is a series of such
devastations from the very beginning. His mother, Kuntī, abandons him at
birth without even performing the consecratory rituals of a kṣatriya, and he
is adopted by Adhiratha and Rādhā of the sūta class. Hence, he grows up as
sūta and lives the life of a member of that class, even marrying women of
that class. However, in his heart, Karṇa knows he is kṣatriya, and all his life
he strives against all odds to be recognized as one—in action, if not by
birth. This birthright is what his mother denies him so that she can protect
her own name, and it is also his mother’s denial that germinates into an
adharma that is forced upon his psyche—a deep desire to resolve his
identity crisis and be recognized for who he truly is. Sukthankar (1998: 52)
points out that ‘he [comes] into the world as an indirect and undesired
consequence of the almost irresistible curiosity (kautūhala) of his mother,
Kuntī’. This brings to mind Pandora from Greek mythology who can’t resist
opening the box Zeus gifts her out of extreme curiosity (even though she
has been warned not to), and brings upon the world all kinds of sorrows and
misfortunes. In Kuntī’s case, her curiosity releases upon Karṇa all manner
of sorrows and misfortunes.
Karṇa’s abandonment by Kuntī also dictates how he fulfils his dharma
towards his birth mother. But this dharma of Karṇa’s is moulded by Kuntī’s
own behaviour towards him. The common perception of Kuntī is that she is
a woman who makes a grave error at a young age but who stands strong for
her other sons and forwards their cause of dharma. Perhaps Kuntī’s grave
error can be forgiven, because she was naïve and foolish. And, if her
invocation of Surya can be seen as a rape (as some scholars interpret), then
she is even more deserving of forgiveness. Additionally, she can also be
forgiven for abandoning her child, because society would have ostracized
her and she would have dishonoured her family. However, what cannot be
forgiven is her behaviour towards Karṇa later on, when she is no longer in
danger of being ostracized or condemned. In fact, when Kuntī meets Karṇa
again, she is in such a position that her acceptance of her illegitimate son
would have allowed him the status of kanina or sahoda son3 (Mbh 5.140.8),
but she doesn’t acknowledge him. When Karṇa comes into the competition
of arms to compete with the Pāṇḍavas and is thoroughly insulted by his
brothers for his low birth, she does nothing. It is true that she faints when
Arjuna and Karṇa face each other in the contest and she is ‘seized with fear’
(Mbh 1.136.29). But once she recovers, she has the choice to step forward
and tell the world who Karṇa is, especially when her past actions have
caused her son to suffer so grievously. Where are her maternal instincts? Is
her desire to remain untainted in the eyes of society so paramount that she
is able to stand by and see her son suffer? This is a sad comment on her
dharma as a mother. The Mahābhārata offers no justification or explanation
for Kuntī’s behaviour, but tradition in her case is rightfully unforgiving.
Kuntī’s behaviour towards Karṇa becomes even more of a damning
comment on her because it is only when it suits her purpose that she claims
him as her son. However, even in this situation, where his mother plays him
false again, Karṇa remains true. Kuntī reveals her identity to Karṇa only
when she learns that he will join the war as a Kaurava commander, and
since she knows that he is fully capable of killing her other sons, she hopes
to emotionally blackmail him to save them. Kuntī is so convinced that her
blackmail will work that she does not even pay heed to the fact that Karṇa
has already told Kṛṣṇa, ‘Not for the sake of this entire earth nor for heaps of
gold, not for pleasure, nor owing to fear can I venture to break off the ties
[with Duryodhana]’ (Mbh 5.141.12). In fact, he warns Kṛṣṇa that if
Yudhiṣṭhira gave him the kingship, he would just hand it over to
Duryodhana (Mbh 5.141.22). Therefore, Kuntī is fully aware that Karṇa is
resolved to fulfil his dharma towards Duryodhana. But, instead of
appreciating Karṇa for acting rightfully, she calls Karṇa ‘a wretch’ and says
she is ‘burning up’ because he is opposed to the sons of Pāṇḍu (Mbh
5.144.17–18). Her selfish motive is clearly evident when she states to Kṛṣṇa
that she was seeking her own good when she abandoned Karṇa, and now
she is seeking her good again by protecting her sons from Karṇa (Mbh
5.144.24).
In contrast to Kuntī’s immoral behaviour, Karṇa’s words and actions
during his meeting with her display a dharma so exemplary that it
supersedes his flaw of desiring recognition. At this time, Karṇa knows that
he is Kuntī’s son, because Kṛṣṇa has already told him, but when Karṇa first
sees Kuntī, he deliberately upholds his adoptive parentage, stating that he is
‘rādheyo ham ādhirathiḥ karṇas’, ‘I am Karṇa, the son of Rādhā and
Adhiratha’ (Mbh 5.145.1). Kuntī immediately responds with ‘kaunteyas
tvaṃ na rādheyo na tavādhirathaḥ pitā’, ‘You are the son of Kuntī and not
the son of Rādhā. Nor is Adhiratha your father’ (Mbh 5.145.2), and then she
addresses him as ‘my son’ in almost every sentence she speaks. But Karṇa
is resolute to remain loyal to the parents who adopted him and cared for
him. Thus, at this time, Karṇa absolves himself of the adharma he is often
accused of—the desire to be recognized. This is his chance to stand tall
before the world and be counted in the varṇa that he has aspired to all his
life, but he doesn’t; instead he establishes a new dharma standard for
society—that those who nurture are greater than those who give birth. He
also exposes the adharma of parents who abandon their children.
Karṇa holds Kuntī responsible for his miseries and tells her how her
abandonment hurt him all his life. Though born a kṣatriya, he was not
allowed to be one. ‘What enemy can possibly do me a greater injury?’ he
asks her (Mbh 5.146.6). However, despite Kuntī’s abandonment of him, her
emotional blackmail, and her hypocritical concern for him for her own
benefit, Karṇa still fulfils his dharma towards her. He promises Kuntī that
he will not kill any of her sons except Arjuna so that no matter who dies, he
or Arjuna, she will still have five sons (Mbh 5.146.20–23).
Perhaps what absolves Kuntī in some small measure is that she weeps
over Karṇa’s body after his death. That is when the Pāṇḍava brothers learn
that Karṇa was their elder brother. Sukthankar (1998: 54) sees Kuntī’s
situation as epitomizing the ‘silently tragic’, because by revealing her secret
first to Karṇa and then, after his death, to her sons, she is forced to admit
her disgrace to the very people from whom she wanted to keep it. In that
sense, Kuntī’s situation may be tragic, but it does not negate her adharma of
putting her own fear of disgrace above her son’s need; so much so that the
Pāṇḍavas, who have respected her and exalted her all their lives, blame her,
not only because she let them kill their elder brother, but also for the war.
Yudhiṣṭhira says to her, ‘This terrible carnage, so destructive of the Kurus,
would not have taken place [if she had revealed Karṇa’s true identity before
the war] (Mbh 11. 27.24). In fact, Yudhiṣṭhira is so sorrowful at the
devastation Kuntī’s secret has caused that he curses all women: ‘henceforth
no woman shall succeed in keeping secrets’ (Mbh 12.6.10).
This secret of Kuntī’s is what causes Karṇa to suffer the mockery of the
world for his entire life, especially of the Pāṇḍavas who mock him with
words that are sharper than barbs. Bhīma even makes fun of him when
Duryodhana confers on the him the kingdom of Anga, saying that he should
take up the whip instead of the sword: ‘O worst of men, you are not worthy
of enjoying the kingdom of Anga, as a dog deserves not the ghee placed
before the sacrificial fire’ (Mbh 1.137.5-7). Bhīṣma also constantly
denigrates him, calling him ‘low born’, ‘not even one sixteenth part of the
Pāṇḍavas’, ‘wicked minded’, who will single-handedly be responsible for
the calamity that will come upon the Kauravas (Mbh 5.49.28 & 33–5). It is
only when Karṇa visits Bhīṣma’s on his bed of arrows and begs his
permission to fight in the war that Bhīṣma finally acknowledges the
warrior’s true birth, but only so he will give up his enmity towards the
Pāṇḍavas (Mbh 6.124.18–29).
In addition to being mocked about his sūta caste, Karṇa is played false
by his charioteer, Śalya, turning what should have been a true dharma
friendship of warrior and charioteer into one of misguidance and
discouragement. Karṇa requested Śalya to be his charioteer hoping to have
a guide as sagacious as Kṛṣṇa; however, he did not know that Śalya had also
promised Yudhiṣṭhira that he would break Karṇa’s mettle; therefore, instead
of guiding Karṇa and boosting his confidence, as Kṛṣṇa does for Arjuna,
Śalya constantly provokes Karṇa by deriding him and saying he’s no match
to Arjuna, reminding him that when Duryodhana had been captured by
Gandharvas, it was the ‘effulgent like the sun’ Arjuna who had liberated
Duryodhana, while Karṇa had fled (Mbh 8.37.37-38). He also heaps insults
on Karṇa, such as, ‘You are always a jackal and Dhanaṃjaya always a lion’
(Mbh 8.39.33). This constant berating hits home and Karṇa’s strength
shatters. Drawing parallels between Kṛṣṇa and Śalya, Hiltebeitel compares
the ‘exemplary communication between Arjuna and Kṛṣṇa to the insult
ridden communication between Karṇa and Śalya’. He also comments on
how this relationship is similar to the ‘friendship’ that Indra forges with
Vṛtra only to trick him, and states, ‘Men shall talk of just one death for
Karṇa and Vṛtra … each was undone by the same device: a violation of
friendship encouraged and reinforced by his opponents’ closest “friend”’.
‘Hence, if his mother’s actions rob him of his proper place in kṣatriya
society, Śalya’s treachery robs him of his kṣatriya spirit’ (Hiltebeitel 1991:
258–64).
Karṇa is perhaps the only character in the Mahābhārata who can be
considered a true victim of fate. Unlike the other Pāṇḍavas and Kauravas,
who use the excuse of daivya only to shirk the responsibility of actions that
they can clearly control, and whose consequences they clearly bring about,
Karṇa truly has no control over many consequences, despite his good
intentions. A number of curses are heaped upon him for reasons that are
either petty or misconstrued. For example, one day, he inadvertently kills a
homa cow belonging to a brāhmin, and even though he apologizes
profusely to the brāhmin and offers him much wealth of cows and gems, the
brāhmin curses him that when he is intent on killing his enemy, the wheel of
his chariot will be swallowed by the earth, and the enemy will cut off his
head (Mbh 12.2.19–25). He is also cursed by Rāma Jamadagni, whose
student he becomes after Drona refuses to accept him because of his low
caste. In order to learn the science of weapons from Rāma, Karṇa lies to
him about his varṇa, telling him that he is a brāhmin from the Bhṛgu race.
But, once, while Rāma is resting with his head in Karṇa’s lap, a worm (that
is a cursed asura), pierces Karṇa’s thigh. Although in excruciating pain,
Karṇa does not cry out or even shift position so as not to disturb his guru,
but Karṇa’s trickling blood touches Rāma and he awakens with the
realization that no brāhmin would have been able to bear the pain. At that
time, Karṇa has no choice but to confess that he is a son of a sūta, and
Rāma curses him that the Brahmā weapon he has worked so hard to achieve
will live in him and he will be a matchless warrior, but the moment he faces
another warrior of equal skill in war, he will forget the science (Mbh
12.3.1–32). The irony of his desire to serve his guru turning against him is
just another misfortune in his life which is so ‘beguiled’ and ‘cursed’ that
Nārada considers that the very reason for his doom, along with his generous
nature, which did not allow him to ever refuse anyone (Mbh 12.5.9–15).
Numerous incidents in the Mahābhārata are testimonials to Karṇa’s
exemplary and boundless generosity, and a number of oral narratives have
also developed around Karṇa’s spirit of giving. All these add to the Hindus’
perception of this hero. One popular story (not included in the text of the
Mahābhārata) has Kṛṣṇa showing Arjuna how truly ingrained generosity
was in Karṇa: as Karṇa lies dying on the battlefield, Kṛṣṇa disguises
himself and Arjuna as brāhmins and, approaching Karṇa, asks him for gifts.
The dying Karṇa has nothing to give the brāhmins except his gold tooth,
and though he is mortally wounded and bleeding to death, he knocks out his
tooth with a rock and holds it out to the brāhmins. When the brāhmins
object to receiving something covered in blood, Karṇa washes the blood
with his own tears and hands the brāhmins the gold tooth.
In the epic narrative, there are two instances in which Karṇa’s generosity
reaches its zenith; ironically; these very incidents also become his key
adharma, because they go against his loyalty to Duryodhana. One of these
incidents is his promise to Kuntī that he will not kill any of her sons in war
except Arjuna. Scholars like Irawati Karve (2008: 33) see this boon not as
generosity, but as a bolstering of his own ego; and by doing so, he puts
Duryodhana’s victory in jeopardy, even though the latter only goes to war
because he knows Karṇa has the ability to demolish the Pāṇḍavas. Thus, by
swearing not to kill the Pāṇḍavas, he makes Kaurava defeat imminent.
Karṇa’s impulsive oath to Kuntī does undercut his loyalty to Duryodhana;
however, his promise to his birth mother does not appear to be a salve for
his ego. In fact, it seems that he wanted to show Kuntī that while she may
not have fulfilled her dharma of a mother, he will fulfil the dharma of a son
and a brother. In addition, and most importantly, he has no desire to kill
warriors, especially his younger brothers who are not equally matched to
his skills. He tells Kuntī, ‘I shall not kill such of your sons as are capable of
being withstood and killed by me in battle; in fact, Arjuna alone in the army
of Yudhiṣṭhira is worthy to fight me’ (Mbh 5.146.20–1). He also follows
through on this promise, because when he meets Nakula in battle, brings
him to the point of helplessness, and then simply lets him go (Mbh 8.24.1–
51). Then again when he is chasing Yudhiṣṭhira, ‘a memory of commitment
he had made before Kuntī chains his racing feet’ and he says to the eldest
Pāṇḍava, ‘O king! Karṇa will not slaughter you in battle-field’ (Mbh
8.49.51–3). Hence, this vow to Kuntī is Karṇa’s sense of kṣatriyahood. It is
not ego; it is simply knowledge of his own capability, a mark of a true
warrior.
The second key instance of Karṇa’s generosity is when he tears off his
natural kavaca and kuṇḍala to give to Indra, who comes to him disguised as
a brāhmin to trick him to part with these items of invincibility made of
amṛta that have been bestowed upon him by Surya, his father. Even though
he has been warned by Surya, he does not hesitate to give them away,
simply because he is asked. But Indra, impressed with his generosity, gives
him a celestial dart in return, which has the ability to destroy one powerful
enemy and then return to Indra (Mbh 3.307.12–13 & 3.310.1–25).
Sukthankar (1998: 52) too considers Karṇa’s adherance to his oath of
generosity a bad choice motivated by his ego. Admittedly, to fulfil his oath
and remain true to his reputation of dānavīra, Karṇa rejects his father’s
advice and not only makes himself vulnerable, but also does Duryodhana—
who is depending on Karṇa’s invincibility in the war—a grave injustice.
However, while this can be seen as a bad choice, in the kṣetra of oaths, this
one is hardly deserving of condemnation, especially when the most damage
it does is only to Karṇa himself. While it jeopardizes Duryodhana’s position
to some extent, Karṇa does make up for it by receiving Indra’s dart in
exchange. That the dart is used to destroy Ghaṭotkaca rather than Arjuna is
not Karṇa’s fault. However, the fact that scholars like Sukthankar see
Karṇa’s oath as an ego-booster and never question the egoity behind the
oaths taken by the other dharma characters, such as Yudhiṣṭhira’s to never
refuse a challenge, and Bhīṣma’s to remain celibate, is in itself very telling
about the deep-rooted bias that this tradition of the Mahābhārata has
established against Kauravas. So much so that even the tragedies borne by
the Kauravas are labelled with adharmic qualities of egoity and disloyalty.
 The incident in which Karṇa exchanges his invincibility for Indra’s dart
becomes tragic for him because of Kṛṣṇa’s devious machinations. Karṇa
saves and worships the dart for a year so that he can strike Arjuna with it in
the war, but he has to use it against Ghaṭotkaca, who is destroying the
Kauravas with his rākṣasa power (Mbh 7.180–54). It is important to note
here that it is Karṇa’s intention to use the dart only on Arjuna, since the dart
has the condition that it will destroy only one enemy and then return to
Indra. He considers using it on Arjuna his dharma, and he strives to adhere
to this dharma in the kṣetra he has been presented, but this kṣetra is
contaminated by Kṛṣṇa who unleashes Ghaṭotkaca on the Kauravas; hence
Karṇa is forced to use his dart. Kṛṣṇa’s behaviour after the incident clearly
demonstrates not only how Karṇa has been cheated by him, but also how he
has been used to serve Kṛṣṇa’s divine purpose. Kṛṣṇa celebrates and
rejoices not just Karṇa’s misfortune, but also Ghaṭotkaca’s death. The latter
is a rākṣasa—a destroyer of brāhmin sacrifices; thus, despite his valour and
sacrifice for the Pāṇḍavas, he is seen as a ‘wicked-souled’ being who
needed to be destroyed by Kṛṣṇa (Mbh 7.182.27) And, in Karṇa’s case,
although Kṛṣṇa acknowledges his ‘devotion to brāhmins, truthfulness of
ascetic practices and vow-observing and mercifulness of his foes’ (Mbh
7.181.23), he reduces this ‘vṛṣa’4 warrior to nothing more than a
defenceless mortal (Mbh 7.181.30) to ensure Pāṇḍava victory. Perhaps this
is the divine Kṛṣṇa’s motive—to reduce Karṇa to a mere mortal so that his
warrior dharma can truly be tested in the kṣetra of mortals, and he can
finally prove himself. But, if this is the case, then Kṛṣṇa’s deviousness
during Karṇa’s killing becomes even more questionable: Karṇa’s manner of
death does not test his kṣatriyahood; instead, it pollutes the kṣetra with
conduct that would shame any warrior, but also obscures the ethics of crime
and punishment.
Karṇa is killed treacherously by Arjuna who acts on Kṛṣṇa’s advice.
During the battle, Karṇa’s wheel gets stuck in the mud (as per the brāhmin’s
curse), and as he dismounts to pull it out, he reminds Arjuna about the
honourable code of war which forbids a hero from shooting his arrows at an
enemy who is dislodged from his chariot (Mbh 8.90.101-114). However,
instead of honouring this kṣatriya code, Kṛṣṇa mocks Karṇa and reminds
him of all the evil actions of the Kauravas, such as Bhīma’s poisoning, the
house of lac, Draupadī’s humiliation, and Abhimanyu’s killing. There is no
doubt that Karṇa is as responsible as the other Kauravas for Abhimanyu’s
gang killing and Draupadī’s humiliation, and these two acts of adharma
definitely mar his character. However, what Kṛṣṇa is justifying here is an
eye-for-an-eye form of justice. Moreover, if this quid pro quo is to be
considered dharma, then Karṇa should be absolved, because in the dice
game he paid Draupadī back for humiliating him during her svayaṃvara by
calling him ‘sūta’s son’ and rejecting him, even though he was able to string
the bow and bring down the mark to fulfil the terms of competition.5 (Mbh
1.187.23). And he himself was paid back for participating in Abhimanyu’s
illegal killing by having his own son, Vṛṣasena, killed brutally before his
eyes by Arjuna. (Mbh 8.85.31–2). However, dharma cannot be minimized
by such justifications, especially in a kṣetra where dharma is being tested on
a knife’s edge. Therefore, none of these arguments can justify Karṇa’s
adharmas. In fact, in a hero of his stature, who is hailed a ‘vṛṣa’ in his own
time and held up as a standard, these adharmas cannot be excused. But what
can also not be excused is Kṛṣṇa’s and Arjuna’s treachery in his killing.
Karṇa’s death truly reveals not only how all the odds are against him, but
also, and more importantly, how the false dharma of Arjuna and Kṛṣṇa
overrides the dharma of the kṣetra.
Despite his wheel being stuck, Karṇa continues to fight, so much so that
he is able to shoot an Anjalika arrow that pierces Arjuna heart and almost
kills him, and in the time it takes for Arjuna to recover, Karṇa jumps down
from his chariot to pull out the wheel. In that time, while he is dismounted
and unarmed, Kṛṣṇa urges Arjuna to cut off his head, and Arjuna does.
Karṇa cannot defend himself or shoot back, because he is unable to call
upon the Brahmā weapon he had received from Rāma because of his curse
to forget (Mbh 8.91.26–8). Karṇa’s death is clearly a result of Kṛṣṇa’s
deceit, but the greatest travesty of this killing is that this is truly a fight of
equals on the kṣetra of kṣatriyahood, and by interfering with his deceitful
advice, Kṛṣṇa forces it to become uneven.
Appropriately, the kṣatriya credit of Karṇa’s death belongs to neither
Arjuna nor Kṛṣṇa, but to his own misfortune. As Nārada says,
On account of the brāhmin’s curse, as also the curse of the great Rāma, of the boon granted to Kuntī
and the illusion practiced on by Indra, of his being belittled by Bhīṣma as only half a chariot warrior,
behind Rathas and Atirathas, of the destruction of his energy by Śalya, of Vāsudeva’s policy, and
lastly, of the celestial weapons acquired by Arjuna from Rudra and Indra, Yama, Varuṇa, Kubera,
Drona and the illustrious Kṛpa, Arjuna succeeded in killing Vikrānta’s son of solar effulgence. (Mbh
12.5.11–14).

However, if not in life, at least in death, Karṇa is recognized for his

adherence to dharma and his superlative warriorship. The epic has twenty-
two verses describing ‘the beauty of Karṇa’s countenance’ (Mbh 8.94.33)
even after his death, and also the lamentation of the cosmic elements (Mbh
8.94.21–52), because ‘He left the world but took away with him his fame
which he had won on earth with a fair fight’ (Mbh 8. 94.41). This hero lived
by dharma and understood that to maintain the dharma of a kṣetra is as
sacred a duty for the kṣatriya as a ritual sacrifice, and this is how Karṇa is
rightfully remembered in the Mahābhārata tradition.

HOW ARJUNA DEFINES THE KṢETRA

Arjuna is commonly acknowledged—both by scholars and by ordinary
Hindus—as everyman warrior, because his kṣetra of actions, relationships,
moral dilemmas, and psyche are seen as a representative kṣetra of the
common man. Especially prototypical is his moral dilemma at the
beginning of the war, which epitomizes the dilemmas of the human psyche
and raises universal questions of good and evil, violence and non-violence,
and duty and conscience. Katz (1990: 134) says that Arjuna’s reaction to
seeing his relatives on the opposite side on the battlefield are ‘human
reactions of heroic Arjuna [and they] reduce him to human proportions …
In terms of the Pāṇḍava hierarchy, “central” Arjuna becomes “average”
Arjuna, no longer towering above the audience as semi divine but, rather,
coming to represent “everyman”’. However, even though the ordinary
Hindu recognizes the ‘everyman’ quality of Arjuna, the fact that he is
chosen by Kṛṣṇa to hear the Gītā also suggests that Arjuna is the exemplary
hero, the model of quintessential behaviour, the unequivocal dharma hero.
And this is where the problem occurs, because this paradox in the
perception of his character creates a schism and puts his dharma role in
grave danger, as what would ordinarily be forgiven in an everyman cannot
be pardoned in someone who is an exemplar of dharma. What creates an
even deeper problem is the evidence in the Mahābhārata which proves that
neither is Arjuna a true everyman representative, nor is he an exemplary
dharma hero.
Arjuna does not quite fit the everyman role, because unlike the ordinary
man who is battling with everyday concerns that are every man’s lot in life,
he is privileged, declared superior from birth, favoured by his gurus and
elders, equated to celestials, and protected by Kṛṣṇa. In fact, even in the
period of his suffering (his exile), when he is supposed to live a life of
deprivation (as would be the ordinary man’s situation), he goes off to
heaven and rubs shoulders with celestials, sitting in Indra’s lap, riding in
Indra’s chariot, and learning dance and music from Citrasena in the halcyon
avenues of Indraloka. Moreover, even the cycle of cause and effect, which
is the fate of all people, is simply hypothetical in his life because most of
his actions are monitored by Kṛṣṇa. Hence the cause of each of his actions
is determined by Kṛṣṇa, and the consequence is orchestrated by Kṛṣṇa. It is
true that he presents one of the most human moral dilemmas in the epic and
becomes representative of humanity, but that too is overtly resolved for him
with divine help. Which ordinary man ever has this privilege? Most often,
moral dilemmas are never resolved in life. Ordinary men ride the horns of
dilemma and make choices. Sometimes those choices lead to good results
and sometimes they devastate or create further dilemmas; but whatever the
case, ordinary men suffer the consequences of those choices, which Arjuna
does not. And yet, despite all these privileges, Arjuna does not even act
rightfully; he uses deceit to win victory, unlike ordinary men who, despite
being rightful in their actions, have to combat hurdle after hurdle to win,
and often victory for them is still elusive. Hence, if the everyman kṣetra is
Arjuna’s to delineate into a dharmakṣetra or an adharmakṣetra, then Arjuna
as an everyman warrior is a poor representative indeed: his privileges
makes him better than everyman, and his adharmas make him less than
everyman.
Arjuna’s superior life is determined at birth. When he is born, a
heavenly, invisible voice declares to Kuntī:
This child will be equal to Kārtavīrya and Śiva in prowess; he will be invincible like Indra himself …
He will maintain the Lakṣmī of the Kuru dynasty … This greatly powerful hero with his brothers will
conquer all the weak kings and perform three great horse-sacrifices … he will be equal to the son of
Jamadagni and Viṣṇu in prowess … He will gratify in battle the great god Śaṃkara and he will
receive from him a weapon named Paśupata, which will be given to him with pleasure …. He will
also acquire all kinds of celestial weapons, and this best of men will retrieve the lost fortunes of his
race. (Mbh 1.123.39–46)

Hence, from birth, Arjuna is destined for not just greatness, but greatness
equal to the greatest gods. The epic does not let the reader forget this,
describing his prowess at every opportunity, starting from the time Drona
becomes the teacher of the Kuru brothers. For example, even though Drona
tries his best to keep Arjuna from gaining superiority over his own son,
Aśvatthāman, Arjuna excels. When Drona gives all his pupils narrow
mouthed vessels to fill water but his own son a wide mouthed one so that he
can accomplish the chore quickly and Drona can use that extra time to teach
his son extra skills, Arjuna begins to fill his vessel with the aid of the
Varuṇa weapon and returns to Drona at the same time as Aśvatthāman so
that he too can have extra time to learn. Then, when Drona instructs the
cook never to give him food in the dark, one day the wind blows out the
light and Arjuna automatically perfects eating food in the dark; as a result,
shooting his arrows in the dark becomes almost a reflex action for him
(Mbh 1.132.19–25).
Arjuna’s accomplishments continue through adolescence and youth. In
the first competition of archery, Arjuna, out of all of Drona’s students, is
able to aim for the target bird’s head to the exclusion of everything else
(Mbh 1.133.1–9), and he is named the greatest archer. And when Drona is
seized by an alligator, Arjuna alone has the quickness of mind and skill to
shoot the animal to rescue Drona; consequently, his guru presents him the
Brahmaśiras weapon and declares to him, ‘None will ever be a superior
bowman to you. You will be invincible and greatly illustrious’ (Mbh
1.133.18–22). Then again, in the first competition of arms, competing
against other kṣatriya sons and princes, he shows his superior dexterity in
the use of all weapons—sword, bow, and club (Mbh 1.135.1–26)—and, as a
consequence, gains the reputation of the supreme warrior. Additionally,
when Drona asks his students for gurudakṣiṇā, which is the defeat of his
enemy Drupada, king of Pāñcāla, Arjuna, out of all Drona’s students, is the
one who strikes the lethal arrows and captures the king (Mbh1.138.1–40).
As a result, he gains his guru’s appreciation and gratitude for the rest of his
life.
 As a young adult, it is Arjuna’s adroitness in archery again that wins him
(and his brothers) Draupadī when no other kṣatriya can even string the bow6
(Mbh 1.188.1–18). Furthermore, as an adult, Arjuna challenges even
Gandharvas and defeats them to rescue Duryodhana (Mbh 3.245.6-30). In
fact, in adulthood, his expertise is so great that with skills superior even to
Indra, he is able to fight like a celestial, both on earth and in the heavens.
For instance, he stops Indra’s clouds from raining on the Khāṇḍava so that
Agni can burn it, killing every single creature in the forest that tries to
escape the flames.7 Also, as an adult and in his full form of a ‘second
Indra’, he is able to single-handedly destroy the Nivātakavaca and the
daityas of Hiraṇyapura. The text devotes five whole chapters in Vana Parva
(Mbh 3.169–73) to describe these wars and extol Arjuna’s prowess. His
command of the bow is so remarkable that even when he encounters Śiva as
Kirāta, he is able to challenge him by laying claim to shooting Mūka before
the god (Mbh 3.39.27-28). Obviously, Arjuna is no less than the celestials;
so much so that when he, as the eunuch Bṛhannalā, battles the Kauravas in
Matsya, the celestials themselves come to watch in awe (Mbh 4.56.2–5).
In adulthood, Arjuna becomes more of an immortal warrior than he is at
birth because he has acquired celestial weapons. After he burns the
Khāṇḍava and Indra descends from the sky with the Māruts to praise him
and grant him a boon, Arjuna asks the king of gods for his weapons (Mbh
1.234.7–9), and is thus already promised more glory. Through this feat of
burning the Khāṇḍava, he also receives his famous Gāṇḍīva and his ape-
bannered chariot. To add to his arsenal, Śiva bestows upon him the Paśupata
weapon, and declares that ‘[his] prowess will be incapable of being baffled’
(Mbh 3.40.6), and this, as has been promised by Indra, is followed by the
Lokapālas—Indra, Varuṇa, Kubera, Yama, and Surya—handing over to him
their weapons and praising him as Naraor unconquerable (Mbh 3.41.31–
41). Equipped with these weapons, Arjuna is more than prepared to go to
war in the Mahābhārata. His meeting the Kauravas in Matsya is a dry run of
how he will use the celestial weapons in the actual war, because these are
the very weapons he uses in both kṣetras. Thus, equipped with superior
warrior skill, the Gāṇḍīva and the ape-bannered chariot, and celestial
weapons, he is now equal to the gods. Ruth Cecily Katz (1990: 55) notes
that Arjuna’s receiving all the divine weapons and being able to use them
makes him similar to Skanda and also to the Devī in Devī Mahātamaya, as
she is portrayed in the Mārkaṇḍeya Purāṇa—both of whom receive powers
and gifts from all the gods.
The description of Arjuna’s prophecy of birth, his predestined greatness,
his skills in weaponry, and his warrior prowess show how different he is,
not only from the ordinary mortals that he supposedly represents, but also
from the Kaurava heroes who have only ordinary human skills to depend on
(except for one or two divine weapons, such as Karṇa’s Brahmāstra, which,
in any case, he is cursed to forget). Admittedly, Arjuna’s acquisition of
celestial weapons and his admirable talents can be attributed to what the
elders in the epic constantly call his asceticism, his righteousness, and his
adherence to dharma. However, despite his prowess, or rather, because of
his prowess, Arjuna’s behaviour on a human level—a level that would
make him relatable to ordinary men—becomes a subject of deeper scrutiny,
making his adharmas even more pronounced and his goodness and
righteousness questionable.
Indeed, Arjuna’s very birth is questionable. He is the son of Indra, and as
Dumézil (quoted in Katz 1990: 30) emphasizes, the traits of a father pass
down to the son, and the son is seen as identical to father. The epithets used
for Arjuna also verify this connection to Indra. In the epic, he is called
Aindri, Indrasuta, Vasvaja, Mahendratanaya, Shakrasuta, etc. (quoted in
Katz 1990: 30); even his Gāṇḍīva is likened to Indra’s vajra. But if Arjuna
is to be given the same warrior qualities as his father, Indra, then his actions
must also be seen through the lens of the archetypal Aindria pursuits and
treacheries—Indra’s stealing of water and wealth from the early Aryan
enemies and his treachery in killing Vṛtra and the other asuras. It is these
very patterns of immoral behaviour that guide Arjuna in his own pursuit of
wealth and in his battles against his own dānavas—the Kauravas. The
difference is that, while in Vedic times this was not seen as ‘immoral’, in
epic times, through the ethical lens of dharma, these behaviours become
adharmic.
Another adharmic trait of Arjuna’s that echoes Indra is his jealousy of
anyone who may surpass him in warrior skills. Once again, in bygone days,
this trait may not have been considered unethical. In Arjuna’s time, when
dharma became the supreme virtue, jealousy came to be seen as a grievous
adharma, because its consequences consumed the moral agent in darkness
and destroyed those who suffered its repercussions. An apt example of
Arjuna’s jealousy is Ekalavya, the Niṣāda prince who, despite his low birth
and Drona’s rejection, proves his genius by shooting seven arrows in the
barking mouth of a dog without killing it. Arjuna is so jealous of the
lowborn Niṣāda’s exceptional talent that he says to Drona, like a spoiled
child, ‘You have joyfully told me, embracing me to your bosom, no pupil of
yours would be equal to me. Why then there is a pupil of yours in the world
[equal to me], the mighty son of the Niṣāda king?’ (Mbh 1.132.48–49). The
grave consequence of Arjuna’s jealousy towards Ekalavya is that Drona,
despite having rejected him as a student, makes Ekalavya sever his right
thumb and give it to him as gurudakṣiṇā, thus incapacitating the Niṣāda
prince forever.
A more grievous form of Arjuna’s jealousy transforms into his fierce
possessiveness of his weapons, especially the Gāṇḍīva—the very weapon
that makes him great. His acute attachment to Gāṇḍīva evokes an incident
in the war that suddenly reveals deep holes in the roles of not only Arjuna
as dharma hero, but also of Yudhiṣṭhira’s as dharmarāja and of Kṛṣṇa as
dharma guide and mentor. This incident also shows that the loving bond
between the Pāṇḍava brothers is a sham, and it reveals the hypocrisy of not
just the characters but also of the dharmayuddha they are supposed to be
fighting. This occurs when, in the war, Karṇa spares Yudhiṣṭhira’s life as
per his oath to Kuntī, and Yudhiṣṭhira is so insulted that he cannot bear it.
But, unlike Duryodhana who, unable to bear the insult of being rescued
from the Gandharvas by the Pāṇḍavas, blamed only himself and sought to
kill himself, Yudhiṣṭhira, burning in rage and humiliation, seeks to blame
and hurt Arjuna. This incident exposes Yudhiṣṭhira and shows that he is not
really the equanimous ascetic that he appears to be; he is actually consumed
by fear and insecurities, and he blames Arjuna for not doing anything to
help alleviate his anxieties. He tells Arjuna,
O Dhanaṃjaya, through fear of him [Karṇa], I have not slept in the night nor have I enjoyed comfort
in the day for these thirteen years. I am burning with hatred against him. … Awake or asleep I spent
days only in thinking how I would accomplish Karṇa’s death. Wherever I go, O Dhanaṃjaya, in fear
of Karṇa, everywhere I see his image before me. (Mbh 8.66.13–17)
Then Yudhiṣṭhira begins to revile and belittle Arjuna’s warriorship because
he hasn’t killed Karṇa as he had promised. Furthermore, Yudhiṣṭhira
denigrates Arjuna and declares that all the prophecies about him are false
and that he is a stain on the Pāṇḍava race, and he should have been aborted
even before he was born. He proclaims, ‘Fie to your Gāṇḍīva! Fie to the
strength of your arms, fie to your numberless arrows, fie to your standard
bearing the ensign of an ape on it and fie to your car presented to you by the
god of fire!’ (Mbh 8.68.30), and then he tells Arjuna to give up his bow.
The consequence of Yudhiṣṭhira’s insulting words is quite shocking,
because it completely belies the impression that the epic has created about
Arjuna’s respect for his elder brother. Arjuna looks towards Yudhiṣṭhira,
‘whizzing like an angry snake’, and pulls out his sword to kill his brother,
announcing that he has made a secret vow that he will cut off the head of
anyone who tells him to give up his Gāṇḍīva (Mbh 8.69.8-11). Of course,
the Gāṇḍīva is not just a symbol of Arjuna’s kṣatriyahood but also of his
manhood, and the fact that Arjuna is ready to kill his elder brother because
he disparaged it not only shows how insecure Arjuna is about his warrior
prowess but also the hypocrisy of his dharma to an elder brother.
This incident is rife with significance, the least of it being the
unmistakable irony of the situation. This very same Arjuna had reminded
Bhīma of his dharma to an elder brother and chided him when that Pāṇḍava
had threatened to burn Yudhiṣṭhira’s hands for staking Draupadī in the dice
game. When, in fact, at that time the vows that the Pāṇḍavas broke were so
tremendous that they threatened the very establishment of marriage—the
entire social system. And yet, now, at this comparatively minor insult to a
petty and secret personal vow, Arjuna is ready to kill his brother. This is
especially glaring in view of the fact that this same Arjuna has already
demonstrated that vows can be easily broken. For example, he breaks the
vow of the twelve’ years celibacy that he had to observe because he
intruded on Yudhiṣṭhira and Draupadī. It is true that in this incident his
intrusion was to help a brāhmin, and even Yudhiṣṭhira was willing to
absolve him of his vow, but in kṣatriya fashion, Arjuna bound himself in the
vow and took exile to observe it. However, in exile, far from remaining a
celibate, he married four women (Mbh 1.212.28–30). Hence, his extreme
reaction to Yudhiṣṭhira’s words and his obstinacy to adhere to this injurious
secret vow ruins Arjuna’s credibility. Besides, who is to say this isn’t a vow
he has furnished on the spot to appease his resentment against Yudhiṣṭhira.
After all, Arjuna’s vow is ‘secret’ and no one has ever heard it before, not
even Kṛṣṇa with whom Arjuna shares all his hopes, desires, insecurities,
and fears. In fact, Kṛṣṇa, his constant supporter, offers no praise for the vow
or endorsement for it. Instead he calls this vow ‘childish’ and repudiates
Arjuna for his anger and, most importantly, questions Arjuna’s
comprehension of the Gītā and tradition. Kṛṣṇa says to Arjuna, ‘You have
never attended upon the old, since you, O mightiest of men, have been
overcome with anger at a time quite out of season’ (Mbh 8.69.16). Kṛṣṇa
tells Arjuna that he has become benumbed and befooled in discriminating
between what ought to be done and what ought not. ‘Everything can be
learnt with the help of the scriptures. You are, however, a stranger to them’
(Mbh 8.69.21–2). It is important to note that Arjuna not ‘attending upon on
the old’ does not mean that he did not hear the lessons of the Gītā. Rather,
this is proof that the Gītā never impacted Arjuna’s thinking. Thus, it can be
said that if Arjuna was chosen to receive the Gītā for the benefit of every
man, then he has failed every man because, holding on to insecurities,
egoity, and selfish resolves, he has squandered the knowledge.
This incident does not just implicate Arjuna, it also implicates Kṛṣṇa and
his role as guide, because it shows Kṛṣṇa trapped in his own contrariness,
trying to make dharma arguments that don’t hold up. For example, in direct
contradiction to his own words in the Gītā about a kṣatriya’s dharma of
honour killing, Kṛṣṇa now tells Arjuna, ‘You believe yourself to be virtuous
but you know not, O Pārtha, that it is a sin to slay living beings’ (Mbh
8.69.22). Then Kṛṣṇa gives Arjuna lessons about rules of war which
contravene his and the Pāṇḍavas’ role in the killing of Bhīṣma, Drona, and
Karṇa. He says to Arjuna, ‘O Bhārata, the slaying of a man who is not
engaged in a fight, or is unwilling to fight, or takes to flight, or seeks your
shelter … be he even a foe, is never upheld by the righteous’ (Mbh 8.69.25-
26). These words make all the Pāṇḍava treacheries in the war adharmic. In
addition to this, Kṛṣṇa extols the virtue of truth, saying nothing is higher
than the truth, and then he contradicts his statement by relating confusing
stories in which both nonviolence and truth are shown as relative values,
violable at any time.
 One of the stories that Kṛṣṇa tells is of the hunter, Balāka, who kills a
blind beast of prey to feed his family and is rewarded for his hiṁsā against
this seemingly helpless animal because the beast treacherously used his
blindness to lure animals and then killed them. The next story is of a
brāhmin named Kauśika who had vowed to tell the truth; this brāhmin is
sent to hell because in telling the truth, he reveales the whereabouts of
innocent people who were hiding from robbers (Mbh 8.69.32–45). Using
these stories as analogies, Kṛṣṇa first labels the Kauravas as the blind beast,
and then he compares Arjuna’s vow to that of the brāhmin Kauśika’s—
immoral because it would hurt the innocent Yudhiṣṭhira. However, these
analogies are not only weak, they are also inaccurate: the beast that Balāka
kills cannot be called treacherous because although he was blind, being an
animal of prey, he mostly likely had an excellent sense of smell with which
to track his prey. And Balāka, being a hunter, would have known this;
therefore, his comparison to the Kauravas actually makes them honest
warriors. Similarly, Yudhiṣṭhira is not innocent: he has just insulted his
younger brother for his own fear and humiliation. Perhaps what Kṛṣṇa’s
words mean is that the actions of an individual need not meet the strict
standards of morality, provided the consequence of action is to benefit
others; hence, what matters is the end, not the means.
Obviously, Arjuna accepts Kṛṣṇa’s guidance about ends and means,
because he agrees not to kill Yudhiṣṭhira if he can find a way to also keep
his vow. With these statements, Arjuna and Kṛṣṇa have left the kṣetra open
for further equivocacy: about means and ends, about rightfulness in
observing oaths that injure others, and about the truth of vows and oaths.
Additionally, it brings to light the possibility that any and all vows in the
epic that cause such havoc could have been circumvented, because Arjuna’s
words indicate that there is always a way out. In this instance, too, Kṛṣṇa
shows Arjuna the way out. He advises Arjuna to kill Yudhiṣṭhira
figuratively by verbally dishonouring him, because a dishonoured man ‘dies
at heart’ (Mbh 8.70.2).
By acting on Kṛṣṇa’s solution of ends and means, Arjuna digs a deeper
hole for himself in his kṣetra of dharma, not only revealing his own
hypocrisy but also completely falsifying his dharma to his elder brother.
Given this sanction by Kṛṣṇa, Arjuna spews out all the resentment he feels
towards Yudhiṣṭhira. He begins by calling Yudhiṣṭhira a coward, telling him
that he remained at a distance from the fray of battle. Then he calls him a
wanton and says he is tired of Yudhiṣṭhira toying with the lives and souls of
his brothers, their wives and their sons. Then the jealousy Arjuna feels for
sharing Draupadī with Yudhiṣṭhira spills out with venom. And finally,
Arjuna blames Yudhiṣṭhira for jeopardizing his and his brothers’ happiness
with his addiction to gambling and worse, he says, having committed this
sin of gambling, Yudhiṣṭhira is trying to get back to his enemies by using
his brothers. He believes that all the evil that befell the Pāṇḍavas was a
result of Yudhiṣṭhira’s own actions. In fact, he even blames Yudhiṣṭhira for
the death of Kaurava heroes and states that he does not approve of
Yudhiṣṭhira being restored to sovereignty (Mbh 8.70.2–20). Ultimately, the
truths that are disclosed in this incident invalidate almost all dharma claims
that the epic makes about the Pāṇḍavas: the unity of the Pāṇḍava brothers,
the decisiveness of their kṣatriya traits, the legitimacy of their kingship, and
the correctness of Kṛṣṇa’s guidance.
Even more astonishing than this revelatory exchange between Arjuna
and Yudhiṣṭhira is how this incident is perceived by the authors of the epic.
Describing the incident to Dhṛtarāṣṭra, Saṃjaya says that the ‘calm,
virtuous and conscientious Savyasācin having addressed to Yudhiṣṭhira
such harsh and exceedingly cruel words and having thus slightly sinned
became cheerless’ (Mbh 8.70.22). This śloka appears only in the Devanāgri
edition of the epic, but it is worth mentioning, because it sheds more light
on how the authors of the epic glossed over Arjuna’s infractions. The words
pātakam kiṃcivedaṃ (slight sin) are not only ironic, but also misleading.
Firstly, the fact that Arjuna has completely denounced his elder brother and
the Pāṇḍava rectitude is hardly ‘kiṃcivedaṃ’ (slight). Secondly, how does
one ‘sin slightly’? A sin is a sin. It is true that in its immediate execution,
one sin can be graver than another, depending on the offense against
established dharmas, but actions are perceptible, all karma is retributive,
and all sins are against dharma. In addition, in this instance, if keeping a
vow is considered more important than respecting an elder brother, then
doesn’t it catapult Arjuna into the grave adharma of extreme egoity? To add
to the confusion of this incident, when Kṛṣṇa sees Arjuna ready to drive the
sword through his own body to sacrifice himself for insulting his elder
brother, Kṛṣṇa stops him by saying that he will help him ‘gain [his] desired
gain’. Hence, not only are the lessons of desireless action, which Kṛṣṇa
himself has propounded, perverted, but Kṛṣṇa’s next piece of advice proves
another adharma—that one’s guilt can be appeased by transferring the
violence onto someone else. Kṛṣṇa tells Arjuna that instead of killing
himself, he should find Karṇa and kill him, because this will bring him his
‘desired gains’ (Mbh 8.71.8–9). In other words, killing Karṇa will help
Arjuna appease his own guilt. Therefore, in these few words, Kṛṣṇa opens a
Pandora’s box full of immoralities. To name just a few: violence, negation
of accountability, questionable means to reach a desired end, pursuit of
desires, and transference of guilt. In fact, this incident is so wrought with
ethical contradictions and fallibility that the very idea of these characters
creating a dharmakṣetra with their lakṣaṇa and fighting a dharmayuddha
becomes unbelievable.
Another such incident of dubious morality is Arjuna’s burning of the
Khāṇḍava forest. This incident prompts an important question about the
role of a kṣatriya and the misuse of warrior prowess. And if that expertise is
attained by asceticism, as Arjuna’s is supposed to be, then the question
becomes even more grievous. Ruth Cecily Katz, who justifies many of
Arjuna’s faults, also finds it hard to justify Arjuna’s actions in this incident.
She states (1990: 72–3),
The episode of the Khandava Forest burning is one of the most difficult sections of the epic to
understand. For not only does it offend modern sensibilities (both Hindu and Western); it also goes
against the morality propounded by the extant epic. This it does not only by deliberately flouting the
doctrine of non-violence, which is important in classical Hinduism and is advocated in many of the
Mahabharata didactic passages. The behavior extolled as heroic in the episode also violates the rules
of warfare, the Kshatriya codes set forth throughout the Mahabharata, which state clearly that
innocent bystanders are never to be slain in battle. The Khandava episode, on the contrary, depicts a
berserker ideal of martial ecstasy, as Arjuna and Krishna, laughing, slay all creatures who cross their
path.

A possible justification for this incident can be that this is permissible

violence, as in a Vedic sacrifice that sustains cosmic order, or it can be
considered mythical, as in the parallel myth of the churning of the ocean.
However, these justifications are not strong enough to excuse the Khāṇḍava
incident’s flagrant and causeless violence. Besides, if the burning of
Khāṇḍava is to be seen as a Vedic sacrifice, then Arjuna is given Vedic
sanctification, which not only equates him with Duryodhana, who is
maligned for his adherence to Vedic practices, it also negates his flag-
bearing role in the Kṛṣṇa theocracy. Furthermore, in the co-relation of the
burning of the Khāṇḍava and the churning of the ocean, it must be noted
that the latter myth, while causing cosmic destruction, is creational. It
facilitates the procurement of Śrī, the acquisition of soma by the gods, the
creation of divine beings that arise from it, and the establishment of Śiva’s
role as protector of the creation when he drinks the poison. To some extent,
the Khāṇḍava incident does imitate a pralaya in its annihilation, and it does
contain elements of creation in Arjuna receiving the Gāṇḍīva and his ape
banner chariot, Kṛṣṇa receiving his discus, and asura Māya’s building of
Khāṇḍavaprastha. However, Arjuna’s and Kṛṣṇa’s munitions disappear at
the end of the war and the creation of Khāṇḍavaprastha actually leads to the
potential of an even bigger destruction—the war.
Arjuna’s behaviour in the Khāṇḍava forest can, perhaps, be excused on a
mythic level, because this incident is a credible way to elevate Arjuna’s
status from human to cosmic. He is thrown in the role of destroyer or Śiva,
alongside Kṛṣṇa. He is already equated to Viṣṇu, and later, when Śiva
himself becomes destroyer again through Aśvatthāman, Arjuna will become
preserver by saving the world from total annihilation from Aśvatthāman’s
Brahmāstra. However, on the level of the dharmakṣetra, where moral agents
chart out good and evil through their actions and behaviours, it is irrelevant
whether Arjuna reflects the divine. On this level, it is relevant only to see
him and his actions on the human plain, a kṣetra in which moral agents act,
and on this kṣetra, Arjuna’s actions are deplorable and against any codes of
dharma. Therefore, no matter how this episode is perceived, from a human
level, it is hard to justify.
In addition, and even more shameful, is the fact that this incident is an
example of the extreme destruction of an entire ecosystem—and not just
from a modern perspective. Preservation of ecosystems was something
about which the Pāṇḍavas themselves were conscious, and practised. For
example, during their exile, when they are living in Dvaitavana for a while,
Vyāsa advices Yudhiṣṭhira, ‘Because you support numerous brāhmins …
your continued residence here may exhaust the deer of the forest and may
be destructive of the creepers and plants.’ So the Pāṇḍavas leave
Dvaitavana and move to Kāmyaka (Mbh 3.36.35–41). Also, while in exile,
as they hunt, they only use non-poisonous arrows (Mbh 3.36.45) so as not
to cause the animals suffering. Therefore, it is obvious that ecological and
environmental concerns were very much a part of epic Aryan society and
dharma. Hence, it is difficult to reconcile Arjuna’s indiscriminate and
painful destruction of plant and animal life in the Khāṇḍava.
Historians like D.D. Kosambi (1965: 117) say that the burning of forests
was necessary to clear the land for agriculture and living—to build
societies. But, even if the historical evidence can be accepted that the
Khāṇḍava had to be burned to clear space for building Khāṇḍavaprastha, it
is still incomprehensible why Arjuna and Kṛṣṇa deliberately trap the
animals and torture them to death, while gleefully enjoying the experience.
These actions reek of unconscionable violence. Therefore, the suffering that
the Pāṇḍavas experience after this incident seems like a direct consequence
and fitting: Asura Māyā escapes the fire and the Pāṇḍavas befriend him,
because he promises to build their palace with ‘gold’ he himself has stashed
away (perhaps the iron-ore that had just come into use). He creates a palace
that is so māyāvi that even Duryodhana is baffled. But, by befriending
Māyā, the Pāṇḍavas themselves are trapped in māyā, the asuric illusion that
can befuddle a person’s mind. Noteworthy is that before the burning of
Khāṇḍava, the Pāṇḍavas adhere to every dharma. They are the good guys.
But after they move into Indraprastha, there is a marked reversal in their
behaviour and psyche, starting from Yudhiṣṭhira’s extreme addiction to
dyūta, followed by the war in which the Pāṇḍavas, who had remained
righteous despite Duryodhana’s ploys to kill them, employ all kinds of
treacheries to destroy their enemies. Even Draupadī’s humiliation is
connected to this palace, because it is here that she insults Duryodhana as
being the blind son of a blind father, and he takes the insult to heart. Thus,
the evil occurrences connected to the palace at Khāṇḍavaprastha can be
seen as proof that unrighteous means cannot produce a righteous end. Also
worthy of note is that after the war, the Pāṇḍavas do not move back into
Khāṇḍavaprastha but into Hāstinapura. In fact, after the war, nothing is
heard or said about Khāṇḍavaprastha. It can thus be concluded that it is
only when the Pāṇḍavas abandon the place whose foundation is evil that
they are able to rule righteously and sustain society.
 Other incidents that cast doubt on Arjuna’s roles of everyman warrior
and dharma hero involve his actions in the actual war and his participation
in the treacherous killings of the Kaurava commanders. The first of these is
of Bhīṣma, who, committing his own traitorous adharma, tells the Pāṇḍavas
the means to his death (Mbh 6.108.77–88), thus jeopardizing Duryodhana’s
whole game plan. Using Bhīṣma’s secret, Arjuna stands behind Śikhaṇḍin
and shoots lethal arrows, but everyone believes that Śikhaṇḍin has killed
him, and no one knows that Arjuna broke a cardinal rule of law by killing a
warrior with whom he was not engaged in battle, and especially in this
treacherous manner. This lie itself further convolutes the dharma of truth-
telling. For instance, when Bhīṣma finally dies and his mother, Bhagirathī
(Gangā), arising from the water, bemoans that her, ‘powerful son who
defeated even Rāma was killed by Śikhaṇḍin [a transgender]’, Kṛṣṇa tells
her that her son was actually killed by Dhanaṃjaya (Arjuna) (Mbh
13.168.31–32) so as to console her. But then, in the Aśvamedha Parva,
when Kṛṣṇa is recounting the story of the war to his father, he wants to take
the blame away from Arjuna and says that Śikhaṇḍin killed Bhīṣma (Mbh
14.60.11). This shifting of truth is not new for Kṛṣṇa—and it keeps dharma
constantly tottering on the verge of adharma—but, most importantly, it
disguises Arjuna’s sin of unfairly killing Bhīṣma. However, as mentioned
above, each action is perceptible, and no action remains disguised in the
scope of karma. This is proved true when, during the Aśvamedha, the horse
Arjuna is following is seized by his son Babhruvāhana, Citrāngada’s son,
who strikes a death blow to Arjuna. But Arjuna’s second wife Ulūpī arrives
and, reviving him, informs him that he had been cursed by the Vāsus and
Ganga for Bhīṣma’s unfair killing. The expiation of that sin is that Arjuna’s
own son would cause him to fall on the ground in a field of war (Mbh
14.81.7-8). Admittedly, this cycle of karma is moralistic, and because it is
exemplified in Arjuna’s life, it makes Arjuna a paradigm for everyman; but
the fact that Arjuna himself is unmindful of the implications of his evil
actions makes him more a one-dimensional prototype than a three-
dimensional moral agent.
There are many other treacheries that Arjuna commits in the war: not
condemning the lie that kills Drona; urging Bhīma to strike Duryodhana on
the thigh; randomly lopping off of Bhūriśravas’ arm; and dropping
Jayadratha’s head in his father Vṛdhakṣatra’s lap, so that when the old king
stands up after his sandhyā prayers, his son’s head falls to the ground, thus
shattering his own head, as per the boon he had received (Mbh 7.146.104-
130). Arjuna’s gravest deception is his killing of Karṇa, which has evoked
much polemic among the scholars of the Mahābhārata. In light of these
killings, the Kauravas are vindicated, because they are no longer the only
unrighteous ones. Instead of being perpetrators of evil, they are revealed as
victims. Additionally, if these incidents are rationalized as using deceit to
counter deceit as per Kṛṣṇa’s constant advice, then what is established is the
standard of an eye-for-an-eye justice and ends justifying means. This
completely falsifies the dharma of the kṣetra, because dharma is not just
what results from action but also the action itself.
An important point to note is that in many of the cited incidents, Arjuna
wants to abide by the codes of war and is deeply conflicted about breaking
the codes. Firstly, this itself proves that the acts Arjuna commits are
adharmic because his conscience is aware of the wrongness of these acts. In
the killing of Karṇa, too, Arjuna wants to wait for Karṇa to free his chariot
wheel, but he is advised by Kṛṣṇa to strike him while he is down. It can be
said that, technically, Arjuna is not responsible for the karma phala of this
act. After all, Kṛṣṇa is god and Arjuna has already received the Gītā and
knows Kṛṣṇa’s true identity; hence he believes that Kṛṣṇa’s advice is
infallible. Besides, it is Karṇa’s own bad karma (his role in killing
Abhimanyu and in humiliating Draupadī), as Kṛṣṇa points out, that is
responsible for his death. Arjuna is simply the agent—a means. Secondly,
this evokes a number of important questions about the morality of the
action performed by agents: Is the moral agent committing the action
accountable for the action he performs, or is the one on whom the action is
committed responsible for his own suffering? In addition, in this complex
causal chain of cause and effect in the eye-for-an-eye form of justice, who
is really accountable? This is an issue of karma’s ambiguity, and is one of
the gravest problems of evil in not just this kṣetra that Arjuna delineates but
also in the entire Mahābhārata tradition. This aspect has also been discussed
in Chapter 2, especially in the example of Gautami’s story of moral agency
and the exoneration of moral agents from their acts. In fact, Gautami’s story
and Bhīṣma’s explanation for it are key to understanding not only Arjuna’s
blamelessness but also the Hindu psyche. On one level, it is a dangerous
prototype that caters to the escapist attitude that negates accountability,
because evildoers can justify all evil acts by simply labelling them the
karma of the one who is injured through his or her own evil actions. On a
more significant level, the practicality of this logic is dubious: unlike the
snake and Kāla in Gautami’s story, who are not human moral agents but are
simply acting from natural instincts, moral agents are human and they act
not only from natural instinct, but from a combination of factors—their
pravṛtti and saṃskāras, their effort to improve the demerits of their
previous karma, and their motive to do good or evil to another, and most
importantly, as a consequence of their ego, their I-ness, and their personal
desires. Hence, their actions are always ruled by intent, they always have a
consequence, and there is always the choice of free will. For human moral
agents, one action (good or evil) sets off another action in a complex causal
chain of events that extends over many lifetimes. Moreover, if the
individual’s intent to act is evil or to fulfil a personal desire, and also the
consequence of the action causes the breakdown of dharma and the
suffering of another, then under no circumstance can this agent be
considered free of adharma or unaccountable.
In Arjuna’s case there is no doubt about his intent and his hope for a
desired consequence. In fact, in the incident of Karṇa’s death, not only is
Arjuna intent on killing Karṇa because he is an enemy, but also because
Karna threatens his status of supreme warrior. Additionally, Arjuna means
to make Karṇa suffer for his role in Abhimanyu’s death and Draupadī’s
humiliation. Thus, even if it is Karṇa’s own karma that is causing him to
suffer, Arjuna is responsible for the action he himself is committing and he
and he alone is responsible for his action. Moreover, even if Arjuna is
acting on Kṛṣṇa’s dictates (as the snake was acting on Kāla’s dictates in the
Gautami’s story), his free will (unlike the snake’s, who was acting from
natural instinct) affords him a choice. He has every choice to say no to
Kṛṣṇa and not commit this sin, but he chooses to bind himself in the bad
karma of a deceitful killing. Hence, Arjuna’s adharma is not so much that
he causes Karṇa’s death, which is simply a karma that will bind Arjuna in a
chain of causality, but his bigger adharma is this intentional treachery which
he agrees to commit.
 Perhaps Arjuna too is caught up in the complacency of the prototype that
Gautami’s story creates, believing that he is simply an agent acting on the
dictates of Karṇa’s karma, and that he is not responsible for what happens
to Karṇa. Or perhaps he would have been able to see the injustice of his
action if his mind hadn’t been befuddled by Kṛṣṇa’s words. In either case, is
he worthy of the role of everyman that he has been given? Unlike Arjuna,
everyman cannot escape the justice of karma by pleading prototypical
complacency or befuddlement. Everyman is actually held accountable for
the choices he makes through the agency of his free will.
On a separate note, what is even more dangerous than Arjuna’s
befuddlement about his responsibility for his own actions is how the epic
treats Karṇa’s killing and how tradition portrays it. While the immorality of
Bhīṣma’s killing is made retributive, and Arjuna suffers its consequences at
the end with his own son felling him, the transgression of Karṇa’s killing is
swept under the rug of niyati, and Arjuna suffers no retribution for it. This
is, of course, because Bhīṣma is portrayed as a good and righteous man and
Karṇa sides with Duryodhana—the supposed evil. Hence, the implication is
that dharma sanctions the killing of those who are perceived as evil. The
Mahābhārata offers no clarity on this issue; even the Gītā does not address
it. This is another problem of evil that is filed away under the pretext of
ambiguity of dharma, but what is not ambiguous are the ethical questions
that Arjuna’s actions raise.
In this sense—the fact that Arjuna’s character invokes enquiry into
dharma—he fits the role of everyman, because this is what every person on
the path of realization should be doing: enquiring into the nature of self and
dharma. However, once the kṣetra of enquiry is laid out and Arjuna’s
character is examined, he is hardly an exemplar. He fails the test of almost
every enquiry. But then, as Indrani Sanyal (2010) says, ‘Arjuna is not the
ideal man. He is an ordinary person who aspires to fulfil his ideals, just as
every man’. However, as mentioned earlier, while Arjuna pursues his ideals
like every man, he is not an ordinary person; he is a privileged semi-divine
who is constantly favoured by the gods. Therefore, he is a poor choice for
an everyman warrior because, firstly, his life does not include the struggles
of an everyman, and secondly, his escapism, despite all the odds being in
his favour, make him less than an ordinary man.
 The key reason for which Arjuna is considered everyman and is made
representative of the human experience is his moral dilemma at the
beginning of the war, which resonates with all moral agents. Arjuna does
redeem himself through this dilemma. His sentiments are genuine and
human (not heroic), and they are based in human qualities of love for his
elders, compassion for humanity, and desire for the sustenance of society.
Also, the fact that Arjuna is the recipient of the Gītā proves that he is
chosen as the quintessential everyman, because Kṛṣṇa, while
acknowledging Arjuna’s human weakness, evokes his true kṣatriya/hero
dharma, and it is on this ground that he declares this war a dharmayuddha
and this kṣetra a dharmakṣetra. Hence, the question is: does Arjuna sustain
this kṣetra as a dharmakṣetra and does he truly fight a dharmayuddha to
remain true to the legacy? This question can only be answered by
examining whether Arjuna resolves his moral dilemma. For it is only after
he resolves this moral dilemma and acts accordingly that he can be
considered the deserving recipient of the Gītā’s message and be
representative of everyman (who can also elevate himself with this
knowledge). M.M. Agrawal, in his essay ‘Arjuna’s Moral Predicament’
says that a true resolution of a moral dilemma is not simply when a moral
agent makes one choice over another or realizes the benefit of one choice
over another or even understands the rationality of one choice over another.
A true resolution is when a ‘radical conversion of enlightenment’ occurs in
the mind of the moral agent, and his mind is ready to ‘embrace only one set
of values, and that one set of values must be internally coherent, and must
somehow reflect the true and eternal order in nature’ (Agrawal 1989: 139–
41). This ‘moral monism’ (Agrawal 1989:137) in Arjuna’s case would be
his realizing, to the exclusion of everything else, that his true kṣatriya
dharma is to fight—to war with his opponents without feelings of remorse,
anger, or revenge, and without anticipating or relishing the victory. In
addition, he must align his self with his inner self, and even as his self is
involved in battle, he must remain equanimous, which is the nature of his
true self. Then and only then can the battle be righteous. Only then would
the kṣetra be a dharmakṣetra, and this yuddha, a dharmayuddha. Agrawal
(1989:137) thinks Kṛṣṇa is able to bring about just such a conversion in
Arjuna through the lessons of the various aspects of the Gītā.
 However, Arjuna’s moral dilemma is never actually resolved, because
this conversion that Agrawal confers on Arjuna never occurs. In the fray of
battle, Arjuna is not only riddled with conflicts, egoism, anger, revenge, and
grief, but in some instances, he even regresses to a state of such tamas that
he loses his humanity; for instance when he threatens to kill Yudhiṣṭhira or
when he slices off Bhūriśravas’ arm for no reason at all. In fact, Arjuna’s
behaviour in the war negates every lesson of the Gītā; it is as though the
sermon never happened (which may prove that the Gītā was a later
interpolation). Even Kṛṣṇa himself doubts whether the Gītā has had any
impact on Arjuna, and tells him ‘O son of Pāṇḍu, you are destitute of faith
and your understanding is not good’ because ‘you did not from folly receive
what I gave’ (Mbh 14.16.10–11). Most importantly, Arjuna himself
professes to Kṛṣṇa that he has forgotten the lessons of the Gītā (Mbh
14.16.6–7). If his moral dilemma had been resolved and his mind had
embraced only one set of values—the Gītā’s—would the question of his
remembering these values even arise? These values would have become
part of his being, his very motive of thought and action. Therefore, in
actuality, Arjuna even bungles the moral dilemma he so famously
represents, thus foiling the kṣetra which Kṛṣṇa tries to establish as a
dharmakṣetra through his Gītā.
Yet, in the tradition of the Mahābhārata, Arjuna is upheld as the ideal, an
everyman warrior battling the dilemmas of life, demonstrating the lakṣaṇa
of dharma, making dharmic choices over adharmic enticements and desires,
and connecting everyman to the divine through Nara–Narayana co-
relations. The fact is that Arjuna fails everyman and, most importantly, his
failures are not honest; they are treacherous and misleading.

HOW YUDHIṢṬHIRA DEFINES THE KṢETRA

Yudhiṣṭhira is the embodiment of dharma, and just by this virtue, his very
presence in the kṣetra would make the Mahābhārata a dharmakṣetra and the
yuddha a dharmayuddha. Not only does Yudhiṣṭhira have the knowledge of
dharma by merit of birth, he also receives this knowledge through various
deliberate means such as Vidura nīti and Bhīṣma’s lessons in the Śāntī and
Anuśāsana Parvas. However, Yudhiṣṭhira commits two key sins: his lie to
Drona, which causes him to lose his own tējas, and his actions in the dice
game, which not only cause the war, but also shake the very foundation of a
dhārmic society. Scholars like Hiltebeitel also consider Yudhiṣṭhira’s
request of Śalya to play Karṇa false and cut down his energy as one of
Yudhiṣṭhira’s grave adharmas. However, while this adharma is definitely a
slippage of Yudhiṣṭhira’s tējas, it can be considered more of an infraction
that results from his very human and debilitating fear of Karṇa, which he
reveals in the incident of his exchange with Arjuna in Karṇa Parva. Of
course, as the dharmarāja, who claims that his constant adherence to
dharma makes him equanimous, his feelings of fear falsify his claims. But
he is also human, and while fear makes a kṣatriya weak, it does not
necessarily make him immoral, depending on how he combats this fear and
what are its consequences. Yudhiṣṭhira’s fear injures not only Karṇa but
also Arjuna (as explained earlier), which make Yudhiṣṭhira’s request to
Śalya immoral. But, from the perspective of cause, it is more of a human
emotion that Yudhiṣṭhira cannot control. However, the other two incidents
of marked adharma are completely within his control, and he makes a
conscious choice to commit them. Therefore, these incidents truly mar his
dharmarāja image. Despite this, Yudhiṣṭhira’s place in the Mahābhārata and,
consequently, in Hindu society, is one of dharmarāja. Is that title deserved?
And can Kurukṣetra be considered a dharmakṣetra because of him?
The prophecy of the invisible heavenly voice at Yudhiṣṭhira’s birth
declares him a greatly virtuous man: ‘… the best of men and the foremost
of all the virtuous. He will be truthful and greatly powerful; he will be the
ruler of the earth … He will be endued with splendor, fame and vows’
(Mbh1.123.7–8). And true to the prophecy, Yudhiṣṭhira’s life is an epitome
of virtue and sātvic qualities. He says this about himself: ‘My mind and
nature … are naturally bent on virtue … I act piously not for getting [the]
fruits of virtue but for not transgressing the Vedas and serving the conduct
of the pious’ (Mbh 3.31.3–4). Hence, for him, all his actions are desireless.
In fact, if any character from the dramatis personae of the Mahābhārata can
be seen on the path of mokṣa, it is Yudhiṣṭhira. In addition, he is also the
one who, through his experience of heaven and hell, conveys the
philosophy of the illusion of these states of being. These qualities of virtue
give Yudhiṣṭhira such ascetic tējas that if he is moved to anger, he has the
power to ‘consume men’ (Mbh 1.80.13) and his spilled blood (except in
battle) has the power to destroy kingdoms (Mbh 4.68.41 & 63). Thus,
Yudhiṣṭhira embodies dharma, ascetic tējas, and the ideological message of
the ultimate knowledge of mokṣa. For these reasons, Yudhiṣṭhira certainly
has the potential to make the Mahābhārata a dharmakṣetra.
However, Yudhiṣṭhira’s ascetic qualities also detract from his kṣatriya
dharma. His own brothers and wife also question his varṇadharma and
blame him for the consequences that follow such caste transgressions.
Bhīma even says to him that it is because of his desire for virtue that they
have all sacrificed themselves. He calls Yudhiṣṭhira a weak man: ‘Attached
with your vow you always cry, “Virtue, virtue”. O king, have you from
despair become a man of no manliness’ (Mbh 3.33.13)? He blames
Yudhiṣṭhira’s virtue for all the miseries that the Pāṇḍavas have to suffer and
tells him that none of his brothers approve of his behaviour. Draupadī, too,
admonishes him that if ‘a man, who though capable of work, does not work,
he does not live long, for his life is one of weakness and helplessness’ (Mbh
3.32.15), and, of course, the action that she wants him to take is to fight the
Kauravas. She also considers his lack of action as being uncaring of her
misery and tells him, ‘O foremost of Bhāratas, you have no anger, since
beholding me and your brothers your mind is not pained … This is the
saying of Smṛti that in this world there is not a kṣatriya who is without
anger, but in you do I behold today the contradiction’ (Mbh 1.27.37–38).
Thus it is clear that in epic society Yudhiṣṭhira’s virtue, while greatly
admired for its moral value, is not considered practical; in fact, it is
injurious to others. However, despite his un-kṣatriya-like behaviour and
inclination, there is no denying that everyone, including his brothers,
consider him an epitome of dharma, and because of this, they consider the
yuddha to be a dharmayuddha and believe that they deserve victory
because, as Vyāsa says, ‘yato dharmas tato jayaḥ’ (Mbh 7.184.66).
Yudhiṣṭhira is so devoted to dharma that he even pursues it in
deprivation. For example, he not only fulfils the terms of his exile with
grace, but also sustains his rājadharma in the forests by hosting brāhmins
and by visiting pilgrimages. Yudhiṣṭhira accepts his exile as part of his fate,
harbouring no desire for revenge or bitterness against Duryodhana, as is
evident from his demeanour when he facilitates Duryodhana’s rescue from
the Gandharvas. And, when the time is right, he does prepare for war, but
even that he does in the most virtuous manner, allowing for peace before he
takes up arms. His words to Saṃjaya and to Kṛṣṇa clearly express his
honourable attitude. He tells Saṃjaya that he is not desirous of war and if
Duryodhana is willing to give up the kingdom, he would let bygones be
bygones (Mbh 1.26.3); but he warns him that he is also not afraid of war,
because, for him, it will be a virtuous war. Also, he tells Kṛṣṇa that he does
not want to destroy his enemies, because it would be cruel, but he cannot
give up his claim to Hāstinapura, because it would mean the extinction of
his family; hence he is willing to negotiate with the Kauravas and will be
satisfied with just five villages (Mbh 5.72.16). Of course, Duryodhana
refuses to give up even a needle tip’s worth of land, because he too believes
his claim is righteous. Consequently, on Kṛṣṇa’s advice, Yudhiṣṭhira agrees
to war, which he believes will be a dharmayuddha because his claims are
legitimate.
It is because Yudhiṣṭhira is portrayed as someone with high moral fibre
that his adharmas, in contrast, are not only thrown in sharp relief, but they
also become the barometer for society’s system of ethics. One egregious
adharma that he commits is his lie to Drona. The incident occurs in the
Drona Parva (Mbh 7.191.11–13), when Drona, as a Kaurava commander,
proves to be a force so powerful that the Pāṇḍavas fear total destruction at
his hands; hence, Kṛṣṇa advises the Pāṇḍavas to ‘abandon virtue’ and take
recourse to trickery. He tells the Pāṇḍavas to lie to Drona and inform him
that his son Aśvatthāman is dead, so that Drona will give up his weapons as
per a vow he has taken. When Yudhiṣṭhira agrees, although with reluctance,
Bhīma kills an elephant named Aśvatthāman and tells Drona that
Aśvatthāman is dead. Not believing Bhīma, Drona asks Yudhiṣṭhira to
confirm this, because he knows that the son of dharma will not lie—‘not
even for the sake of getting the earth of the three worlds’ (Mbh 7.191.43).
At this time, Kṛṣṇa influences Yudhiṣṭhira by advising him that if Drona is
not killed, he will destroy the Pāṇḍava army; Bhīma too impresses upon
him the need to lie. And thus, Yudhiṣṭhira lies, although he also adds the
truth, but in a whisper. However, this lie becomes momentous, especially
because it is told by a man who is an exemplar of truth. This lie raises many
ethical questions about Yudhiṣṭhira’s own integrity and the place of untruth
in the concept of dharma.
 The first point to note is how this lie is treated by the authors of the
narrative. Even as Yudhiṣṭhira prepares to utter the lie, the authors, as
though through the reflex of favouring the Pāṇḍavas, pass this off as ‘the
inevitability of fate’ (Mbh 7.191.54), thus exonerating Yudhiṣṭhira even
before he commits the adharma. But it is also made clear that Yudhiṣṭhira is
‘afraid’ of speaking the lie, although he is ‘anxious to obtain victory’ (Mbh
7.191.54). Therefore, it can be surmised that, even though Yudhiṣṭhira tries
to fool himself that he is not openly lying by whispering the word ‘kuṃjara’
(elephant) at the end of the lie to counter it, he is fully aware that he lies, or
he would not have been afraid to utter it. However, at that time, Drona does
not pay attention to his whisper, or he does not hear him, and perhaps, in
that moment, Yudhiṣṭhira believes that since he has at least whispered the
truth, he has technically been truthful. Or perhaps he believes that if Drona
hasn’t heard his words, it is not his fault. No matter what Yudhiṣṭhira’s
inner struggle is, the cosmos considers this a clear act of adharma because,
at the moment when Yudhiṣṭhira utters the lie, his chariot that used to ride
four fingers above the earth now touches the ground (Mbh 7.191.55). There
is no question then that Yudhiṣṭhira’s integrity as dharmarāja suffers a huge
blow.
Yudhiṣṭhira’s lie evokes an enquiry into the ethics of truth-telling. Kṛṣṇa
and Bhīṣma state many times that truth is alterable in certain circumstances,
one of them being the fear of losing an entire fortune (Mbh 8.69.31). If
Yudhiṣṭhira did not ensure Drona’s death, the Pāṇḍavas were sure to lose
the war and hence their fortune. Therefore, by deceiving Drona into
believing that his son was dead, Yudhiṣṭhira did not violate ethics.
However, in this instance, the ethical norm of treating the truth as a
malleable value misaligned with Yudhiṣṭhira’s personal sense of morality.
Why is his alteration of the truth immoral, and why is this breach of morals
so significant for society’s ethics? There are two main reasons for this. The
first reason is that this lie is spoken by a person who is the epitome of
truthfulness—a person for whom truth cannot be altered, no matter the
circumstances. When a person alters the truth, he engages a whole gamut of
adharmas and foregoes virtue on many levels. He alters the truth for selfish
reasons, even if those reasons may be to benefit others. Additionally, he
hopes to attain a certain goal; therefore, he is engaged in sakāma karma, and
his lie, even if it benefits another, is for a desired consequence. It also has
the potential of either injuring the one to whom the lie is told, or someone
else who may be inadvertently caught in the crossfire of the lie. Moreover,
whoever tells a lie is inevitably caught in the moral dilemma of whether or
not to tell the lie, and this causes a separation of the self from the inner self,
a self mired in pravṛtti, removed from the equanimity of the true self. The
lie also creates a double image: something that is and something that isn’t.
For Yudhiṣṭhira, truthfulness is like a mirror that reflects only what is. It
affirms that the nature of truth is such that it creates no false reflection and
definitely no contradictions. Something is either truthful or it isn’t. Hence,
by telling this lie, Yudhiṣṭhira has played himself false by validating
Kṛṣṇa’s manner of paradoxical truth-telling, which no doubt sustains the
trivarga of dharma, artha, and kāma, but it creates a karma phala which
mars the ascetic self and prevents it from reaching mokṣa.
The other significance of this incident of Yudhiṣṭhira’s untruth is that it
raises the very important ethical question of what constitutes a lie: words
that controvert a fact and/or the intent of the speaker of the words. For
example, let’s say that Bhīma and Kṛṣṇa had not consulted Yudhiṣṭhira
about tricking Drona into believing that his son is dead but had themselves
killed the elephant and simply told Yudhiṣṭhira that Aśvatthāman is dead. In
that case, when Drona asked Yudhiṣṭhira, he would have been able to say
that, yes, Aśvatthāman, Drona’s son, is dead, because he would have been
ignorant of the truth. His words still would have been false, but not a lie,
because he wouldn’t have known that the Aśvatthāman that died was an
elephant. In this case, would Yudhiṣṭhira still be liable for the falsehood?
The answer is, no he would not, because his intent would not have been to
deceive Drona, and even if the consequence would have been Drona’s
death, Yudhiṣṭhira would not be responsible for that injury. So, a lie is only
a lie when a person knows that it is a twisting of the facts, and that by
telling it, the other person will believe something different than the fact.
Hence, it is the intent to lie that makes a person accountable, and the intent
can be of any kind: to cheat and hurt the other person, to gain something,
even the good of the other, to cover up one’s own shortcomings, to avoid
unaccountability, etc. In fact, the latter two instances are of self-deception,
which is a lie in itself; therefore, any time a person, instead of owning up to
an action, calls it fate, he is lying. This makes the very concept of fate an
accomplice of adharma, and it renders almost all characters in the
Mahābhārata who justify the distressing consequences of their actions as
niyati or daivya—from Yudhiṣṭhira to Bhīṣma, from Dhṛtarāṣṭra to Kṛṣṇa—
liars.
In Yudhiṣṭhira’s lie, while the authors see it as fate, Yudhiṣṭhira himself
knows he has lied. And, because the lie is told by dharmarāja himself, it is
pivotal; it results in dire consequences that expose the adharma of each
character and also creates a whole new vendetta in the war. Even after
hearing about his son’s supposed death, Drona continues to fight in a
frenzy, ‘consuming hosts of kṣatriyas’ like a ‘blazing fire without even a
curl of smoke’ (Mbh 7.193.23–5) and wounds Dhṛṣṭadyumna, his nemesis
from an earlier vendetta. But when Bhima grabs his chariot and impresses
upon him Yudhiṣṭhira’s words that his son is dead, Drona finally lays down
his weapons and, through yoga, ascends to heaven. Dhṛṣṭadyumna then
seizes the 85-year-old dead man by the hair, drags his body the dust, and
then cuts off his head, feeling exultant at the deed (Mbh 7.193.62-63).
Aśvatthāman reviles the unfairness and adharma of his father’s death,
especially the humiliation that Dhṛṣṭadyumna heaps upon him. He then
swears to destroy the Pāñcālas through any means possible (Mbh 7.196.14).
But it doesn’t end here. Adharma begets more adharma, and the dharma of
the very kṣetra is put in jeopardy, because all the actors in this kṣetra
become divided on the issue of the righteousness or unrighteousness of
Dhṛṣṭadyumna’s and Yudhiṣṭhira’s actions. Thus, whereas earlier the kṣetra
was divided among the Kauravas and the Pāṇḍavas, now the Pāṇḍavas
themselves become fragmented, and the blanket illusion of dharma and
unity which the Pāṇḍavas have created unravels. After Aśvatthāman
decides to use his Nārāyaṇa weapon to avenge his father’s death, Arjuna
berates Yudhiṣṭhira for his sinful lie and says that his lie has brought
ignominy to them forever (Mbh 7.197.34). But then Dhṛṣṭadyumna comes
on the scene and, verbally attacking Arjuna, claims that his cutting off of
Drona’s head was his dharma, because it fulfilled his purpose of being born
(Mbh1.198.30–40). He calls Drona sinful for having abandoned his caste
and for taking up kṣatriya duties, and he questions Drona’s very purpose of
being a guru, accusing him of treating his students inequitably. Then he
accuses Arjuna for his own sinful killings—of Bhagadatta and Bhīṣma—
which propels Sātyaki into reviling Dhṛṣṭadyumna for killing a brāhmin and
berating Arjuna. Dhṛṣṭadyumna then condemns Sātyaki for the unrighteous
killing of Bhūriśravas. Basically, each Pāṇḍava warrior exposes the
adharma of the other till all are revealed to have sinned. Ultimately,
Dhṛṣṭadyumna’s final words in this blame-game unmask the true adharmic
nature of the kṣetra. He very clearly states how both the Pāṇḍavas and
Kauravas have gone against morality, even though both have knowledge of
morality. But, he says, morality is mysterious, and all one can do is fight on
(Mbh 7.199.44–45). In the final analysis then, the kṣetra is revealed as just
that—a kṣetra that had the potential of being a dharmakṣetra if the warriors
had followed morality, but immorality has polluted the kṣetra, and changed
it to an adharmakṣetra.
The other crucial adharma that Yudhiṣṭhira commits is in the dice game.
In fact, in this game, he commits not one but multiple adharmas which
shatter all the key aspects of dharma in his life—rājadharma, kuladharma,
bhrātadharma, patidharma, and svadharma—and these adharmas,
consequently, pollute the whole system. The only way to save society then
is to bring about its total destruction through pralaya so that it can be
restored to some semblance of dharma in the new yuga. Therefore, perhaps,
the only dharma Yudhiṣṭhira inadvertently performs in this game is
yugadharma; but it is highly ironic that a dharmarāja would be responsible
for bringing dharma to its knees, or, more aptly, to make it hobble on a
single hoof.
Aside from expediting Kali Yuga, the dice game itself, on a mythopoeic
level, is a symbol of the changing yugas. This fact has already been
established from Śiva’s dice game in Sabhā Parva, in which the dice are
named after the four yugas. In addition, some of the key Kauravas are
incarnations of the yugas themselves. For example, Śakuni is incarnation of
Dvāpara and Duryodhana himself represents Kali. However, it is interesting
to note that in the play between Śakuni and Yudhiṣṭhira, Śakuni throws the
best dice—Kṛta, which is the golden age, when dharma is at its zenith, and
Yudhiṣṭhira’s throws are Kali. Admittedly, Śakuni’s play is a result of his
cheating, but the yuga names of dice also seem to indicate that it is
Yudhiṣṭhira who reduces dharma, bringing Kali Yuga closer with each of
his throws.
However, no matter the yuga, dicing is clearly a condemnable activity in
all ages. As Vidura says to Dhṛtarāṣṭra, ‘Gambling is the root of
dissensions. It brings about disunion. Its consequences are frightful’ (Mbh
1.63.1). Therefore, trying to justify Yudhiṣṭhira’s involvement in this
activity is like trying to prove the innocence of a murderer who has been
caught in the act. The danger of dicing is recognized numerous times in the
epic and the Purāṇas. For example, Nala is destroyed by the dice which Kali
has possessed (Mbh 3.59.1–18). In Virāṭa’s court, Yudhiṣṭhira himself as
Kaṇka associates gambling ‘with many evils’ (Mbh 4.68.26). By Parikṣit’s
time, when Kali Yuga has already set in, dicing is considered equivalent to
the demon Kali who injures both dharma and the earth (BP 1.171.45). In
addition, at this liminal time between yugas, when Kṛṣṇa has incarnated to
restore the dwindling dharma, even he condemns dicing. When he meets the
Pāṇḍavas in exile, he tells them that he considers gambling the most
contaminating of desires, and he calls it the most evil out of the four evils of
women, hunting, drinking, and gambling. He wishes he had been present at
the game, because he would have told Dhṛtarāṣṭra to stop his sons from
gambling (Mbh 3.13.3). Of course, Kṛṣṇa heaps blame on the Kauravas, as
do most Hindus and many scholars, because Yudhiṣṭhira’s vice is passed off
as (1) his intoxication; hence he has no control, and (2) his oath of never
refusing a challenge.
It is clear that Yudhiṣṭhira is intoxicated, and there is no doubt that he is
addicted to gambling, so control of senses is a key factor in dharma, and
addiction is an extreme form of loss of control. So, how is it that
Yudhiṣṭhira, a strict adherent of virtue, is not able to control his addiction?
It can be argued that he does not know he is addicted, but this argument
does not ring true because that would steep Yudhiṣṭhira in the ignorance of
a deep tamasic nature; the first step to realization is awareness of one’s
shortcomings or adharmic inclinations. And, since Yudhiṣṭhira’s character is
of a stalwart in ascetic self-analysis, there is no doubt that he knows about
his addiction. In that case, why does he allow himself the temptation of the
game when it is a known fact that the best way for an addict to avoid
indulging in his addiction is to stay away from temptation? But then, of
course, there is the question of his oath, which will be discussed below. In
this particular argument about his addiction, the question must also be
raised: What about the inaction of Yudhiṣṭhira’s well-wishers? Why don’t
they break him away from this addiction? Even in modern times of extreme
indulgences and addictions, friends and well-wishers who, without having
any personal or material stake in the well-being of their addicted friend,
consider it their responsibility to stage an intervention to save their friends
from destructive behaviour. It seems that all of Yudhiṣṭhira’s well-wishers,
like Bhīṣma and Vidura, are really false friends, since they watch him suffer
in his addiction without doing or saying a thing. Even Vidura acknowledges
that Ajātaśatru (Yudhiṣṭhira) is intoxicated with dice (Mbh 2.63.8). Not only
is it ironic that he refers to him as Ajātaśatru here, which means ‘having no
enemy’ when clearly dicing is his enemy, but, also, instead of admonishing
Yudhiṣṭhira, Vidura castigates Duryodhana repeatedly for indulging in the
game, calling him a ‘wicked man’. He does not, however, say a word to
stop Yudhiṣṭhira, not even when he stakes Draupadī.
There is one person who continuously warns Yudhiṣṭhira about the evil
of indulging in his addiction, and that person, quite surprisingly, is Śakuni.
Śakuni warns Yudhiṣṭhira that he is intoxicated and alerts him immediately
after he has his first big loss—Nakula and Sahadeva. Śakuni says, ‘O king,
one who is intoxicated falls into a pit and remains there, being deprived of
his power of motion. O best of the Bhārata race … know that gamesters in
the excitement of play utter such ravings as they would never do in their
waking moments or in their dreams’ (Mbh 2.65.19-20). Yet, Yudhiṣṭhira, in
his subsequent moves, stakes Arjuna, Bhīma, himself, and then Draupadī.
By losing his brothers, Yudhiṣṭhira’s loses his dharma as an elder
brother, but there is the question of the dharma of the other Pāṇḍavas
themselves in relation to Yudhiṣṭhira’s addiction. Since intoxication or
addiction, even in epic times, was recognized as addling the brain, then how
is it that the other Pāṇḍavas continue to follow their dharma to their elder
brother, knowing that it is not their elder brother who plays but a man under
the influence of an addiction? Is dharma to be considered blind—a blind
observation of duty without any free will or rationality? This negates the
very meaning of dharma which necessitates the doer to recognize the
singular righteousness of the act before it is performed. Thus the fact that
the Pāṇḍavas abandon their wife in their mute acceptance of their brother’s
addiction is clearly a total lack of dharma.
The other justification that is often given for Yudhiṣṭhira’s dice playing
is that he is under oath to never refuse a challenge; hence he cannot refuse
to play in the dice game, even though he knows that it is rigged and that
Śakuni will cheat. Śakuni tells him that the purpose of a game is to win by
any means possible (Mbh 2.59.6), and Yudhiṣṭhira himself specifically
acknowledges this. His exchange with Vidura before the game proves that
he is quite aware what nature of dyūta will occur in the game: Vidura tells
him ‘O king, you will see there all those gamblers, those cheats … and I
have come here [to warn you] about this’, and Yudhiṣṭhira responds, ‘It
appears that some of the most desperate and terrible gamblers who always
depend on deceit are present there’ (Mbh 2.58: 9 &14). Yet, he decides to
play, all because of his oath. Does this mean that thanks to his vow to never
refuse a challenge he must accept and perpetrate evil action? Doesn’t this
negate his superior air of always favouring virtue? However, a true ascetic
is one who remains undeterred and equanimous in both good and evil
situations, and this, indeed, is a noble comment on Yudhiṣṭhira’s character,
but the question is, does it apply to Yudhiṣṭhira in this instance? Can he
remain undeterred and equanimous when he knows that he is addicted to
dicing? The dice game and its consequences are evidence that he cannot,
and the events subsequent to the dice game prove the falsity of his words
and nobility.
The fiasco of Yudhiṣṭhira’s conduct continues after losing the first game,
when he accepts the challenge of the second game knowing full well that
this too will be rigged, and sits down to play ‘from shame and sense of his
kṣatriya duty’ (Mbh 2.76.18). How strange it is that the words ‘shame’ and
‘kṣatriya duty’ be combined in this sentence and juxtaposed. Is Yudhiṣṭhira
ashamed because he is aware that he will lose but he cannot refuse a
challenge, or is he aware of his addiction and is ashamed of it? In the
former case, where is the pride in the kṣetra of kṣatriyas where loss and
victory are irrelevant and only the yuddha is important; and in the latter
case, his oath itself is adharmic because it leaves open the potentiality of
temptation and of steeping him in shame. Yudhiṣṭhira behaves as though he
has no choice—that it is his duty to accept the challenge. But apparently
there is a choice, otherwise the people present in the court would not have
continued to say that someone in the court should warn him of the danger of
the second dice game. They think he has not understood the implications
(Mbh 2.76.14). If his vow was unbreakable, they would have uttered words
of sympathy for Yudhiṣṭhira for having no choice but to play. But the truth
is Yudhiṣṭhira has a choice. He has a choice to break his vow or find some
way around it, as Arjuna does in the Karṇa Parva to help him circumvent
his oath that impels him to kill his elder brother. Similarly, Yudhiṣṭhira also
has a choice to weigh the dharma of an oath against the dharma of not
allowing himself to fall into temptation, and that too a temptation that could
destroy not just himself but also his family, his kingdom, and his subjects.
This is especially significant, because while the latter choice of preventing
the destruction would have been unselfish and saved many, his refusal to
break the vow assures pain and suffering for many. It also seems nothing
more than a way to massage his own ego: he is so kingly that he will not
refuse a challenge. Or perhaps his choice to keep the vow is a lie of self-
deception, a disguise for his addiction that justifies his gambling.
In actuality, Yudhiṣṭhira is in control in the dice game and he does make
a choice, and that choice is to play and to continue playing. He chooses to
gamble, not so much because he must keep his oath, but because he has
another ulterior motive; a motive he has consciously thought out. He
reveals this himself in the Vana Parva when he tells Bhīma: ‘I was engaged
to play dice with the desire of snatching from Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s son his kingdom
with his sovereignty’ (Mbh 3.34.3). In addition, he admits to losing control
when his motive was thwarted: ‘Seeing the dice obedient to the wishes of
Śakuni in Abuja and Yuma [odds and even], I could have controlled my
mind, but anger drives off a person’s patience’ (Mbh 3.34.5). What
Yudhiṣṭhira admits to is that his very motive to play the game was immoral,
and that during the dice game he not only lost his sense of dharma, but he
knowingly made choices that were adharmic.
Whatever it is that impels Yudhiṣṭhira to play the dice game, the fact is
his actions injure his brothers and his wife grievously. Everything that
follows the dice game certainly attests to this, but what makes Yudhiṣṭhira’s
culpability clear is Kṛṣṇa’s words at the end of the war when the Pāṇḍavas
find Duryodhana in Dvaipāyana Lake and Yudhiṣṭhira challenges him to
accept one last win-or-lose battle. Yudhiṣṭhira once again gambles with the
Pāṇḍavas’ lives and fortune by giving Duryodhana a choice of adversary in
single combat. At this time, Kṛṣṇa, worried that Duryodhana may win, tells
Arjuna that Yudhiṣṭhira was wholly to blame for the dice game, for he says,
‘It is through the fault of king Yudhiṣṭhira alone that danger has once more
befallen us’ (Mbh 9.58.10). The key words here are ‘once more’—that
danger has fallen upon the Pāṇḍavas again through Yudhiṣṭhira’s addiction
to the game of chance.
In Yudhiṣṭhira’s culpability, the one to suffer the greatest injury is
Draupadī. She is also the one who poses a question that not only mocks her
husband’s relationship with her, but also puts to shame all those keepers of
dharma who claim the kṣetra to be a dharmakṣetra. In addition, Draupadī’s
question casts real doubt on the charges of evil behaviour that are heaped on
the Kauravas, who are ultimately and forever blamed for her humiliation.
Her question at being staked by Yudhiṣṭhira is: ‘Whose Lord was
[Yudhiṣṭhira] at the time when he lost me in play? Did he lose himself first
or me?’ (Mbh 2.67.10). By asking this question, Draupadī shows the farce
of the keepers of dharma and also of the dharmakṣetra. She says to the
assembly of noble Kurus, ‘All the Kurus in this assembly look silently on
this act which transgresses the shore of the Kuru morality; the morality of
the Bhāratas has certainly been destroyed and the usage of those conversant
with the kṣatriya practices have surely disappeared’ (Mbh 2.67.40). And all
Bhīṣma can say to this is, ‘I am unable to decide properly the point put
forward by you. The ways of morality are subtle’ (Mbh 2.67.47).
Furthermore, instead of condemning Yudhiṣṭhira, Bhīṣma reiterates that
Yudhiṣṭhira will abandon all the wealth of the world but not morality (Mbh
2.67.48). The irony of this statement is inescapable, because not only has
Yudhiṣṭhira lost all the wealth of the world but he has also done so with
extreme immorality, the gravest of which is expressed in Draupadī’s
question.
Hiltebeitel (2001: 244) suggests that when Yudhiṣṭhira orders Draupadī
to ‘come before [her] father-in-law in soiled clothes, it is “preposterous
marital cruelty.”’ In fact, this is not just marital cruelty; it is a thorough
demeaning of women and the very institution of marriage. Moreover, what
Yudhiṣṭhira says prior to staking Draupadī is more damaging to her and, by
extension, all women, than even this cruel order. Before staking her,
Yudhiṣṭhira describes Draupadī’s womanly attributes in front of an
assembly full of males, half of whom are fathers and grandfathers and the
other half who look upon her lecherously. Yudhiṣṭhira describes Draupadī
as a woman ‘who is neither short nor tall, neither lean nor corpulent, who
possesses blue curly hair, and eyes like the leaves of autumn lotus, and
fragrance like that of the lily, who is like Śrī herself in symmetry and grace
… Whose face when covered with sweat looks like the lotus or the wasp,
who possesses long flowing hair, red lips, and body without down … The
slender-waisted Draupadī’ (Mbh 2.65.33–9). Whatever Yudhiṣṭhira’s
intention may have been in extolling his wife’s qualities at this time, the
sensual description sounds like that of a pimp describing a whore to a
customer, and this enflames the Kauravas to react the way they do: Karṇa
calls Draupadī a whore and Duryodhana orders her to be disrobed.
Draupadī’s prostitution begins with her birth on earth, when Viṣṇu
‘hires’ her as Śrī to the five Indras so that they can redeem themselves. Four
of these Indras had committed the sin of arrogance, and the sin of the fifth
—the Indra of the current eon—was his killing of Vṛtra, which cost him to
lose his tējas, balam, vīryam, and rūpam. It is these losses of the fifth Indra
that caused the birth of the Pāṇḍavas and Śrī is sent to Indra/Pāṇḍavas to
restore his/their dharma. Hiltebeitel (1991: 221) points out that Śrī is Earth,
which is not just land, but also vegetation, wealth, and prosperity; in other
words, Śrī is everything that will restore the dhārmic order and well-being
of society. In this birth of Draupadī’s, Hiltebeitel (1991: 225) gives Kṛṣṇa
the role of Gālava, the ṛṣi who hires Mādhavī’s womb out to gain the horses
he has to gather for his gurudakṣiṇā. The only difference between Mādhavī
and Draupadī’s situation is that Draupadī’s further prostitution in the dice
game robs the Pāṇḍavas of their prosperity. Perhaps Mādhavī is able to
restore royalty because she accepts her prostitution mutely, whereas
Draupadī is vociferous in her objection. But does this mean the authors of
the Mahābhārata are suggesting that if women consent to their oppression
by men, society can continue to function smoothly, but if women begin to
stand up for their rights, society will be thrown into chaos? Or perhaps the
reason Mādhavī is able to restore royalty but Draupadī isn’t is that while
Gālava is seemingly unaware of the immorality of his action, the Pāṇḍavas
are fully aware of the utter humiliation to which they have subjected
Draupadī.8
Draupadī is played like a puppet or a doll, and she is wagered like
property, her bodily attributes described as one would a piece of property
(Hiltebeitel 2001: 263). Hiltebeitel (2001: 263) considers this an indication
of the problematic role of women in a broader perspective: ‘A Sāṃkhya
problematic underlies the Mahābhārata portrayals of heroines … the
heroine-goddess represents prakṛti as unconscious matter, blind ignorance
given to “obstinacy”; matter that unknowingly yet somehow inerrantly
works on behalf of puruṣa …through “blind initiatives”; heroines whose
ignorance is unknowing, in particular about dharma’. This ignorance may
be true of some other heroines; the fact is that this heroine (Draupadī) is
fully knowledgeable of her dharma status. Moreover, not only is her
defiance of prevalent practices open and obvious, it also reverses the
ignorance, attributing it to the males instead. It is as though she takes on the
evolvement of all womanhood. Hiltebeitel (2001: 242) says that Draupadī
telling the Sūta to ask this question in court makes her ‘clever’, making it
clear to the readers that this is a question worthy of being discussed in a
sabhā—a question that must be decided by the highly respected members of
the assembly. Therefore, this question that Draupadī asks in the assembly
does not just pertain to Draupadī, but transforms the issue of mistreatment
of women from being a private matter within a family to the legality of a
societal question.
It is clear from the responses of the males in the assembly hall that either
they are ignorant of this issue of women’s mistreatment or they are
pretending ignorance. What is more likely is that they are fully aware but
not willing to change the status quo. Hence, none of the elders have an
answer to Draupadī’s question, and Bhīṣma evades the issue by calling it a
subtlety of dharma, which is clearly indicates that he is aware of the dharma
violations that have occurred but is not willing to admit it. Only Bhīma
acknowledges the fact that Yudhiṣṭhira has done wrong, and he threatens to
burn his hands (Mbh 2.68.5). But Bhīma does not mean to end the
mistreatment of all women, only that of his beloved wife. And Arjuna
appears even more ‘ignorant’ because he admonishes Bhīma and tells him
that it is not virtuous to oppose an older brother (Mbh 2.68.7); he thus
completely disregards not just the plight of women but also of the wife he
has sworn by Vedic rights to protect and cherish. Thus, even if it is accepted
that Arjuna is ignorant of the former, in no way can he be considered
ignorant of the latter. And since, in this incident, the two issues are
interrelated, his flagrant disregard of his patidharma translates into his
adharma towards all women and their status in society.
There is one person in the assembly who does attempt to answer
Draupadī’s question, and he appeals to the elders to consider what he has to
say. This person is Vikarṇa, a younger brother of Duryodhana. Scholars like
Hiltebeitel and Shah believe that Vikarṇa only gives a weak answer. Citing
Shah, Hiltebeitel (2001: 248) says his ‘defence does not turn out to be a
defence at all but a mere debate on technicalities’. However, Vikarṇa’s
arguments are not weak. Admittedly, they do not redeem the status of
womankind, but they do condemn the males who indulge in vices that can
result in the mistreatment of women. Vikarṇa points out: ‘It has been said
that hunting, drinking, gambling, and enjoying women are the four vices of
the kings. The man who is addicted to those vices lives by forsaking virtue.
People do not consider the acts done by a person who is thus improperly
engaged as of any authority’ (Mbh 2.68.20–2). Very clearly Yudhiṣṭhira has
indulged in just such a vice; hence, he has not only lost his authority as king
and as dharmarāja, he has also abandoned the dharma that Draupadī has
evoked. Vikarṇa also makes the significant point that Draupadī is the
common wife of all five Pāṇḍavas; hence she is not only Yudhiṣṭhira’s
possession but also belongs to the other four brothers. Most importantly,
Vikarṇa states what everyone is ignoring: that Yudhiṣṭhira first lost himself.
Hence, Vikarṇa declares that Draupadī is not won (Mbh 2.68.23–4).
However, Vikarṇa is but a youth and of no consequence and no one pays
much attention to his words.
On the other hand, the Kauravas not only seem to have more knowledge
of the issue of women but also give Draupadī’s question due consideration,
thus giving her a respect that the elders and her husbands fail to give. But
perhaps Duryodhana does so only to twist the situation to his advantage. He
tells Draupadī that he will give Yudhiṣṭhira another chance to answer the
question; he even promises Draupadī that if the four younger Pāṇḍavas, ‘for
[her] sake declare in the midst of these most noble men (present here) that
Yudhiṣṭhira is not their lord and that he is a liar; [she] will be freed from
slavery’ (Mbh 2.70.4–5). Ironically, and perhaps unwittingly, by his words,
Duryodhana gives Draupadī the same status as the other Pāṇḍavas—he
regards both Draupadī and the four remaining Pāṇḍavas as Yudhiṣṭhira’s
property, a status that Yudhiṣṭhira himself has reduced them to by staking
them. Duryodhana even gives Yudhiṣṭhira a chance to redeem himself and
admit that he was wrong in playing his brothers and his wife as though they
were property; but Yudhiṣṭhira remains silent. Is it his ego that prevents him
or his blindness to his own fault, or does he, as king and older brother,
really see everyone else as his property? Whatever the case may be, the fact
is that in an instant, Yudhiṣṭhira has decimated all his roles—his
rājadharma, his bhrātadharma, his patidharma, and, most importantly, his
role as dharmarāja.
Ultimately, when no one else answers Draupadī’s question, the cosmos
intervenes as though in frustrated wrath at the rupture of dharma, and bad
omens occur. Suddenly, finding themselves cornered, the elders look for a
scapegoat and, as always, point fingers at the most obvious culprit—
Duryodhana—thus once again using the blanket of self-deception to cover
up all adharmas. They blame Duryodhana for bringing the destruction of
the Kurus closer by holding the dice game, by instigating Śakuni’s cheating,
and by humiliating Draupadī. And Dhṛtarāṣṭra, afraid of the omens and
guilt-ridden at his own inaction, grants Draupadī three boons; she uses two
of these to get Yudhiṣṭhira and then the other four of her husbands released.
But she refuses the third boon, saying that according to ordinance a kṣatriya
woman may ask only two boons, and that she does not deserve a third boon
because ‘covetousness destroys virtue’ (Mbh 2.71.35–6). S.M. Kulkarni
(1989: 155) suggests that by asking only for the release of her husbands,
Draupadī herself answers her question. Because she does not consider
herself enslaved, she does not need to ask for her freedom. And everyone,
even Duryodhana, accepts this resolution.
The fact is that while Duryodhana and his cohorts can certainly be
blamed for rigging the dice game and for humiliating Draupadī, they cannot
be blamed for Draupadī being played as a stake. That is entirely
Yudhiṣṭhira’s own doing. He voluntarily, and without urging, begins to first
stake his brothers and then, with just a tiny nudge from Śakuni, who
actually suggests that Draupadī may help Yudhiṣṭhira win back his whole
wealth, Yudhiṣṭhira places Draupadī in the game. Hence, Draupadī is
victimized not just by Duryodhana but also by Yudhiṣṭhira and her other
husbands.
Surprisingly, the man who salvages Draupadī’s respect, and in
consequence all of womanhood, is Karṇa. It is he who raises Draupadī to
the status of the one who provides salvation—not just to the Pāṇḍavas but
also to the Kauravas. After Draupadī frees her husbands through
Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s boons, Karṇa says,
We have not heard of such an act performed by any women who are noted in this world for their
beauty. When the sons of Pāṇḍu and Dhṛtarāṣṭra were excited with anger, this Kṛṣṇā, the daughter of
Drupada, became their salvation. The sons of Pāṇḍu were sinking boat-less in an ocean of distress,
this Pāñcālī, becoming a boat to them, brought them safely to the shore. (Mbh 2.72: 1–3)

Once this question about the rights of women is posed and left
unresolved, the narrative moves on as before, as though it was never asked.
Even Draupadī resumes her conventional role of a wife who sees no fault in
her husbands. She, too, blames Duryodhana and Śakuni, and affirms her
belief that ‘though Yudhiṣṭhira does not possess any skill in dice, yet he was
made to play with skilful, wicked deceitful and desperate gamblers. How
then can he [Yudhiṣṭhira] be said to have staked voluntarily’ (Mbh 2.67.40).
However, what Draupadī does not forget is her abandonment by her
husbands, which she continues to question. Crying before Kṛṣṇa, she
shames the prowess of Bhīma and Arjuna by accusing them of not
protecting her when she needed protection. She also cites śāstras:
[It] is the eternal course of morality—a husband should protect his wife because by protecting his
wife a man protects his offspring and by protecting the offspring, he protects himself. His own self is
begotten on his wife and therefore the wife is called Jaya. Similarly a wife should also protect her
husband remembering that he would take his birth in her womb. (Mbh 3.12.68–70)

But even Kṛṣṇa has no answer for Draupadī’s distress, just as no one had an
answer for her question in the dice game.
Scholars believe that Draupadī’s question is never really answered
except, perhaps, by Vikarṇa. In actuality, Yudhiṣṭhira does answer
Draupadī’s question, though not at the dice game, but later, at the end of the
war. This is when Duryodhana is dying and he offers Yudhiṣṭhira the
kingdom. At that time, Yudhiṣṭhira tells Duryodhana that he will not accept
the earth from Duryodhana as a gift. He says, ‘You are not now lord of the
Earth. Why then do you wish to make a gift of that over which you have no
right (Mbh 9.31.51)?’ Considering that Draupadī is Śrī, Yudhiṣṭhira has just
implicated himself. He staked his ‘Earth’—Draupadī—when he had no
right over her. He had lost himself in the dice game before he staked her;
therefore he was not then ‘Lord of the Earth’ (Draupadī) at the time of the
dice game. On, the other hand, Duryodhana might have lost the war, but he
is still king. At the time he offers the kingdom to Yudhiṣṭhira, he has not yet
given up the kingdom; hence, he still has a right over his earth. In addition,
while Duryodhana at least sees Earth/Śrī as a gift to ‘give away’,
Yudhiṣṭhira saw Earth/Draupadī only as a stake to be played in a dice game.
Who, then, does the feminine aspect of the kṣetra more injustice? In
addition, since according to Manu Smṛti, women are the source of three out
of the four puruṣārthas (dharma, artha and kāma) and the Pāṇḍavas and
Kauravas have both violated this ‘source’ with so much adharma, what
dharma remains in this kṣetra?
Hence, in the Mahābhārata, Dharmavīra himself ruptures two of the most
significant functions of dharma: sustenance of society through the
preservation of the feminine principle and sanctity of trust through the
observance of truth. Sadly, society was never able to repair these ruptures,
perhaps, because tradition never really acknowledged the damage.

HOW KṚṢṆA DEFINES THE KṢETRA

The character who can be considered truly capable of delineating the kṣetra
as a dharmakṣetra is Kṛṣṇa, because the sole reason for his incarnation is to
restore dharma:
yadā yadā hi dharmasya glānir bhavati bhārata
abhyutthānam adharmasya tadātmānaṃ sṛjāmy aham
[Whenever, O Bhārata, virtue languishes and sin predominates, I create myself.] (Mbh 6.28:7)

Hence, it is Kṛṣṇa who must ensure that the opposing sides on the kṣetra are
clearly defined as dharma and adharma according to their lakṣaṇa, because
it is he who ensures that victory is on the side that adheres to dharma. That
is how Kṛṣṇa, as the preserver of dharma, becomes equivalent to dharma,
and hence to victory: ‘Yataḥ kṛṣṇas tato jayaḥ’—where there is Kṛṣṇa, there
is victory (Mbh 5.68.9). But Kṛṣṇa plays two roles in the Mahābhārata: he is
a mortal, the Yādava chief, Vāsudeva Kṛṣṇa, cousin of the Pāṇḍavas, and
brother-in-law to Arjuna; and he is the eternal supreme being, Nārāyaṇa, the
saguṇa brāhman of Vaiṣṇavism, the mythic reincarnation of Viṣṇu. In the
first role, he is a moral agent, accountable for his dharma like any mortal, in
his second role, especially that of Viṣṇu’s reincarnation, he himself is the
preserver of dharma. However, because he slips in and out of both roles, his
character is full of ambiguities, and because he uses both roles to suit his
purpose, he often fails dharma in both.9
As a mortal, Kṛṣṇa is subject to human frailties and worldly bindings,
such as karma, puruṣkāra, niyati, daivya, and kāla; and in this role, he
displays all the qualities of a mortal with human inclinations to adharma
and moral dilemmas. Therefore, in this role, he cannot be seen as equivalent
to dharma. In fact, in this role, he not only violates moral and ethical codes,
but he also uses the excuse of his divinity to justify his mortal behaviour,
thus controverting even his role as preserver or restorer of dharma. As the
supreme being, he is the guardian of both śāśvata dharma and transient
dharmas of deśa and kāla; but in this role, in the paradigm of supreme
divines, he is unbelievable, because this role would either put him beyond
all temporal limitations of dharma or invest him with lakṣaṇa of absolute
dharma that is expected of a supreme divine in a theocracy. Instead, what
we see is an archetype of a divine, glossing over situations where dharma
seems to be ambiguous or in jeopardy. Perhaps the reason for this ambiguity
is that at the time of the Mahābhārata, Kṛṣṇa as a supreme being had not
quite come into his own. V.S. Sukthankar (1998: 67) says that although
Kṛṣṇa as a supreme being underlies everything in the Mahābhārata, the
Kṛṣṇa element is only incidental.
The reason why the Kṛṣṇa element in the epic is difficult to categorize is
because Kṛṣṇa’s history is quite unknown. He may have been a Yādava
chieftain who was elevated to divine status through legend and folklore to
bring together divergent communities. Thapar (2004: 147 & 150) suggests
that Kṛṣṇa may have belonged to a pre-Aryan tribe or at least to a
gaṇasangha, much like the gaṇasanghas of Mahāvīra and Gautama. The
rise of Kṛṣṇa was probably heterogeneous, just like Buddhism, but it was
also, perhaps, the brāhmin answer to reclaim its identity against
heterodoxies like Buddhism and Jainism. Bhattacharji (2000: 301–6)
suggests that the ‘cultic’ and ‘mythological’ hostility between Indra and
Kṛṣṇa may have been the result of an aboriginal sect who worshipped
Kṛṣṇa, and there may have been an actual contest between the Aryans and a
tribe who had a leader named Kṛṣṇa. It is also possible then that the victory
of this tribal leader against the all-powerful Aryans gave Kṛṣṇa the validity
he needed to rise to the forefront and claim a three-dimensional substance,
such as what we see peripherally in the Mahābhārata but fully realized as a
solar hero in the Harivaṃśa. And, as Kosambi (1965: 117) points out,
helping him along were his supposed exploits of marrying 16,108 wives,
some of whom were apsarās and others women of local cults, thus allowing
inclusion and spread. Kṛṣṇa’s close association with fertility was most
important for his rise and also spread of the Kṛṣṇa cult, because fertility
pertained to both factions—Aryan and indigenous.
Kṛṣṇa himself postulates as a theistic divine with a history of theism that
goes back to the Vedas, pervading all time as the primary cause:
pitāhmāh asya jagato mātā dhātā pitāmahaḥ
vedyaṃ pavitram oṃkāra ṛk sāma yajur eva ca
[I am the father of this universe, the mother, the support and the grandsire.
I am the object of knowledge, the purifier, and the syllable om. I am also the Ṛg, the Sāma and the
Yajur Vedas.] (BG 9.17)

However, there is no evidence of Kṛṣṇa’s divinity in the Vedas. The only

mention of a Kṛṣṇa in Vedic literatures is in Chāndogya Upaniṣad—a son
of Devaki, a pupil of Ghora Angiras, initiated to the ‘secret doctrine’ of
‘man as sacrifice’ by his guru (CU 3.17.6, quoted in Gupta: 1991–2008, 5.
4, 279–280). Admittedly, Kṛṣṇa assumes the persona of Viṣṇu, the god who
is present in the Vedas, but even Viṣṇu is only a minor god in the Ṛg Veda,
with just five hymns devoted to him. He is also not very ‘godly’ in his
attributes. The only great feat that raises his status is his three wide strides
that ‘measure the earthly regions’ and within which ‘all living creatures
have their habitation’ (RV 1.155.1–2). These Vedic hymns do suggest his
overlordship over all creatures, but then, in the henotheistic nature of Vedic
hymns, so do the hymns devoted to most other Vedic gods. Perhaps Viṣṇu’s
lack was his greatest advantage, because, unlike gods like Indra who
already had full-fledged histories and backgrounds, Viṣṇu could be
moulded to suit the purpose of the new order. However, it is not at all clear
how the transformation from Viṣṇu to Kṛṣṇa occurred.
Whatever his historical background may have been, Kṛṣṇa was certainly
a phenomenon in post-epic society, probably beginning as legend and
folklore, then burgeoning into fully fledged myth and divinity, and finally
as an incarnation of Viṣṇu, morphing into the supreme divine. Sukthankar
(1998: 67) says, ‘We must … be content with taking Śrī Kṛṣṇa to be a
person of the same order of reality as the other heroes of the epic … Just as
the [Pāṇḍavas and Kauravas] are uniformly treated as incarnations of minor
gods and anti-gods of the Hindu pantheon, so Śrī Kṛṣṇa is also consistently
treated as the incarnation of the Supreme Being’. However, the idea of an
incarnating supreme divine lacks credence, because, as Matilal (2007: 413)
says, there is no precedence to authenticate the lakṣaṇa of such a divine.
The concept of the infinite supreme god is so abstract that it could not have
been born in the material, henotheistic world of the Vedas. Hence, not only
do Viṣṇu and Kṛṣṇa lack qualities that would qualify them as supreme in a
theocracy that commissions or restores standards in society, but also the
very idea of a theocracy was foreign in Hindu society (Matilal 2007: 413).
If this society was founded under the aegis of a supreme god, why would he
have been absent in the Vedas? If he was the infinite, surely he would have
existed from the beginning of time and eulogized in the Vedas. In actuality,
this concept of a supreme being was a new phenomenon—an idea that
caught on, but one that was still in its formative stages in the epic.
Therefore, in the Mahābhārata, when Kṛṣṇa does assume his supreme
divine form, it is simply a static, archetypal form with no demonstrable
lakṣaṇa; it is mainly to establish a sectarian scheme, which, as explained
earlier, is neither dhārmic nor adharmic; it is simply the call of a new order.
Hence, Kṛṣṇa’s divinity is not exemplary of dharma and goodness; it is, at
the very most, a leap of faith which negates a knowledge-based realization
of the kṣetra as being a dharmakṣetra. When he is in dynamic form, it is
mostly to give credence to his own or the Pāṇḍavas’ intent or actions, some
of which are so duplicitous that, without the mantle of divinity, they would
cause society’s ethical structure to crumble.
A key incident which is representative of Kṛṣṇa’s ambiguity of roles is
his Embassy to the Kaurava court to negotiate peace prior to the war. In this
incident, Kṛṣṇa’s surface role seems to be of a mortal—that of adviser to the
Kauravas and Pāṇḍavas and of Yudhiṣṭhira’s envoy of peace. However,
because at the end of this incident Kṛṣṇa reveals a theophany, he must also
be perceived as a divine reincarnate whose purpose it is to secure dharma.
Both roles require him to make an honest bid for peace, because war can
only result in the pain and suffering of many, a breakdown of societal
values, and a devastation of families. Therefore, if Duryodhana is on the
path of adharma, it is Kṛṣṇa’s duty as adviser and ambassador of peace and
as a dharma divine to make a genuine effort to convert him to goodness and
dharma, so that he realizes the adharmic consequences of war. And if, on
the other hand, Kṛṣṇa sees Duryodhana as unconvertible to dharma and as
an embodiment of evil, hindering the victory of dharma, it is his duty to
destroy Duryodhana so that war can be prevented. But Kṛṣṇa does neither;
instead, he adds fuel to Duryodhana’s desire for war. Why, then, this
pretense of negotiation for peace? And it certainly appears to be pretense,
because even before Kṛṣṇa leaves on the Embassy, he defines Hāstinapura
as the enemy camp, where peace is not possible. This is, ironically, made
more so by Kṛṣṇa’s own prior actions as the chieftain of the Yādavas. He
has made enemies of kings by taking their wealth, and those kings have
now joined the Kauravas in support and solidarity against Kṛṣṇa. This is a
fact that Vidura confirms (Mbh 5.92.25). Hence, even as Kṛṣṇa leaves for
the embassy, he is convinced that peace is unattainable. He tells Yudhiṣṭhira
that ‘whatever is capable of being done by me by speech or by deed, O
Pāṇḍava, shall be done by me, but do not expect peace with the enemy’
(Mbh 5.79.18).
The Kauravas, too, are aware of the hypocrisy of the peace negotiations.
However, Dhṛtarāṣṭra, who is aware of Kṛṣṇa’s growing popularity as a
divine, decides to honour Kṛṣṇa with wealth, which Vidura believes to be a
bribe to win him over and to possibly draw him away from the Pāṇḍavas. If
Kṛṣṇa’s divinity were an accepted fact, would Vidura, who is an ardent
Pāṇḍava supporter, attribute to Kṛṣṇa the human evil of being tempted by a
bribe? Duryodhana too acknowledges Kṛṣṇa’s possible divinity, but he
shuns the hypocrisy of honouring him, because, as he says: ‘He [Kṛṣṇa] will
think on receiving our worship … that we are honoring him out of fear’
(Mbh 5.88.3). Duryodhana also believes that nothing should be given to
him, because it will not turn war into peace (Mbh 5.88.6). However, since
Kṛṣṇa is also a relative and a guest, Duryodhana is happy to offer him
hospitality in that role, and Kṛṣṇa refuses Duryodhana’s hospitality on this
human basis, because, as he says, ‘One should eat others’ food when there
is love [between them] or again it should be taken when one is in distress. O
king, neither do you please me, nor am I in distress’ (Mbh 5.91.25). Here,
not only are Kṛṣṇa and Duryodhana dealing on a purely human level, but
also this indifference that Kṛṣṇa displays hardly inspires trust—a necessary
quality for successful negotiations. To make matters worse, he openly
declares his bias, claiming allegiance to the Pāṇḍavas by making statements
such as: ‘He who bears them [Pāṇḍavas] malice bears me malice … know
that I am merged with the Pāṇḍavas’ (Mbh 5.91.28). Clearly Kṛṣṇa belies
his role as impartial adviser and as dharma divine, and Duryodhana points
this out to him, telling him that since he is related to both the Pāṇḍavas and
the Kauravas, he should be impartial in his treatment of both.
The purpose of the Embassy is to give the opposing side the option to
choose peace and, to give Kṛṣṇa credit as a human ambassador, he does
make an occasional attempt to fulfil it. He does talk about peace so that the
world can be saved from destruction, but then he falsifies his own words by
telling Duryodhana the story of Daṃbodbhava who was so intoxicated with
his own power that he thought no one could defeat him, but was defeated by
the Ṛṣis Nara and Nārāyaṇa (Mbh 5.96.5–37). Then he reveals that Arjuna
is Nara, and he himself is Nārāyaṇa, and together they are undefeatable. He
further provokes the war by telling Duryodhana that the Pāṇḍava brothers
are gods whose strength he will not be able to bear in battle. Making divine
claims such as these and spreading rumours about the miraculous powers of
one’s supporters in war was a war strategy that was quite in use at that time.
This is attested in Kautilya’s Arthaśāstra. In fact, Kautilya specifically
advised using reciters of the Purāṇas to claim association with divinities to
boost the morale of one’s own troops and to dishearten and frighten the
enemy (Boesche 2003: 35). The possibility that Kṛṣṇa’s divinity was no
more than a strategic ploy not only further shatters his dharma role, but it
also weakens the supposition of his reincarnation.
Even if the possibility that Kṛṣṇa’s divinity was simply a strategic
rumour is discounted, the fact remains that, here, when Kṛṣṇa is required to
forward the cause of peace, his attitude, both as a mortal and divine, is
hardly conciliatory. His words sound more like a challenge that would goad
the pride of any warrior, regardless of whether it was issued by a mortal or a
divine and, as expected, Duryodhana’s response is of a true kṣatriya, one
who is filled with the motive of svadharma: ‘Since I have been created by
God, I am what he has made me; what will happen must happen and so
must my course be shaped’ (Mbh 5.105.40). In addition, Duryodhana
proudly announces that if he dies in battle, he will be fulfilling the greatest
of kṣatriya dharma; but, if he cowers before his enemies, it will be against
kṣatriya dharma (Mbh 5.127.6). Moreover, he does not see himself as the
cause of war and tells Kṛṣṇa that in his own estimation, he has not
committed any adharma in the catalytic dice game. Yudhiṣṭhira played the
dice game and staked his kingdom of his own free will. He reiterates that he
will not give away land as much as the point of a needle because he
believes himself to be the true king of Hāstinapura, so why should he give
away his wealth to his enemies? Duryodhana is certain that he is upholding
his dharma and questions Kṛṣṇa’s interference; especially in the
circumstance of karma which makes the cause and effect of Duryodhana’s
dharma and adharma his own prerogative—whether his actions are dhārmic
or not, his karma will decide. Thus, in one stroke, Duryodhana drills holes
in all of Kṛṣṇa’s roles: that of ambassador of peace, of a reincarnation of
Viṣṇu governing dharma, and of facilitator in the scheme of
metempsychosis.
As expected, the peace talks break down completely after this exchange
that Kṛṣṇa triggers and manipulates. But Kṛṣṇa condemns Duryodhana for
this failure, and also threatens to pay him back for all the injustices he has
meted out on the Pāṇḍavas from the time they were children. Since the
dialogue has opened animosities, it is no wonder then that Duryodhana
decides to make Kṛṣṇa captive with the help of Duḥśāsana, Śakuni, and
Karṇa, especially since Kṛṣṇa himself advises the Kuru elders to bind
Duryodhana and make him captive so that he is not able to carry out his
‘dark’ designs (Mbh 5.130.4–5). And how does Kṛṣṇa escape the situation?
He awes everyone by showing his Kṛṣṇized universal form in which the
Pāṇḍavas emerge from his body (this theophany has been described earlier
in this text).
 Clearly, this divine form is creational; hence, it is not clear why Kṛṣṇa
reveals it; it is not meant to convert Duryodhana. What this theophany does
is to establish Kṛṣṇaism and impress upon Duryodhana that the Pāṇḍavas
are part of Kṛṣṇa’s divinity. However, on an extended level, it does invoke a
Śaivic form or pralaya, because it provokes Duryodhana to engage in an
extreme war that will cause the destruction of the world. Not only is this
minimally suggested, this representation is also only archetypal.
Furthermore, adding another level to the archetype, Matilal (2007: 414)
says that here Kṛṣṇa is also Kāla, which creates and destroys. But Kāla is
passionless. Admittedly, it destroys to restore justice, but in the scheme of
Kāla, the ends justify the means. From this perspective, Kṛṣṇa’s role, as
revealed in this theophany, not only makes karma impotent by removing
causality, but it also negates the purposefulness of the yoga to achieve the
ultimate dharma that Kṛṣṇa teaches Arjuna in the Gītā.
The most evident summation of Kṛṣṇa’s behaviour in the Embassy is that
he is a politicking mortal, which he actually confirms when he conveys to
the Pāṇḍavas the happenings at the Embassy. He admits that he tried to
break up the Kauravas to create disunity among them by using fear tactics,
by ridiculing Duryodhana, and by any means possible. He even admits that
he used his divine form to bring about this end (Mbh 5.150.7–14). Thus, by
his own admission, this theophany of Kṛṣṇa’s becomes one of strategy. It is
also obvious that Kṛṣṇa uses his divinity for the benefit of his mortal
shortcomings, hence absolving himself of his moral obligations. Such
mortal political maneuvres hardly fit the lakṣaṇa of a pure divine, and they
also cast doubt on Kṛṣṇa’s role as impartial preserver of dharma. Kṛṣṇa’s
partiality towards the Pāṇḍavas is so blatant that it is cannot be seen as
anything but a mortal trait, so much so that it strikes even Balarāma as
unfair. In the Udyoga Parva, he admonishes Kṛṣṇa for not heeding his
repeated warnings to remain impartial to both the Pāṇḍavas and to
Duryodhana. Kṛṣṇa, however, is predisposed to serve only the interests of
the Pāṇḍavas, especially Arjuna (Mbh 5.157.31–2). As a consequence,
Balarāma believes that victory will come to the Pāṇḍavas only because
Kṛṣṇa is partial to them and not because they deserve the victory.
What is also most interesting is that Balarāma displays no awe of
Kṛṣṇa’s divinity and continues to reprimand his younger brother for his
deceitful behaviour. For instance, after Kṛṣṇa incites Bhīma to treacherously
strike Duryodhana on the thigh, Balarāma tells Kṛṣṇa that he feels ashamed
to have witnessed this adharma. Kṛṣṇa’s circuitous response to his elder
brother’s admonishment also detracts from his credibility. First he tries to
justify this adharmic killing by stating that Pāṇḍavas are relatives and that
he needed to ensure that Bhīma kept his vow of breaking Duryodhana’s
thigh; then he resorts to the human insurance of daivya by insisting that fate
had already ordained this through Ṛṣi Maitreya’s prophecy that Bhīma
would carry out this act. But when Balarāma is not convinced and bemoans
the violation of dharma, Kṛṣṇa resorts to his divine archetypal role, stating
that Kali Yuga has arrived and such violations of dharma are to be expected
(Mbh 9.60.9–25). With this statement, Kṛṣṇa not only justifies the deceit but
also establishes himself as the divine whose purpose is yugadharma.
However, this is especially damaging for Kṛṣṇa’s credibility as a
reincarnating dharma divine, because both Balarāma and Kṛṣṇa are
supposed to be reincarnations of Viṣṇu, created from two hairs—one white
and one black—from his body to assist the fallen Indras in their redemption
and to restore dharma in the world (Mbh 1.197.34). Hence, Kṛṣṇa as a
divine facilitating a decline in dharma as per yugadharma is at variance
with the purpose of his incarnation.
The incident in which Kṛṣṇa is introduced in his fully supreme divine
role in the Mahābhārata is in the Sabhā Parva when he kills Śiśupala of
Cedi. Śiśupala objects to Kṛṣṇa being chosen by Bhīṣma as the foremost to
receive the first arghya in Yudhiṣṭhira’s Rājasūya, and he believes that the
dharma of kingship and of the Rājasūya are violated by this choice.
Yudhiṣṭhira, however, refutes Śiśupala and declares that Kṛṣṇa should be
‘worshipped by all the pious men on earth, [because] he is the source of all
happiness, the origin of the universe, and that in which the universe is to
dissolve. This universe of mobile and immobile creatures has sprung into
existence from Kṛṣṇa alone’ (Mbh 2.38.21–23). Nārada validates
Yudhiṣṭhira’s words by announcing: ‘Those men, who will not worship the
lotus-eyed Kṛṣṇa should be considered as dead though living’ (Mbh 2.39.9).
This is a very revealing exchange in terms of Kṛṣṇa’s history. This is the
first bid to establish Kṛṣṇa theocracy, and revered characters like
Yudhiṣṭhira, Bhīṣma, and Nārada are used as spokesmen for this new and
emerging system. However, Śiśupala, who is a Śiva devotee, denounces
Kṛṣṇa’s divinity, and for this Kṛṣṇa cuts off his head with his chakra. The
reason Kṛṣṇa gives for this action is a combination of human imperative
and divine destruction. He announces to everyone that he had promised
Śiśupala’s mother, his aunt, that, as a divine, he would forgive his human
cousin, Śiśupala, a hundred evils. And now that Śiśupala has exhausted his
quota, as a dharma-preserving divine, it is his duty to destroy him.
However, on a human level, Śiśupala’s death at Kṛṣṇa’s hands cannot be
seen as a dharmic act because Kṛṣṇa’s violent retaliation to Śiśupala’s insult
is shocking; no mythical justification, such as the promise Kṛṣṇa has made
to his aunt, excuses it.
Another possible reason for why Kṛṣṇa kills Śiśupala is not cited in this
incident in the Mahābhārata, but it is narrated in the Viṣṇu Purāṇa, and it
further implicates Kṛṣṇa as no better than a mortal filled with jealousy (VP
4.15): Rukmini, Kṛṣṇa’s favourite wife, was, at one time, pledged to
Śiśupala by her brother Rukmi, but Kṛṣṇa kidnapped her and married her.
Śiśupala never let Kṛṣṇa forget that Rukmini was once his betrothed; in
fact, even in this Rājasūya assembly in the Mahābhārata, Śiśupala mocks
Kṛṣṇa about it. For the human Kṛṣṇa, this fact has always rankled, and now,
given the occasion and opportunity, Kṛṣṇa gets his revenge. This incident
and the manner in which it concludes in the Mahābhārata adds a whole
different divine and metaphysical dimension to it. As Śiśupala dies, his
energy merges with Kṛṣṇa (Mbh 2.45.27). Neither the Purāṇas nor the
Mahābhārata give any explanation for this strange occurrence. However,
this event gives an insight into an array of concepts prevalent and evolving
at this time. Drawing on the allusion of the Viṣṇu mythos, it can be said that
since Rukmini is Śrī, Śiśupala, who was once betrothed to her, is a portion
of Viṣṇu, hence it is fitting that he should merge into Viṣṇu. It also
concretizes Kṛṣṇaism and defines Kṛṣṇa’s role in the metaphysical polemic
rife at this time. This display is one of the few occasions in the Mahābhārata
when Kṛṣṇa is identified with the ultimate self, absorbing the lesser selves
in mokṣa. But what is most noteworthy is that Śiśupala is not a Kṛṣṇa
devotee; in fact, he bears great enmity towards Kṛṣṇa; then how is it that he
achieves salvation through Kṛṣṇa? There are a number of possible answers
to this question, and they all point to the fact that this incident aptly
establishes Kṛṣṇa’s supreme divinity. Firstly, the incident occurs in the
Sabhā Parva, and it is early enough in the epic that Kṛṣṇa is still more the
mortal Vṛṣṇi chieftain than a divine. Hence, the epic uses this occasion to
introduce Kṛṣṇa as a divine by having him eulogized by the Kuru elders and
celestial brāhmins like Nārada. Secondly, the pointed references to the
Viṣṇu Purāṇa myth in which Śiśupala is a reincarnation of the demons
Hiraṇyakaśipu and Rāvaṇa, asura arch-enemies of Viṣṇu from earlier yugas,
also popularizes the concept of mokṣa in Sāṃkhya, which was still
relatively new in the soteriology debate. According to the above cited Viṣṇu
Purāṇa myth, at his death, Rāvaṇa earned the privilege of merging with
Viṣṇu by virtue of being killed by Rāma. As he could not complete his
mokṣa journey, he was reborn as Śiśupala to fulfil it. In this context, then,
the hundred sins that Śiśupala is allowed can be seen as synecdochical—
that when a person’s sins become too numerous to be counted, they lose the
right to enjoy a life of puruṣārthic materiality. However, all is not lost,
because there is another path—of life negation—which promises ultimate
salvation. But this goal has to be realized through wisdom, which, in the
symbolic context of mythology, is often connoted when a divine weapon
destroys a being, such as Kṛṣṇa’s chakra destroying Śiśupala. Thus, rather
than being a literal destruction, it is a destruction of ignorance; therefore,
here, the implication is that Śiśupala’s ignorance has been destroyed and he
has attained the wisdom of self. Then there is the path of bhakti, which was
also an emerging element of the Kṛṣṇa theocracy. In bhakti, just the total
remembrance of the divine is salvation. The Purāṇic myth of Śiśupala’s
vadha suggests that because Śiśupala has repeated Kṛṣṇa’s name so often,
even if in enmity, despite himself, his heart is filled with Kṛṣṇa; hence, he
has earned the privilege of merging with the divine.
Obviously, the most significant role that Kṛṣṇa plays in this incident is of
the ultimate divine, but the nature of the kṣetra that is established in the
context of Śiśupala’s mokṣa is neither dharma nor adharma, because mokṣa
is beyond both. Thus, neither is Śiśupala’s destruction a consequence of his
evil, nor is Kṛṣṇa’s killing of him an act to sustain ethical codes of
goodness. It is simply a negation of dualities—a necessary condition of
realization. On a smaller scale, this uncategorized kṣetra is also defined by
the deva–asura archetypes that are apparent in this incident. Śiśupala is an
archetypal asura by virtue of being outside the Vaiṣṇava fold, and by
parallelism, Kṛṣṇa’s divinity, too, is archetypal. Admittedly, in this view,
Kṛṣṇa’s ultimate divine role as facilitator of mokṣa creates a causative of
overcoming the polarities of good and evil, and this promises a new
human–divine relationship.
The dynamism that is established though the man–divine paradigm
defines the kṣetra of the entire war. Although Kṛṣṇa plays the role of
Arjuna’s unarmed charioteer in the war, he is most vigorous as a divine, and
in his divinity, not only does he direct the Pāṇḍavas to commit many
adharmic killings, but he also uses his divine māyā in the whole war.
However, in each key incident in which he participates, the dharma of the
kṣetra becomes suspect. A good example is in Drona Parva, when
Bhagadatta, king of Prāgjyotiṣa, son of Narakāsura, throws the Vaiṣṇava
weapon at Arjuna, but Kṛṣṇa shields Arjuna, taking the weapon on his own
breast, and turning it into the Vaijayantī garland (Mbh 7.29.18). Thus, not
only is a fair fight foiled by the excuse of Kṛṣṇa as divine, but also Kṛṣṇa
breaks his vow of unarmed alliance; even Arjuna criticizes him for this
(Mbh 7.29.19). But Kṛṣṇa has a justification: He tells Arjuna the history of
the Vaiṣṇava weapon and how he had given it to Bhūmī’s asura son,
Naraka, as a boon. Bhagadatta, Naraka’s son, who Kṛṣṇa himself declares is
full of dharma, acquired it from his father. At the time of the Kurukṣetra
war, Bhagadatta is an old man who keeps his eyes open with a strip of
cloth, and the Vaiṣṇava weapon is his strength. Once Bhagadatta loses this
weapon, he becomes weak and an easy target for Arjuna, who shoots at
him, completely blinding the old man (Mbh 7.29.44-46). Hence, Kṛṣṇa’s
interference is of a deva destroying an asura and fulfilling his daivic role,
but in the guise of this archetype, he compels Arjuna to commit an act of
adharma.
Another example of Kṛṣṇa orchestrating events in the war with his
divine powers is his manipulation of Jayadratha’s death, which Arjuna has
sworn to accomplish before sundown of the day after Abhimanyu’s death.
As the sun begins to dip on that day, Jayadratha is nowhere to be seen:
knowing the vow that Arjuna has sworn, he has gone into hiding. To trick
Jayadratha into showing himself, Kṛṣṇa darkens the sky so that it seems that
the sun has set; Jayadratha comes out of hiding, and Arjuna kills him (Mbh
7.146.66–72). Kṛṣṇa’s divine manipulation in this killing is not only
obvious but also ironic because Yudhiṣṭhira praises Arjuna for executing an
act so rare that even Indra could not have accomplished it. And Arjuna
himself thanks Kṛṣṇa for helping him keep his vow—a vow, he says, that
even the celestials would have found difficult to keep (Mbh 7.148.41).
Therefore, Arjuna accepts credit for an act in which he hardly played a part,
and it is also an adharmic act of treachery that is falsely portrayed as heroic.
Kṛṣṇa’s deceits as an active divine are very difficult to reconcile with his
role as sustainer of dharma; in fact, from the perspective of morality, these
are hard to justify. Matilal (2007: 416) says that we, as readers, are actually
‘embarrassed’ and ‘definitely shocked’ at Kṛṣṇa’s conduct because ‘our
expectations were high and he disappoints us’. Occasionally, Kṛṣṇa does try
to explain his behaviour and actions, especially to mortals who question
him, but he fails to convince. For example, after the Aśvamedha, as Kṛṣṇa
is returning home, he meets Ṛṣi Utanka, who, unaware of the war’s
conclusion, asks him if he has been able to avert the war. Kṛṣṇa
apologetically tells him that he tried to negotiate peace but the Kauravas
disregarded what he had to say, and so both the Pāṇḍavas and Kauravas
were almost wiped out in the war. Utanka is so upset at Kṛṣṇa for not
rescuing the world when he was fully capable of doing it that he begins to
curse Kṛṣṇa; but Kṛṣṇa reveals his divine form to Utanka, telling him that
he is supreme god and has been born in mortal form to restore dharma. It
was because the Kauravas were unwilling to listen that they had to be
righteously killed in battle (Mbh 14.54.1–14). This declaration of Kṛṣṇa’s
divine yugadharma is repeated in the epic many times to justify his
deceptions; moreover, this role makes him a one-dimensional divine; hardly
the Saguṇa Brāhmaṇa with infinite attributes that he is supposed to be.
Hiltebeitel (1991: 47) suggests an explanation of Kṛṣṇa’s dichotomous
actions. He says, gods’ ‘assorted crimes … are pure deeds. They invite no
moral investigation. The gods act out of their own essential nature … but
when a hero sins, whether implicit or explicit, one finds a dilemma, a matter
of choice, which gives the act its special finality and tragedy, and which
leaves it open to investigation from every angle.’ This is certainly a valid
approach to dharma enquiry, and it can be applied to Kṛṣṇa. Because Kṛṣṇa
in the Mahābhārata is playing both roles—that of a god and a mortal—he
must be judged in his latter role on the grounds of morality, and he must be
accountable for his dharma and adharma, which must be open to
investigation from every angle. Also, as Hiltebeitel says, as a god, his own
actions may not invite moral investigation; however, when the god impels a
human hero to commit an adharma, as Kṛṣṇa does to Arjuna, then both the
god and the hero must be morally investigated.
Kṛṣṇa as the archetypal divine may have been an interpolation to meet
the needs of an evolving society in which tribal communities were forming
small kingdoms, the practice of war was changing, and deceits, such as
those committed by the Pāṇḍavas, were considered strategy. Hence,
perhaps, the dharma he came to preserve was of a polity (rājanīti), which
according to Katz, requires more strategy than dharma in Kali Yuga. In fact,
in Kali Yuga, the policy he would use would be more related to āpad
dharma (dharma during a situation of emergency), and ‘Kaliyuga is a
prolonged period of emergency’ (Katz 1990: 181); hence, it can be said that
Kṛṣṇa’s trickery is to preserve kingdom and society.
Additionally, the Mahābhārata is a text of Kṛṣṇa theism and the
absolution that his bhakti promises. But if Kṛṣṇa bhakti is the new order of
victory, this new form of dharma is in opposition to earlier puruṣārthic and
Vedic values. And since the Kauravas represent the earlier morality, this
dharmayuddha becomes a battle of Vedic dharma against a new emerging
form of dharma. However, considering that both adversaries are adherents
to systems of dharma, is adharma then inconsequential in this battle?
Actually, it appears that in this new order, both dharma and adharma are
inconsequential because values of right and wrong are hardly made
indicators of victory and defeat. In that case, is the dharmakṣetra itself made
irrelevant?
Furthermore, in this evolving order, fate (daivya) and human effort
(puruṣkāra), are not always in harmony (Katz 1990: 178); very often daivya
defeats puruṣkāra. This is tantamount to saying that victory is purely plain
old luck; this is reinforced by Yudhiṣṭhira who says to the Pāṇḍavas after
the war: ‘By good luck you have paid off your debt to your mother, and to
your wrath! By good luck, you have been victorious, and by good luck,
your enemy has been defeated’ (Mbh 9.60.48). Perhaps fate and luck are the
only victories that are possible in this new kṣetra, because it is clear from
the immoral behaviour of the moral agents that they hardly allow dharma
values to interfere in their actions. In a kṣetra where exemplary warriors,
dharma heroes, and supreme divines fight for materialistic sovereignty,
indulgence of wrath, ignorance, addiction, satisfaction of blind egos, and
just plain old revenge, victory can only be through deceit or a lucky draw.
There is no doubt that the war has let loose many forms of adharma in
which both the Pāṇḍavas and Kauravas are mired. Firstly, out of eighteen
combined akṣauhiṇī (Kauravas’ eleven and Pāṇḍavas’ seven) amounting to
about four million warriors (Mbh 5.155.1-21), only twelve warriors survive.
Secondly, even if these numbers are passed off as casualties of war, it
cannot be denied that in much of the war, dharma itself has been a casualty.
Even Yudhiṣṭhira acknowledges this at the end of the war and feels that in
order to continue with his life and to take over the reins of the kingdom as a
dharma-following king, he needs to expiate his sins. Thus, Vyāsa advises
him to perform an Aśvamedha Yajña. Hiltebeitel (1991: 296) suggests that
here, not only are Vyāsa and Kṛṣṇa one, but also Kṛṣṇa is Viṣṇu, and in this
instance his divinity is not static, it evokes dhārmic human effort because
Kṛṣṇa/Viṣṇu makes atonement possible for sacrifices badly performed, as
the sacrifice of war has been. However, the fact is that Kṛṣṇa himself has
been the one to corrupt the sacrifice in the first place. Moreover, in the
Aśvamedha, even Kṛṣṇa’s redemptive qualities are cast in doubt, because a
half golden mongoose appears at the sacrifice in the hope that the virtue of
Yudhiṣṭhira’s yajña will turn the other half of its body golden, but it leaves
disappointed (Mbh 14.90.5–117). Admittedly, this mongoose story is a
narrative about changing times when the Vedic vidhi of large-scale
sacrifices was being denounced. But it is also about those values of dharma,
such as ‘abstention from injury to all creatures, contentment, sincerity,
penances. Self-control, truthfulness …’ (Mbh 14.90.120), which are
normative for all systems, including puruṣārtha and varṇāśrama expounded
in the Mahābhārata and the new emerging system of Kṛṣṇaism. It is the
violation of these sustaining values that disappoints the mongoose. Hence,
because of the mongoose’s verdict, it would seem that Yudhiṣṭhira’s
Aśvamedha would be a failure of expiation, but it is not. The yajña still
redeems Yudhiṣṭhira and wipes clean all the adharmas committed in the
war; Yudhiṣṭhira not only becomes king, but, also after thirty-two years of
kingship, he ascends to heaven.
It is ambiguities and contradictions such as these that have survived in
the Mahābhārata’s tradition, and these evoke a few questions: Whose
dharma is good and whose evil? Which action is dharma and which
adharma? Is the dharma of the new system of Kṛṣṇaism better than that of
the old Vedic system? It is obvious from the epic that since dharma is both
constant and shifting, absolute judgment about its implementation cannot be
made in contextual paradigms. In that case, perhaps the only true measure
of good and evil is the consequence of an action or behaviour, provided the
consequence itself is measured in terms of a priori human values, such as
happiness and freedom. Hence, to put Kṛṣṇa and his ‘new order’ to the test,
the consequence of his actions and behaviours must be examined in terms
of the greater good. Matilal (2007: 416) wonders if Kṛṣṇa can be called a
‘utilitarian consequentialist’. He says that the consequentialist would make
sure that the consequence was better than the situation—it was for the
greater good. But in this epic war, no one benefits, not even the victors
themselves; hence Kṛṣṇa fails in this as well. Matilal suggests that the only
logic behind Kṛṣṇa’s deceits is that ‘Kṛṣṇa as a moral agent [gives] up
moral integrity to avoid total miscarriage of justice in the end’. Thus, he
says, Kṛṣṇa formulated a ‘new paradigm’ in the social codes of society—‘a
paradigm in which there are limitations of such generally accepted moral
codes of truth-telling and promise-keeping’ (Matilal 2007: 416–17). In
other words, in the new paradigm of dharma, through Kṛṣṇa as a moral
agent, instead of progress and evolvement for the better, there is
degradation of human values of truth-telling and promise-keeping.
And Kṛṣṇa as a divine fares no better, because when he actively engages
in dharma circumstances, he sabotages human effort and promotes unethical
values, and when he does not actively engage, he only recalls mythic
archetypes which are unrelated to the evolving values of puruṣkāra and
dharma. His divinity, instead of creating a new order of an infinitely good
and pure divine (as he is offered up to be), corrupts a pre-existing system
that sustained an order for centuries. If this is the new paradigm, then
Gāndhārī’s curse on Kṛṣṇa that, for his indifference to the massacre of
Kurus and Pāṇḍavas, he will be the destroyer of his own kinsmen and die an
inglorious death (Mbh 11.25.41–3) is apt fate for both humans and divines,
because obviously the paradigm that has been created is degenerative.
Matilal (2007: 415) tries to rescue the value of this paradigm by saying that
the question is of realism vs. idealism, and in this effort what is revealed is
that the world is imperfect. Is Matilal suggesting that in realistic terms we
should not expect a supreme divine to establish ideal dharma? Or is he
suggesting that the ideal dharma which a supreme divine should ensure is
foiled by the realistic circumstances of an imperfect world? In this case,
how credible is the supremacy of the divine and how credible is he as a
protector of dharma and dharmakṣetras? The fact is that not only is Kṛṣṇa
an imperfect divine but his imperfection makes this kṣetra and all Kṛṣṇized
kṣetras to become imperfect. Not only does he falsify the absolute good that
ultimate divines of theodicy are meant to embody, but also his actions fudge
the ethics that did exist in pre-epic society, thus augmenting the situation
that was already wrought with ideological problems of ethics and morality.
And, as Kṛṣṇaism became more ensconced in Hinduism, his immoral and
unethical actions also became more entrenched till their description came to
be seen as the norm, and the slippage in ethics and morality became
continual and irreversible.
Despite the distortions that are wrought by Kṛṣṇa and the warrior heroes
in the kṣetra of Mahābhārata, this mahā kṣetra can be seen as a
dharmakṣetra on many levels. It is the archetypal battle of the incarnate
gods and demons on earth, in which devas fight to alleviate the earth of
dānava oppression. It is also a dharmakṣetra because it facilitates the
changing of yugas through the pralaya of the Great War. In addition, the
text of the Mahābhārata, by its own admission, is a dharmaśāstra designed
to illuminate the kṣetra of people’s minds with its light of didactic
discourses. And finally, this kāvya is a dharmayuddha kṣetra because,
through the metaphors of the field of war and the weapon of Bhagavad
knowledge, it shows how the self must battle to win victory of the self’s
ultimate dharma. However, in all these dharmakṣetra functions, there is no
praxis of the kṣetra. The practice of a dharmakṣetra can only be learned
through the lakṣaṇa of moral agents who act in the kṣetra and whose moral
deeds must define the kṣetra as a dharmakṣetra. In this function—a function
that truly teaches people how to act and behave—the Mahābhārata tradition
fails. In fact, not only does it fail to ascertain the paradigms of dharma
though the lakṣaṇa of the characters, it also foils the lakṣaṇa of those
characters whose dharma is discernible. The text presents the Pāṇḍavas and
Kṛṣṇa as exemplars of dharma, but all these characters are deeply deficient
dharma heroes. Yudhiṣṭhira, the incarnate of Dharma, violates and demeans
each one of his human relationships; Arjuna, the hero who is the conduit for
everyman warrior to realize dharma, not only enjoys a life that is unlike any
man’s, but he also betrays everyman by forgetting the very legacy with
which he is entrusted; and Kṛṣṇa, who has reincarnated to preserve dharma
changes the whole structure of truth values. On the other hand,
Duryodhana, who, flawed though he is, embodies every puruṣārthic value
that the epic prescribes and extols, is reviled and denounced for
besmirching the kṣetra by practising these values. Perhaps the text of the
Mahābhārata can be forgiven these ambiguities and contradictions, because
it was composed in a transmutable context when ideas were in flux and
people were grappling to arrive at some sort of stable belief system.
However, what cannot be accepted is the tradition that evolved as a
consequence. Instead of establishing a terra firma in which people can
ground their sense of morality, the tradition of the Mahābhārata creates a
precarious kṣetra in which people are always in danger of moral slippage.

1 The betting of animate stakes (Laws of Manu, 9. 223)

2 According to A. Haksar, ‘Bhāsa is considered to have lived sometime in the 1st–3rd centuries
BCE (around the same time that the Mahābhārata gained popularity). Although not much is known
about Bhāsa himself, his plays were obviously not only well known, but also well respected, because
some of the greatest playwrights of India, such as Bāṇabhaṭṭa, mention him as their inspiration.’ See
‘Introduction’ in A. Haksar (ed.), Bhāsa, The Shattered Thighs and other Plays, translated by A.
Haksar (New Delhi: Penguin Books India, 2008), p. ix.
3 A son begotten by a woman before her marriage, but given the name and paternity of the man
who marries the woman.
4 Monier-Williams defines the word as ‘best of men’, an epithet used for Indra and Vishnu.
5 This incident is not included in the Critical Edition.
6 Except Karna, who, at this time, is still a sūta’s son, and Draupadī refuses to marry him.
7 Only the asura Māyā, the nāga Aśvasena, and the Śāranga birds escape the Khāṇḍava fire.
 8 Draupadī’s disrobing, especially during her menstruation, is considered so heinous in certain
communities that it has resulted in many narrative changes in the Mahābhārata tradition. For
example, Mahābhārata drama festivals in some places in South India omit the whole disrobing scene
from the dice game (Hiltebeitel 2001: 251). In his book, The Cult of Draupadī, Hiltebeitel suggests
that later sectarian interpretations even omit Kṛṣṇa’s direct intervention in this scene to ‘rescue him
from “textual contact” with her impure single garment’ (Hiltebeitel 2001: 251). T.S. Rukmini also
describes the therukoothu (street play in Tamil tradition) Vastrāpaharaṇa in which, when the moment
of Draupadī’s disrobing is to begin, there is a dramatic pause, and the kattiyakaran (chorus) ‘does
arati to the character playing Draupadī and the entire troupe prays to be forgiven for indulging in this
despicable act’ (Rukmini 1993: 189).
9 The dharma referenced here is of puruṣārtha and varṇa and does not include the dharma of
ultimate realization that Kṛṣṇa teaches Arjuna in the Gītā.
5
The Ideal of Dharmayuddha and its Practicability

The Mahābhārata is hailed as a prototype of a dharmayuddha—not just in

terms of a lawful war in the battlefield of Kurukṣetra, but also in its
entirety; the whole text is considered a paradigm of dharma’s battle against
adharma and the victory of dharma. In its most simplistic sense, it is a battle
of good against evil; however, as has been argued in the previous chapters,
dharma and adharma and good and evil are not categorical. Therefore, to
erect them on opposite sides of a yuddha and to claim the victory of one
over the other is not only arbitrary, it is also impractical. To add to the
confusion is the word ‘yuddha’ itself. The meaning of this word is to fight,
wage war and/or engage in battle, overcome in battle, subdue, and conquer.
All these words, ‘fight’, ‘subdue’, ‘battle’, are conceptually related to
‘violence’. Moreover, the essential nature of yuddha is strategy, which
necessarily requires deception, as Sun Tzu says in his sixth century BCE
treatise, The Art of War (2007: 18). Hence, yuddha, deception, and violence
have a relationship of causation. As the Mahābhārata calls its war a
dharmayuddha, it does attempt to imbue this relationship with some
righteousness; for example, as per Kṛṣṇa, truth is a shifting value based on
circumstance; therefore deception (arising from untruth) is also moral or
immoral based on the situation. Furthermore, while the consequence of
violence is always hiṁsā (both internal and external), the epic makes a
teleological distinction between good or necessary violence and bad
violence. Thus, violence sanctioned by dharma is dhārmic, and it is
condoned with maxims of victory of good, implying that when forces of
good or light are involved in violence or conflict, the destruction is for the
general good, that is, sustenance of dharma; whereas, when forces of
darkness or evil are involved in the same violence or conflict, it is
unnecessary hiṁsā and baneful, making it a threat to dharma. In
Kurukṣetra, the violence that is carried out by the forces considered to be
good is to conquer the forces that are perceived as evil—and that is why it
is considered good violence. Therefore, the war in Kurukṣetra is made out
to be a dharmayuddha.
However, what is the cognitive proof that the Pāṇḍavas are forces of
good, and that their victory is the victory of the good? In fact, in the
Mahābhārata, it is difficult to tell who is good and who is evil because both
sides perpetrate many adharmas of action and behaviour. The Pāṇḍavas
cannot be seen as epitomizing dharma simply because they have Kṛṣṇa, the
divine, on their side, and the Kauravas cannot be perceived as adharmic and
evil simply because they belong to an earlier form of dharma or, more
significantly, because they are the ‘others’—outside the fold of Vaiṣṇavism.
The fact is that both the Pāṇḍavas and Kauravas are three-dimensional
moral agents and not simply archetypes of good and evil. Therefore, neither
side is categorically good nor evil; consequently, no victory can be called an
unequivocal victory of dharma, and no defeat can be labelled a defeat of
evil.
Furthermore, what violence is good violence? Should any violence be
considered good when the consequence of all violence, good or bad, is
hiṁsā because it causes pain and suffering not only to the recipient but also
in the mind of the perpetrator? Hence, the very idea that a yuddha, even if
termed a dharmayuddha, can indubitably be a dharmayuddha is erroneous
—a contradiction in terms—and to term any yuddha as a dharmayuddha is
to sanction the adharma of violence. However, because the Mahābhārata is
considered a prototype of dharmayuddha and is cited as model praxis, it
becomes important not only to examine whether it is in fact a
dharmayuddha, but also to evaluate the practicability of such a
dharmayuddha. Furthermore, since societies today are interconnected in all
respects, practicability can no longer be measured in the isolated
environment of a single society; therefore, the dharmayuddha that the
Mahābhārata delineates must be seen in the context of today’s world.
Moreover, the everyman warrior today is more complex than the Kuru
warriors of the Mahābhārata; not only is he a composite of good and evil
traits, he is also a product of good and evil influences of his own culture
and the cultures of the world. How can this everyman warrior distinguish,
without a doubt, between what is good and what is evil? And even if he
knows this distinction by basing his judgement in the dharma values of his
own society, how does he judge whether his dharmayuddha is more
justified and righteous than the other man’s, who may also be practising a
form of dharma that is valued in his society? In short, whose yuddha can be
called good violence and whose should be condemned as bad violence?
In the Mahābhārata, dharmayuddha has four meanings: fighting for the
victory of general dharma principles against adharma; fighting for one’s
legitimate right, as Kuntī advises Yudhiṣṭhira to do; rules of the actual war;
and the dharmayuddha that everyone has to fight within.

DHARMA’S IMPRACTICABILITY
Relationships of Self Versus Universal Values
Dharma was ambiguous even at the time of the Mahābhārata and, although
this ambiguity remains unresolved, Hindu ethics are based on this concept,
and it is considered the obligatory duty of a Hindu to participate in a
yuddha to protect dharma’s ideals. However, to fight a yuddha, the issues of
contention must be clear and definable. Dharma cannot be defined:
whether we know or do not know it, whether we determine it or not, [dharma] is finer than the finest
edge of a sword and grosser than a mountain. At first it appears in the form of the romantic house of
vapour seen in the distant sky. When, however, it is examined by the learned, it disappears. (Mbh
12.260.12-13)

This is Yudhiṣṭhira’s analysis of dharma, and what he is saying is that the

ideals of dharma can, at best, only be romanticized because when they are
scrutinized, they are incapable of being understood even by those people
who are recognized as śiṣtas. Thus, dharma was unknowable even by
dharmavīra himself; and, over the centuries, instead of gaining more
comprehension, the ideals of dharma have become more indefinable. As
Badrinath (2006: 78) says, ‘there is in the history of mankind no other word
like dharma, a word into which so much has been poured, and yet which is
so restricted; which is so clear, yet so vague; so straight, yet so tortuous; so
much like a rock, yet so wax-like’. Hence, how can a yuddha to protect
dharma be practical when it is not even clear exactly what needs to be
protected?
One reason why dharma has become even more ambiguous today is
because the actions and behaviours of moral agents are guided more by
their relationships of self than by ideals that are universal. Instead of self-
aggrandizement and individuation, if moral agents recognize what is
universally good—meaning that the same ‘good’ action by a moral agent in
a relationship in one system would also be ‘good’ if performed by another
moral agent in another social structure—then fighting for and protecting a
universal good would be dharmayuddha.
However, while acknowledging dharma’s universal value in
relationships of self is definitely a method to resolve the issue of dharma’s
ambiguity, it is an impractical cause for yuddha because not only are these
values more idealistic than practical, they are also transmutable according
to relational circumstances of deśa, kāla, and varṇa, which are attributes of
dharma itself. This means that every change would evoke a new
dharmayuddha, and each dharmayuddha may be nothing more than a fight
against a prior form of dharma. This would make dharma its own enemy.
For example, one universal a priori value that Badrinath cites is ‘goodness’.
But the principle of ‘goodness’ has always been changeable; for instance, in
Ṛg Vedic times, sacrificial rituals involving the killing of animals were
considered ‘good’ because the self in these rituals related to natural and
celestial phenomena, which, in turn, upheld a good life for everyone
involved in the ritual. But, in the time of the epic, animal sacrifices came to
be seen as adharmic, because the relationship of self with natural
phenomena was no longer key to survival. Also, people began to explore
the human psyche and discovered that it suffered internal conflicts by the
act of animal sacrifice; hence, in epic times, ‘ahiṁsā paramo dharma’,
nonviolence as the foremost dharma, became the dictum. Therefore, the
value of goodness changed as people’s relationships changed from
alignment with nature to alignment with self.
Additionally, even if an ideal is established in society, it does not mean
that people will abide by it in their personal relationships, thus reducing its
value of ‘general good’. So, an ideal about what people ought to do may
exist in society, but it is what people actually do that substantiates the ideal.
Badrinath (2006: 114) himself attests to this by using the example of hiṁsā:
The most important thing, he says, is that because ‘ahiṁsā paramo dharma’
is repeated so many times in the Mahābhārata, it is obvious that ‘to legislate
against an offence, or a crime, presupposes its existence. When a great
emphasis is placed upon ahiṁsā, or not to do violence, and upon satya, or
truth, it can be safely concluded, from the emphasis alone, that both
violence and falsehood must be widespread in human relationships’. In this
case, a dharmayuddha to protect the established ideal is a valid action but,
in actuality, when a practice is widespread (even if it is a false value), the
system itself begins to adapt the ideal to accommodate the contraventions;
therefore, a dharmayuddha in this case would be counterproductive. For
example, despite making ahiṁsā an integral value of dharma, the
Mahābhārata not only sanctions hiṁsā in the form of individual and
collective good violence, it also enforces it as necessary violence.
To counter the changeability of the general values of dharma, the lakṣaṇa
of these values, such as non-injury, respect, tolerance, etc., can be
established as ideals. However, these lakṣaṇa, although concrete guides to
behaviour, can also be subject to change, especially in situations of āpad.
For example, in the āpad time of the Mahābhārata war, ‘depriving, starving,
hurting, … doing violence, debasing, and degrading the other’—actions that
Badrinath (2006: 89) sees as against the value of goodness, were all
necessary and approved modes of action for the kṣatriya following his
kṣatriya dharma or rājadharma. The lakṣaṇa of goodness have always been
in flux, and today the same is still true, especially as they are more self-
oriented.
Another way to ensure dharma can be to measure one’s actions in terms
of definable outcomes for the general good, such as freedom. However,
definitions are a matter of perspective; how one individual perceives a value
and construes its meaning is often different from another’s. For example,
freedom can mean something completely different to a bonded labourer
than to a landowner (Jhingran 2001: 9). Also, the understanding of the term
itself can be a matter of perspective. For example, Satyagraha for Gandhi
had no scope of physical force; whereas for some others it meant ‘passive
resistance’—the weapon of the weak—only because they lacked other
weapons, and only till the time they could acquire weapons. Hence, while
the purpose of both Satyagraha and passive resistance is freedom through
resistance, they are, in fact, so different that one (Satyagraha), a ‘soul
force’, is a true dharmayuddha, and the other (passive resistance) is simply
acknowledgement of weakness, an adharmayuddha (Gandhi 1969: V.5.396–
400).
Dharma values are bound by many other factors of self as well, such as a
person’s character, his/her circumstances, fears, insecurities—and many of
these cater to self-interest. In fact, as Agrawal (1998: 5) says, the ‘self’ is
nothing but a bundle of self-interests. While some of these are external
factors, such as social and political situations, others are internal. The
external may be changed to align with the ideal values of a society, but the
internal values that relate to a person’s psyche cannot easily be changed.
Although much of a person’s psyche is formed and moulded by external
factors, many of the psychological issues are deeply rooted in or relate to
circumstances of an earlier time, such as childhood. Therefore, even if the
external factors change to an environment of goodness and dharma, a
person’s psyche will recreate the same conflict situation in the new
environment. So, this person is caught in a never-ending relationship with a
self that does not allow him/her to adopt universal values of good.
Agrawal (1998: 9) suggests that the only way to break the cycle of
conflicts with the self is to discover what is good and right and what causes
happiness for one’s self, and then to live in those discoveries. This, Agrawal
calls spirituality and says that there is a close relationship between morality
and spirituality. What he is suggesting is an internal dharmayuddha which,
in actuality, is the truest form of dharmayuddha—one that is not only valid
but also necessary in today’s world. However, the recognition of one’s own
happiness and spirituality can sometimes conflict with the ethics of a social
system because even though societal ethics and individual morality may
overlap, they play out differently. While ethics form the social structure of a
society, morality is how people within that social structure play their roles
according to their own perception of happiness and spiritual relationships of
self. This conflict of ethics and morality can juxtapose an internal
dharmayuddha against an external one. A good example of this is
Yudhiṣṭhira. His telling a lie to win a victory is ethical because it favours his
kṣatriya dharma and his goal is victory, which is also ethical. Therefore,
Yudhiṣṭhira’s facilitation of Drona’s death is ethical and a valid
dharmayuddha, just as is his manipulation of the truth according to the
situation—because, at this time, his relationship is with his co-warriors for
whom he must win victory. On the other hand, Yudhiṣṭhira’s act is immoral
in his self’s relationship with supreme self, because he abhors untruth and
his personal karma is hurt by his lie. Therefore, while Yudhiṣṭhira wins the
external dharmayuddha by defeating Drona, he loses the internal
dharmayuddha. Thus, because dharma encompasses both ethics and
morality, it becomes a problem, and when ethics and morals cannot be
synchronized, moral dilemmas occur which undercut the decisiveness of
intent required for a yuddha.
Today, moral dilemmas are the norm, especially because emphasis is
placed on the human psyche and its connectedness with human
relationships rather than on rationality and/or recognition of universal
ideals. M.M. Agrawal (1998: 11) says everything has changed, even
relationships, and what were simple ethical situations earlier are now
dilemmas: ‘Virtue ethics turned into Quandary ethics’. It can be argued that
moral dilemmas can be resolved if there is a strong enough conviction.
However, Agrawal (1998: 138) warns that in a moral dilemma, one cannot
simply be swayed to choose one over the other. Our present conviction does
not prove that our earlier conviction was morally inferior. For the dilemma
to be truly resolved or dissolved, one part of the conflict must be totally
purged. But how is this purging possible without also destroying
relationships of the self? Conflict necessarily arises when at least two such
self-relationships cannot be reconciled. And to purge any one of the
conflicts, a person must necessarily destroy all factors connected to it,
including human relationships. Ideally, moral dilemmas would be resolved
with the conviction of rationality, but in the scope of relationships,
rationality is impossible. It would mean negating emotions and feelings—in
other words, one’s self.
This current-day quandary is also evident in the Mahābhārata in its key
moral dilemma: that of Arjuna laying down his weapons at the beginning of
the war, because he is unwilling to kill his relatives and loved ones.
Although Kṛṣṇa shows Arjuna the cosmic vision, and it appears that Arjuna
is ‘free from moha’ and is ready to fight after realizing the inner self is
immortal and that he will not personally be killing anyone and, hence, there
is no cause for grief (Mbh 6.42.73); the fact is that Arjuna is not purged of
moha (and neither is it made clear that his understanding of the Gītā is
absolute). In the war, he hesitates to kill Bhīṣma and Drona, and he grieves
for his son Abhimanyu because he is unable to sever his relationships of
self. He does finally kill his blood relations, but it is not because his moral
dilemma has been resolved; therefore, he gains neither freedom from doubt
nor victory of unequivocal dharma. Consequently, while he kills all his
opponents, he cannot kill his self. It can be thus concluded that when even
Arjuna, who is favoured with a divine epiphany to resolve his moral
dilemma, fails to resolve this dilemma, how then is it possible for ordinary
mortals to resolve moral dilemmas in the modern world that has so
distanced itself from the divine? For today’s everyman, changing a course
of action or gaining total cognition opens up a whole new chain of causes
and effects, giving rise to whole new dilemmas. Thus, today, people are
persistently caught up in the dilemmas of self and, trying to grapple with
those, they constantly face moral dilemmas which force them to continually
revise their sense of dharma. Therefore, because in a dharmayuddha the
ideal of dharma must be single-minded and unequivocal, to use dharma as a
clarion call for yuddha is to nullify the reality of self.
Relationships of self and consequent actions and behaviours also
develop from the mores of a society’s own cultures and traditions. Jhingran
(2001: 6) says,
All our beliefs, attitudes, patterns of behavior are learnt from our social environment. Even our
deepest convictions about moral rightness or wrongness of certain kinds of acts practices or patterns
of behavior are but introjected and interiorized views of our culture. Our very conscience is formed
by internalizing of sanctions used by our society to support moral norms.

In other words, these moral norms and traditions are deeply rooted in
people, so much so that their practice becomes a reflex. Therefore, even if a
tradition or a norm opposes goodness or is unjust, people continue to
practise it, often without examining its goodness or evilness. Sometimes
these traditions pit one section of society against another, which means that
a dharmayuddha in such a situation would create internal conflicts in a
society. In fact, these traditions can sometimes be so categorical that in
order to hold up universal standards of goodness, a society would need to
prevent dharmayuddhas rather than encourage them.

VARṆĀŚRAMA AND DHARMAYUDDHA

One such moral norm of dharma that creates a significant problem of
practicability in Hindu society is varṇāśrama dharma, especially because it
is so pervasive in a Hindu’s life. In fact, whatever else dharma may be—
pravṛtti-dharma and nivṛtti-dharma, kula-dharma, rāṣṭra-dharma,
yugadharma, puṇya, Vedic-vidhi, nyāya, svabhāva, āchār, sva-dharma,
sādhārana-dharma, etc., it ultimately all subsumes in varṇāśrama (Badrinath
2006: 81–2). According to P.V. Kane (quoted in Badrinath 2006: 79), within
this āśrama, the meaning of the word ‘dharma’ could be taken to be ‘fixed
principles’ or ‘rules of conduct’ which pertain to one’s privileges, duties,
and obligations, or one’s standard of conduct as a member of the Aryan
community, as a member of one of the castes, and as a person in a particular
stage of life. Varṇāśrama dharma, then, creates an institutional social
structure that defines the ethics of Hindu society. This structure can be
considered normative because it determines how people ought to act in
order to sustain it. For example, a kṣatriya ought to be involved in
honourable yuddha, or a brāhmin ought not to perform the duties of a
kṣatriya, and this belief that people should act according to their varṇa is
considered to be right and good. By the same standard, if peoples’ acts
oppose the codes of conduct of their varṇa, it is adharma and evil. In
addition, varṇāśrama dharma establishes dicta of how people should act in
relationships with people of other varṇa. Furthermore, and most
significantly, this dharma specifically governs how people of the lowest
varṇa and those who are outside the varṇāśrama fold must be treated by
people of the upper castes. Hence, because this āśrama dharma makes the
preservation of the purity of varṇas a moral obligation, it sets up people of
one varṇa against those of other varṇas. During the time of the
Mahābhārata, this dharma actualized the concept of ‘the other’, and in
subsequent eras it instituted varṇa-based dharmayuddhas, which not only
victimized people but also endorsed criminal actions.
The fact is that any yuddha to preserve varṇāśrama is highly
questionable, especially when it is not even clear what ideal it preserves. It
is not known how this varṇa system originated and for what purpose. The
origin of caste has been attributed to the Puruṣa Sūkta hymn by Ṛṣi
Nārāyaṇa, which appears in the Ṛg Veda (RV 10.90.12) and is mentioned in
the Atharva Veda (AV 19.6.6). The hymn states that the brāhmin came from
the mouth of Puruṣa, the kṣatriya from his arms, the vaiśya from his thighs,
and the śūdra from his feet. Therefore, it came to be believed that the Vedas
ranked the four varṇas as per the ascendency of the body parts, with the
brāhmins being the highest in status and the śūdras the lowest. However,
while some scholars refute the ranking of the body parts, many others refute
the very suggestion that the hierarchy of caste derived from the Puruṣa
Sūkta. Still others suggest that even if its origin can be traced to the Ṛg
Vedic hymn, it is more appropriate to think that the varṇas in the Puruṣa
Sūkta meant division of labour.
Numerous scholars over the years have proposed many reasons for the
caste stratification in Indian culture, ranging from keeping the Aryan
invaders superior to the indigenous invaded people of the Indus Valley;
differentiating between colour; keeping the purity of races; sustaining
economic structures by sustaining different occupations; brāhmanization of
the Aryan culture; exogamy and endogamy; etc.—the list is endless. But, as
early as the Atharva Veda, the differentiation of varṇa began to mean
distinction in class. Also, at that time, varṇas began to exclude those outside
the Aryan fold who could not participate in the sacrifices. Therefore, it can
be surmised that the varṇa structure was already a subversion of equality
and tolerance in early Hindu society.
In the Mahābhārata too varṇa division between classes is on many
levels: occupation, conduct, character of people, and even colour
symbolism as per guṇas: brāhmin is white, kṣatriya is red, vaiśya yellow,
and śūdra is black (BG 4.13). In the Śāntī Parva, Bhīṣma describes to
Yudhiṣṭhira the duties of each varṇa: brāhmins study the Vedas and practice
austerities; kṣatriyas perform sacrifices under the officiating brāhmin, have
knowledge of the Vedas, and win victories in war; vaiśyas have knowledge
of the Vedas, look after the cattle, trade, farm, and earn their living; and
śūdras service the three other varṇas. In addition, śūdras should never
pursue wealth. They should wear clothes discarded by the upper three
castes, and must never leave their masters, even if they suffer under their
tyranny (Mbh 12.60.8–34). But, despite these discriminatory norms, there
continued to be doubt about the origin of the varṇas and their method of
categorization. For example, Bhīṣma also says that all four castes are ‘holy’
and have originated from Brāhmaṇa, the supreme creator (Mbh 12.60.47).
Also, Bhṛgu declares that there is no distinction between the different castes
and that everyone was a brāhmin at first, but they were divided later
according to their acts: those who lived their life in pleasure and possessed
anger, but also courage, became kṣatriyas; those who had both goodness
and darkness became vaiśyas; and those brāhmins who lied and cheated
became śūdras, as did those who lived their life in ignorance and adharma
(Mbh 12.188.10-15).
Despite doubts about the origin of the varṇas and the status of the
people, not only did character and karma classifications of caste begin to
lose ground, but lower caste people began to be strongly condemned by the
upper castes. This is evident in the words of many of the characters in the
epic. For example, Karṇa tells Śalya: the races who are ignorant of the
Vedas, like the Piśācas, Kāraskaras, Mahiṣkas, Kuraṇdas, Keralas,
Karkoṭakas, Vīrakas, and the people who do not perform yajñas are fallen
and have been begotten by śūdras. Hence, ‘the gods never accept gifts from
them’. They are outside the Āryan fold (Mbh 8.44. 42–7). Bhīṣma lists for
Yudhiṣṭhira the sinful races: Andhakas, Guhas, Pulindas, Śabras, Cūcukas,
Madrakas of the southern region and Yaunas, Kāmbojas, Gandhāras,
Kirātas, and Barbbaras of the northern region. ‘All of them are sinful and
live on this earth acting like Candālas, ravens and vultures,’ and with
degradation that came in the Tretā, ‘they sprang and began to multiply’
(Mbh 12.207: 42–5). Thus, Bhīṣma’s naming of races suggests that in Tretā
Yuga, caste had begun to be hereditary. Hence, varṇa dharma in the
Mahābhārata not only created demarcations among the people, it also began
to establish the concept of ‘the other’ based on people’s birth.
In post-epic texts, such as in the Dharmasūtras, the caste system
devolved further as birth became the sole determinant of caste and laws
were made to prevent mixing of castes so as to preserve the purity of the
upper castes. Manusmṛti finally cemented the apartheid that the caste
system initiated, declaring that overreaching one’s varṇa led to dire
consequences, the least of these being excommunication. Such abasement
of humanity not only created a culture of grave inequity, but also ingrained
in people a fear of losing their caste. Therefore, it was natural for people to
try to preserve their caste in any way possible, even yuddha.
This fear of caste corruptions was so much a part of the Mahābhārata’s
environment that a warrior like Arjuna is even prepared to cease a
dharmayuddha so as not to perpetrate the adharma of killing kṣatriyas and
causing imbalance in society. Arjuna himself states this fear to Kṛṣṇa at the
beginning of the war. He says, ‘From the predominance of sin, O Kṛṣṇa,
women become corrupt, and then O descendant of Vṛṣṇi, cross-breeds
[mixed races] are born. Such cross-breeding leads both the exterminator of
the race and the race itself to hell … Both the caste and family rites of the
exterminators of the race [that is] guilty of the sin of cross-breeding are
destroyed. (Mbh 6.25.41–4). He refuses to perpetuate this sin of
intermingling of castes ‘even for the sake of sovereignty over the three
worlds!’ (Mbh 6.25.32). Thus, maintaining purity of caste is more important
than fighting for kingship, even for a consummate kṣatriya like Arjuna.
However, ceasing a war of succession to the throne to prevent caste
contamination does not mean peace; it is tantamount to a dharmayuddha of
a different kind—one that is more destructive because it ravages human
value. This division of people into castes deteriorated into a perpetual war
of the upper caste against the lower, depriving the latter of human dignity.
Sadly, this unjust yuddha is one of Hindu society’s harmful legacies from
epic and dharma literatures, and it continues to sanction a norm that not
only creates inequity and discrimination among Hindus, but it is also
responsible for terrible violence. By following, or rather, misinterpreting
varṇāśrama, people in India have been misusing this institution of dharma
for millennia, keeping the system constantly on the brink of violence.
Furthermore, when these dharmayuddhas of one varṇa against another
become widespread or are carried out against whole communities, it can
take a very dangerous shape. An extreme but apt example is Hitler’s
persecution of the Jews, one of the most evil crimes against humanity in
recorded history, which was carried out in the name of varṇa. It can be
argued that what happened in Nazi Germany has no bearing on cultural and
societal norms in India. But the fact is that there is a disturbing similarity
between the ideas Hitler used in his Mein Kampf to forward his race theory
and Arjuna’s fear of mixing castes. In fact, Hitler’s words almost mirror
Arjuna’s warning about deterioration of Aryanism as a result of caste
corruption. For example, Hitler (1.11) says:
The Aryan gave up the purity of his blood and, therefore, lost his sojourn in the paradise which he
had made for himself. He became submerged in the racial mixture, and gradually, more and more,
lost his cultural capacity … then petrifaction set in and he fell a prey to oblivion … Blood mixture
and the resultant drop in the racial level is the sole cause of the dying out of old cultures; for men do
not perish as a result of lost wars, but by the loss of that force of resistance which is contained only in
pure blood.

These ideas of Hitler continue to reflect the mindset of the dvija Hindus,
who perpetrate violence against lower castes to preserve their ‘pure’ castes,
all in the name of their dharma. In fact, current incidents of caste violence
even negate the checks and balances of deśa and kāla transmutations in
dharma conventions. This flexibility can ensure that practices remain
current and people-friendly, rather than coldly fettered by the rigidity of
traditions that may no longer be viable in a society; however, this is so only
if changeability does not oppose the authority of the śāstras. The problem is
further compounded, because, as Jhingran (1999: 209) points out,
‘Hinduism seems to demand only that new norms should come from men
who are śiṣtas, that is, are both learned and morally upright people’. This
further opens the scope for all kinds of corruption. How can the authority of
these moral and upright people be proved? How can it be proved that these
people are free of prejudices? They may be morally upright publically, but
they may hold prejudices, passions, emotions, and personal beliefs which
may influence their decisions; this is especially so because śiṣtas
necessarily belong to the upper castes. Therefore, attributes of dharma (deśa
and kāla) that have the propensity of good can become evil when
manipulated by people. The evidence of this is in the rootedness of
varṇāśrama dharma in Hindu society, which still exists without much scope
of change despite it being prohibited by law. The consequence is that this
norm is still misinterpreted and misused to push agendas of personal
aggrandizement and hegemonies, just as it did during the time of the
Mahābhārata. And today, too, people continue to provoke dharmayuddhas
to protect its conventions, which are neither just nor dhārmic. These have
instituted discriminatory practices that continue to be highly injurious to
large sections of society. In fact, a dharmayuddha in the name of varṇa is a
dangerous concept.

Sectarian Religiosity and Dharmayuddha

Another modern-day dharmayuddha that the dharma ideologies of the
Mahābhārata have shaped is that of sect-based religiosity. This sectarianism
existed in pre-epic society when there was a labyrinth of belief systems
with a multitude of traditions and ideologies which co-existed but often
came into conflict. For example, Vedic traditions opposed Śramaṇic
traditions and Vaiṣṇavism contested Śaivism. S.D. Joshi (quoted in Thapar
2004: 336) notes that even Patañjali refers to the hostility between the
brāhmins and the other sects ‘as innate as is that between the snake and
mongoose’. Although many of these systems accepted the social hierarchy
of dharma, often the conflicts were about how dharma should be executed.
In the theistic Smṛtis (which drew attention away from the Buddhist–
Brāhmanical polemic), the sectarianism of Śaivic and Vaiṣṇava ideologies
contended with each other, creating distinct Śaivic, Vaiṣṇava, and Śakta
sects; and the conflict between them became more yuddha like. Sometimes
narrative texts such as the Mahābhārata did attempt to neutralize the
conflict by bringing the sects in alignment, especially by creating unifying
hymns of eulogy for Viṣṇu/Kṛṣṇa, Śiva, and Devī, but sectarianism did not
disappear.
The main cause for this yuddha phenomenon was the practices of belief,
but the immediate and most exigent causes for these sectarian contentions
may also have been regional and political difference, and even economic
needs. For example, Romila Thapar (2004: 345) cites at least two historical
incidents about the violent conflicts between Śaivas and Śramaṇas that may
have been caused by economic exigencies. Citing Hsüan Tsang and his
seventh century visit to Kashmir, Thapar refers to the destruction of
Buddhist monasteries by the Huna Śaiva King Mihīrakula, which may have
been caused by the material prosperity of the Buddhist Sangha, resulting
from Buddhist commerce between India and Central Asia. Another
evidence that Thapar gives is of Tamil Nadu and Karnataka where, in the
seventh century, Śaivas attacked Jain establishments, perhaps because of the
control Jains had over commerce and also their high standards of literacy,
which gave them more opportunity of royal patronage. Thus, both
underlying sectarian differences and pressing economic and political needs
contributed to situations of conflict. More often, the provocateurs of these
conflicts were adherents of the Vaiṣṇava sect, because it was the largest sect
with more at stake in terms of the socio-political power struggle than the
other sects. And, later, when this sect came to be identified as ‘Hindu’, and
‘Hindu’ became equated with dharma, the contentions became more
religion-based and more pronounced.
However, dharma is not religion. Religion, as Shyam Ranganathan
(2007: 91) says, ‘is a complex of deontic and aretaic concerns organized
around the goal of soteriology’. It is wholly definable as an extraneous
system, while ‘in contrast, DHARMA is an intentional concept’
(Ranganathan 2007: 92). Hence religion is extensional and dharma is
intentional. This meaning of religion and its distinction from dharma is
furthered by Badrinath (2006: 83–4) who says that
‘Religion’ implies a central code of commandments, a corpus of ecclesiastical laws to regulate
thought and relationships in the light of these; and a hierarchy of priesthood to supervise that
regulation and control…. Dharma has none of these elements as any essential part of its meaning. It
does not require as a presupposition even ‘belief in the existence of God’, which all religions do …
Religion in its institutional form is divisive; dharma unites. A religion excludes all that is not;
dharma includes every form of life.

The danger of perceiving dharma as organized religion is very obvious,

especially in today’s context. It excludes those outside the fold of the
religion, because religion, to keep itself protected and to prevent its
members from leaving the congregation, breeds suspicion of all those
outside the fold, considering them a threat. Just as enemies in war.
Moreover, keepers of the religion use the excuse of religion in jeopardy and
employ fear tactics of damnation or excommunication to incite people to
dharmayuddhas against ‘enemies’. Consequently, moved by the zeal of
protecting the religion, people blindly follow the commandments, losing the
propensity to consciously experience their own truth values. These
dharmayuddhas, then, are not only blindly fought for fixed, external values
that were never a part of dharma, but they also destroy the scope of a
unified and secular society.
 Moreover, the concept of a dharmayuddha suggests that one side must
necessarily be right and good, and the other side be necessarily wrong. In a
religion-based dharmayuddha, it is never the case that one side would be
right and the other would be wrong. This would mean falsifying a whole
religion that is ‘the enemy’. And, in today’s context, since dharma has been
transformed to mean Hindu, it suggests that in a dharmayuddha the Hindu
side is the good side and any religion or system (Islam, Christianity,
Judaism, etc.) against whom the dharmayuddha is carried out must be the
bad side. What this definition discounts is that, by the same standard, to a
Muslim, or a Christian, or a Jew, his/her religion or system of beliefs is also
good. Thus, in a world where religion has become the cause of war, we
have a world in a perpetual state of dharmayuddha, with each side fighting
on and for the good side against a supposed evil side. How can this
perpetual state of war be practical?

LEGITIMACY OF OWNERSHIP AND ITS

IMPRACTICABILITY
If the concept of dharmayuddha in the Mahābhārata is used as a paradigm,
then the following three conditions must be met in order for a yuddha to
qualify as a dharmayuddha: legitimate cause, necessary and sufficient
conditions, and unequivocal knowledge of the enemy’s wrongness. In other
words, a dharmayuddha must be fought for a cause that at least one party
knows as a fact is legitimately dhārmic. The time and circumstance of the
yuddha must be such that there is no other recourse but war. And, most
importantly, this party must know, as a fact that those against whom they
fight are not fighting for dharma; hence the opposition must be clearly
adharmic. In addition, the yuddha must be a moral obligation placed on the
yoddhās by their system of beliefs; but it is not necessary that the cause be
theistic. If these conditions are fulfilled, then in this battle of dharma
against adharma, dharma will be victorious because this is a yuddha of
truth.
The Mahābhārata proves that the legitimate cause of a dharmayuddha
can be a claim to ownership. This is established by Kuntī in the Udyoga
Parva, when she declares the Pāṇḍava yuddha for the throne of Hāstinapura
as a dharmayuddha. In a message Kuntī relays through Kṛṣṇa to her sons,
and especially to Yudhiṣṭhira, she says, ‘O you of long arms, earn again
your paternal wealth which is lost, by means of conciliation, dispute, gifts,
punishment, or by diplomacy’ (Mbh 5.132.32). And, to drive home her
point, she uses the analogy of Vidulā and her son, Saṃjaya, who is dejected
after being defeated by the Sindhus. Vidulā tells her son to be wrathful and
unforgiving, because a kṣatriya without these qualities is no better than a
woman. Vidulā also tells her son ‘to have a heart of steel and hunt the
enemy and recover his lost wealth’ according to ‘ordinary rules of
prudence’ (Mbh 5.133.32–5). These words of Vidulā to her son become
Kuntī’s call to her own sons for a dharmayuddha.
Four key factors become evident in Kuntī’s advice: (1) fighting to win
back lost wealth is dharma for a kṣatriya because, legitimately, this wealth
belongs to said kṣatriya; (2) he should fight only with a goal in mind, which
is pre-established; (3) a kṣatriya cannot show compassion to his enemy and
must fight with anger and an unforgiving heart; and (4) he should fight with
ordinary rules of prudence (as opposed to virtue). This, according to Kuntī,
is the cause and nature of a dharmayuddha, and this is the lesson that
Yudhiṣṭhira takes to heart before preparing for war against his Kuru
cousins. But it is important to thoroughly examine if these four factors are
genuine in the context of the necessary conditions of a dharmayuddha;
otherwise the dharma causality of the Pāṇḍava yuddha is falsified.
In the war that Yudhiṣṭhira incites, firstly, the legitimacy of the paternal
wealth Kuntī talks about is never proved, because the issue of who is the
legitimate ruler of Hāstinapura is never resolved. Therefore, in the very first
proof of the cause’s truth, the Pāṇḍava dharmayuddha is negated; hence, the
claim that this is a dharmayuddha is also invalidated. However, since the
Mahābhārata professes to be an itihāsa of the victory of good over bad, and
since the victors are the Pāṇḍavas, they are considered legitimate by virtue
of being ‘good’; therefore, the Pāṇḍavas’ yuddha is presented as a
dharmayuddha. But, if the Pāṇḍava cause of legitimacy is proved invalid,
then the statement that their yuddha is a dharmayuddha becomes a non
sequitur: being ‘good’ does not mean being legitimate. A person may have
a legitimate right to something, but he may be a person without virtue or,
vice versa—he may be a good person, but his claim may have no verifiable
grounds. Therefore, the question of dharma being on the side of the
‘legitimate heir’ to the throne does not arise. Hence, on this level, the
yuddha that occurs in the epic is erroneously termed a dharmayuddha.
On the other hand, disregarding the question of legitimacy, even if the
words ‘lost wealth’ are removed from Kuntī’s statement, then it can be said
that Kuntī’s advice to her son is that a kṣatriya must simply fight his
enemies because it is his moral obligation, just as Kṛṣṇa advices Arjuna in
the Gītā. In that case, the Mahābhārata can be termed a dharmayuddha,
because kṣatriya dharma requires the kṣatriya to fight the enemy, whoever
that may be—a person justified in his opposition and following his dharma,
or a person not following any dharma and simply wishing harm on said
kṣatriya. The causes for the enmity are not important; what is relevant is
that he is an enemy. But, if this argument is accepted as a true statement,
then it contravenes the sufficient and necessary condition of a dharma
yuddha that the enemy be adharmic.
However, let it be assumed that both Kuntī and Yudhiṣṭhira know it as a
fact that the rulership of Hāstinapura legitimately belongs to the Pāṇḍavas,
and they know for a fact that the Kauravas are adharmic, and they also
know that it is the moral obligation of the Pāṇḍavas in the system of
kṣatriya dharma to fight the Kauravas. On these assumptions, the
Mahābhārata becomes a dharmayuddha, but the question that still remains
is whether this assumed dharmayuddha is practical or not. To examine this
practicability, the other three factors that Kuntī conveys to her sons must
also be examined. Kuntī’s second piece of advice to her son is to fight with
a pre-established goal in mind, as per Vidulā’s last words. This opens up a
whole gamut of gaining a desire without being mindful to the means used to
acquire that end. This lesson of ends justifying means is clearly conveyed in
Kuntī’s third and fourth factors: a kṣatriya cannot show compassion to his
enemy and must fight with anger and unforgiving heart; and the means he
uses should, at the most, be only in accordance of ‘ordinary prudence’, that
is, not especially prudent and not necessarily virtuous.
There is no doubt that the war between the Pāṇḍavas and Kauravas for
their supposed legitimacy to the kingship of Hāstinapura is accomplished
by whatever means that are prudent for victory: cheating, lying, deceit,
violence without reason, etc. In actuality, in the process of fighting this
dharmayuddha, the Pāṇḍavas commit so many acts of adharma that even if
they are fighting a dharmayuddha on the basis of true and unequivocal
legitimacy, their individual adharmas far outweigh the dharma of the battle.
These indiscriminate means of war to achieve victory also create the
scope for an eye-for-an-eye form of justice. Just the execution of any
yuddha creates śatru, a fact which itself sets up a scope of reciprocal
hostility and corrupts unequivocal victory. Also, this word is clearly
irreversible; in other words, once an enemy has been declared an enemy, he
does not become a friend just because he is defeated. When unjust means
are added to this equation, the potential of enemy retaliation becomes
greater because this enemy waits for his opportunity to avenge himself of
the injustice he has suffered. This is his dharma—his moral obligation.
Notwithstanding this prospect of revenge, the Mahābhārata does lay out
conciliatory rules for treatment of enemies. For example, Bhīṣma advices
Yudhiṣṭhira that after the war is over, the king should forgive all, but with
both severity and mildness—like a father castigating his child. Also, after
victory, a victorious king should show the people he grieves for their dead
and not malign them. Further, during war, a king should not wound the
enemy in such a way that it wounds his heart, such as using demeaning and
degrading words or actions (Mbh 12.102.32–8). But the Mahābhārata also
abounds with other contradictory rules that deal with enemies more
ruthlessly. For example, in the very next piece of advice, Bhīṣma tells
Yudhiṣṭhira that if the enemy is suffering a miserable plight, a king should
take advantage of the situation and send his troops against him and defeat
him. Or, if the enemy is strong, one should not adopt the policy of
conciliation; instead, secret means should be used to weaken him, using
hypocrisy and discreet agents to learn about the inner working of the state,
which then later can be used against him. Also, one should not feel a false
sense of security but should harbour a secret desire for the enemy’s
destruction (Mbh 12.103.13–18). These, and many more, are the strategies
about enemy treatment that Bhīṣma teaches Yudhiṣṭhira in the Śāntī Parva.
These strategic rules hardly advocate making friends out of enemies. In
fact, these rules clearly prove that war does not end with the defeat of an
enemy, because once an enemy, always an enemy. Therefore, a wise
yoddhā, even after defeating the enemy, should always prepare for
retaliation. These strategies describe the perfect storm for an eye-for-an-eye
kind of justice, because when the defeated enemy is able to, he too will
strike back with equal intent and with similar strategies of deception, as
revenge for him will be a means to right the wrong he has been dealt. In
fact, to right his wrong is his legitimate right—his dharma. Therefore, a war
to claim legitimacy can plunge the community in cyclical yuddhas of
supposed right action, a.k.a., dharmayuddhas. And soon there are situations
that are best summed up by the adage that is sometimes attributed to
Mahatma Gandhi: ‘eye for eye—soon the world will be blind’. The
Mahābhārata is full of incidents of such eye-for-an-eye forms of blind
justice, from beginning to end, from the battle of gods and demons to the
destruction of the Kuru warriors and the Yādavas to the snake sacrifice.
And, in most cases, the end result of each cycle of such justice is the
destruction of a whole race or community. In fact, there is such a vast
number of such incidents and stories that they form concentric circles.
Perhaps it is for this reason that scholars label all such cyclical battles in the
Mahābhārata as repetitions of the archetypal battle of gods and demons.
However, in most instances, while the pattern of the battle is the same, the
agents involved in the battles are not the stick figures of gods and demons.
They are living, breathing moral agents who are bound by the causality of
their actions and who believe that striking back is their moral obligation as
warriors. The following are just a few of these vendettas:

• The serpents are sacrificed by Janamejaya in a snake sacrifice because he

is avenging his father Parikṣit’s death from Takṣaka’s snake bite, but
Takṣaka himself is avenging his son, Aśvasena’s death, who Arjuna,
Janamejaya’s grandfather, kills in the war (Ādi Parva: Pauṣya, Pulomā,
and Āstīka Parvas). Aśvasena, too, was avenging his mother’s death in the
Khāṇḍava fire that Arjuna and Kṛṣṇa had caused (Ādi Parva: Khāṇḍava-
dāha Parva).
• Then there is the cyclical conflict of Drona and Drupada. Drupada rejects
Drona’s request for a gift, and a humiliated Drona commands his students
to defeat the Pāñcāla king. He also humiliates him and usurps half his
kingdom (Ādi Parva: Sambhava Parva 138). To teach Drona a lesson,
Drupada performs a sacrifice and begets Dhṛṣṭadyumna, whose very
purpose in life is to bring about Drona’s death (Ādi Parva: Sambhava
Parva 167). When Dhṛṣṭadyumna succeeds, Aśvatthāman kills
 Dhṛṣṭadyumna and other Pāñcālas, including the foetus in Uttarā’s womb
(Sauptika Parva: 7).
• Even incidents that are not part of the frame story echo this cycle of
justice; for example, the Bhṛgu cycle of tales includes the enmity of
Viśvāmitra and Vasiṣṭha, and their quarrel over Ayodhyā’s king
Kalmāṣpāda, who Vasiṣṭha turns into a rākśasa. This rākśasa devours
Vasiṣṭha’s son Śakti, and, consequently, Śakti’s son Parāśara performs a
sacrifice to kill all rākṣasas. Within this cycle is embedded another
vendetta: Trying to appease Parāśara’s wrath, Vasiṣṭha tells him the story
of the Bhṛgu Aurava who bears wrath towards kṣatriyas. His mother had
kept him hidden in her thigh as a foetus for a hundred years because the
kṣatriyas were destroying all of the Bhṛgu embryos. When he is born,
Aurava wants to destroy the entire warrior race (Ādi Parva: Citraratha
Parva 175–81).
• The dharmayuddha of the frame story itself is a cycle of revenge:
Dhṛtarāṣṭra and his sons are cheated of the kingship of Hāstinapura
because of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s blindness, and Pāṇḍu’s sons become claimants
for the throne. To avenge themselves of this injustice, the Kauravas cheat
the Pāṇḍavas of their wealth and insult Draupadī in the dice game. So the
Pāṇḍavas declare war and, in the war, each of the key Kauravas is killed
for some past insult or injury he has done the Pāṇḍavas. To avenge the
death of Kauravas, Aśvatthāman kills all the surviving Pāñcālas in a
treacherous and bloody night raid. To avenge the death of her sons,
Draupadī seeks to destroy Aśvatthāman and reduces him to wander the
earth forever. And in a stretch of interpretation, Takṣaka (a Śaiva by
virtue of being a snake), avenges the destruction of Aśvatthāman, a co-
Śiva-bhakta, by biting Parikṣit, the progeny of the Pāṇḍavas, who are
Vaiṣṇavas. In turn, Parikṣit’s son, Janamejaya, organizes a sacrifice to
immolate all serpents.

Hence, the whole Mahābhārata war is a series of so many blood feuds that
it reduces the ideology of a dharma war to gratuitous war-mongering.
A dharmayuddha to fight for legitimacy was a questionable prospect
even in the time of the Mahābhārata. And, today, when the world has
become so much more complex, all the negative factors—a nebulous
legitimacy, adharmic means to achieve an end, eye-for-an-eye justice, and
consequential human suffering—have become compounded. Today,
absolute legitimacy can never be proved on any single basis. How can it be?
No people live by a single principle or resource; societies function as a
consequence of a favourable combination of many factors: economic,
religious, political, geographical, cultural, historical, and demographical.
Hence, it is difficult for any one party to extract just one factor and hold it
up as the only legitimate claim. Therefore, the dharmayuddha of legitimacy
is not at all practical in today’s world because it is a power struggle. While
one side may have a legitimate political claim, the other may have a valid
religious claim. Most importantly, what results in this power struggle is the
suffering of innocent people because all legitimate parties only have their
eye on the goal of winning victories by any means possible, which normally
involves hurting innocent people to maximize the impact of their cause.
And when a victory is achieved by one, the other side retaliates by once
again targeting innocent people so that they can undermine the victory. This
form of war not only keeps a region in a constant state of war, but also robs
perpetrators of their very humanity and strips the victims of their lives and
identity. Therefore, evoking dharmayuddha on the basis of legitimacy of
ownership is one of the most dangerous forms of yuddha today.

THE RULES OF WAR AND THEIR IMPRACTICABILITY

The Mahābhārata makes an attempt to keep the means of warfare ethical by
establishing rules of engagement. Because the battlefield Kurukṣetra is
considered sacred ground and the war itself is considered a sacrifice, it
would follow that, just as the dhārmic vidhi of a sacrifice, the rules of the
war would be in adherence to absolute dharma so that the sacrificial ritual
of war can be successful. Bearing testimony to this ritualization of war are
dharma warriors like Bhīṣma, Karṇa, and Kṛṣṇa. Bhīṣma calls it
yuddhayajña, and Karṇa gives an elaborate description of this yajña to
Kṛṣṇa, calling the war, ‘a sacrificial ceremony of weapons’ (Mbh 5.141.26–
54). In addition, he calls Kurukṣetra the holiest of spots and sees his own
liberation through this sacrifice, and Kṛṣṇa promises him the fulfilment of
this desire (Mbh 5.142.18–20). Even Indra attests to the moral nature of
such a sacrifice. Explaining the nature of the place warriors have in heaven,
he says: ‘Every warrior clad in coat of mail by advancing against enemies
in battle becomes installed in that sacrifice. Indeed, it is settled that such a
person, by acting in this wise, is regarded as the performer of the sacrifice
of battle’ (Mbh 12.98.13). Kṛṣṇa, too, infuses the war with dharma by
stating that it emulates Durgā’s battle, a goddess who is the epitome of
waging a fair battle (Mbh 6.23.3), and he sees the field of battle as glorious.
Describing the battlefield to Arjuna prior to Karṇa’s death, he calls it ‘most
wonderful’—a superlative that would result only if war were considered
fair and just, like a ritual. Describing both the jewels and diamonds
embedded in armours and carriages lying broken on the field and the faces
of the dead warriors, Kṛṣṇa compares them to stars and moon, or like a lake
strewn with lilies. In fact, Kṛṣṇa considers the yuddha in Kurukṣetra so
elevated that he tells Arjuna, ‘deeds that have been wrought by you today in
this battle are proper for you or for the lord of the celestials in heaven’
(Mbh 8.19.40–8).
However, the reality of the war hardly lives up to this romanticized
picture that Kṛṣṇa paints. A more accurate picture is drawn by Saṃjaya,
who can be considered the only true and objective observer of the war: ‘…
the earth soon assumed a dreadful repulsive aspect being strewn over with
numerous horses and their riders all lying dead … with their body parts all
over the place’ (Mbh 7.50.7–8). Thus, metaphorically, just as Kṛṣṇa’s
description of a beautiful battlefield could mean a fair and just war,
Saṃjaya’s description of a dreadful battlefield can be interpreted as one
where fairness and justice died a terrible death. Perhaps the reason why
Kṛṣṇa disguises the truth of the battlefield in the righteousness of ritual is
because, being a dharma avatār, he needs to emphasize the dharma of the
war he has helped initiate, and ‘ritualizing violence … along these lines [is]
one way of solving moral problems connected with the ethics of war’
(Brekke 2005: 71).
Another way to tout ethics was to clearly establish rules of war, and the
Mahābhārata war was no exception. Hence, an examination of the factors
defining this war as dharmayuddha must take into account not just the
established rules of war, but also how these rules were actually executed. In
addition, to judge if a yuddha based on a code of honour is practical or not,
these ancient rules of warfare must be examined in the modern context.
 M.A. Mehendale (1995: 6) divides the rules of the Mahābhārata war into
two segments: general and specific. The former were rules that probably
governed all practices of warfare in epic times, and the latter are rules that
the Kurus and Pāñcālas establish just prior to the war as a code of conduct
specific for the Kurukṣetra war. Vaiśaṃpāyana describes these specific rules
to Janamejaya at the beginning of Bhīṣma Parva (Mbh 6.1.27–34):

• Only men of equal status and situation should engage in battle and, it is
preferable, if one, having fought with fairness, withdraws.
• A battle of words should only be fought with words, and if one withdraws,
he should be spared.
• A chariot warrior should fight only with a chariot warrior, or an elephant
rider with an elephant rider, and horse rider with a horse rider, foot soldier
with a foot soldier, etc.
• Before engaging in a battle, a challenge should always be issued and no
one who is fearful or in a panic should be struck.
• One fighting with another, one seeking refuge, one retreating, one whose
weapon is broken, and one who is not clad in armour should never be
struck.
• Charioteers, animals, those who carry weapons, and those who play drums
and conches should never be struck.

Most of these rules are quite apparent in the text, and most warriors
adhere to them throughout the war. Aside from these, there are certain
regulations which were probably prevalent dharma standards of warfare at
that time and are therefore, not stated, but whenever someone plays foul,
the character against whom the act has been committed cites them
(Mehendale 1995: 6). The first instance when these general rules are cited
occurs in the Karṇa Parva when Yudhiṣṭhira tells Arjuna to give up his
Gāṇḍīva and Arjuna begins to draw a sword on his brother to keep his
secret vow. At this time, Kṛṣṇa admonishes Arjuna and cites a general rule
of war: ‘O Bhārata, the slaying of a man who is not engaged in a fight or is
unwilling to fight, or takes to flight, or seeks shelter, or joins his hands, or
gives himself up to you, or is insane, be he even a foe, is never upheld by
the righteous’ (Mbh 8.69.26).
 The second instance of a general rule coming into play is also in the
Karṇa Parva, when Arjuna prepares to kill Karṇa even though that
warrior’s wheel is stuck in the mud. At this time, Karṇa calls upon the rule
that ‘brave and pious heroes never shoot their arrows at person with
disheveled hairs, at those who fly away from the battle-field, at a brāhmin,
at him who clasps his hands, at him who surrenders, at him who prays for
quarter, at one who throws off his weapon, at one whose arrows are all
gone, or at one whose weapon has fallen off or been broken.’ Karṇa tells
Arjuna, ‘You are brave and pious of all in the world. You know all the rules
at warfare … you are stationed on your chariot and I am standing helplessly
weak on the earth. You should not kill me now’ (Mbh 8.90.114).
The third time a general rule which is also reiterated for this war is
violated is in the Drona Parva when Arjuna, covertly, at Kṛṣṇa’s
instigation, severs Bhūriśravas’ arm when the latter is engaged in single
combat with Sātyaki, and has the upper hand. Bhūriśravas rebukes Arjuna:
‘Alas O son of Kuntī, you have committed a cruel and heartless deed, in as
much as, not being engaged with me and covertly, you have cut off my arm
… The righteous never strike him who is careless or who is frightened or
who is made careless or who implores mercy or who is involved in a
calamity’ (Mbh 7.143.4–7).
In addition to the general and specific principles that govern the battles
in Kurukṣetra, the whole Mahābhārata itself should also be considered a
treatise on war, because what comes prior to war is the cause of war and
preparation for war, and what comes after—in the post-war Parvas—are
lessons of war and reparations of war. These pre- and post-war strategies
are mostly based on the overarching practices that Bhīṣma enumerates in
the Śāntī and Anuśāsana Parvas. Some of these are clearly guiding lessons
of rājadharma and anuśāsana, but others appear statutory, such as the
treatment of the aged and children, the wounded, sick, and those seeking
refuge; or the use (or not) of poisoned arrows, armours for animals, etc.
Other rules seem to be contradictory; for example, one rule regarding
enemies is fighting deceit with deceit, and another is fighting the enemy
with fair means. The reason for these inconsistencies is simple: war is a
situation of āpad in which rules are abandoned to gain advantage over the
enemy. This is ‘political realism’ as attested in the Arthaśāstra (Boesche
2003: 14).
In fact, Kautilya’s Arthaśāstra is a perfect text to gauge the practicability
of the war of the Mahābhārata, because it provides a historical and realistic
basis to the mythical events of the epic. Some scholars believe that the
Arthaśāstra and the Mahābhārata cannot be compared on the basis of a
dharmayuddha, because the war that Kautilya describes is utilitarian, and
the war in the Mahābhārata is deontological. Kautilya was not concerned
about the ‘morality’ of policies—in war, politics, or diplomacy. The only
morality he was concerned about was the common good (Boesche 2003:
14). Therefore, scholars believe that Kautilya’s war policies are not suitable
for a dharmayuddha, whereas the Mahābhārata’s lessons are. However,
since both texts are roughly contemporaneous, originated in about the same
region, and share subject matter commonalities, the war strategies
enumerated in the Arthaśāstra can shed significant light on the
Mahābhārata.
For example, the yuddha nīti and rājanīti that Kautilya expounds is
similar to what Bhīṣma teaches Yudhiṣṭhira, and these are the very same
policies that the Kauravas and Pāṇḍavas follow as their rājadharma, and to
prepare for war. Kautilya’s strategies of weakening the enemy are also what
Bhīṣma suggests to Yudhiṣṭhira: ‘Secret agents should be sent for creating
disunity amongst the allies of the enemy’ (Mbh 12.102.27). Also, ‘A king
should … corrupt the forces of his enemy, determine everything by positive
evidence, creating disunion, making gifts, and administering poison’ (Mbh
12.103.16-17), even going to the extent of ‘[destroying] crops and
poisoning of wells and tanks’ (Mbh 12.103.40). Additionally, like Kautilya,
Bhīṣma suggests a systematic process of breaking the enemy by becoming
close friends with them, then getting them addicted to luxuries and
pleasures, such as costly prostitutes, beds, chariots and houses, and other
pleasures, and then having them celebrate costly sacrifices, such as Viśvajīt,
to drain their treasury (Mbh 12.105.11–22).
It is noteworthy that while Bhīṣma categorizes some of these devious
methods to gain advantage over the enemy, he impresses upon Yudhiṣṭhira
that a king who wins a war by unrighteousness means weakens himself and
his kingdom, and so a king should never conquer through deceit or trickery
or magic (Mbh 12.100.5-6). Also, Yudhiṣṭhira, the dharma king, rejects
these strategies because they are connected with fraud (Mbh 12.106.1).
Kautilya, on the other hand, upholds these deceitful practices. However, just
the fact that Bhīṣma mentions these strategies attests that they were an
acknowledged part of statecraft at that time.
Most scholars believe the Śāntī and Anuśāsana Parvas may have been
later interpolations, and that the earlier versions of the Mahābhārata may
not have enumerated these nītis. But, from the actions of both the Pāṇḍavas
and Kauravas, it is quite evident that these were well-known rājadharma
strategies practised by rulers, because both seem to be very familiar with
them. Duryodhana uses these methods to rid himself of the enemy even
before the question of the war arises. He tries to poison Bhīma and uses
arson to kill the Pāṇḍavas in the house of lac. In fact, even his treatment of
Draupadī in the dice game can be categorized as one such strategy—to
create dissension in the enemy and divide the Pāṇḍavas. Admittedly,
Bhīṣma’s and Kautilya’s advice about using women as a weapon of
dissension pertains to prostitutes and not wives, but Karṇa’s words in the
dice game prove that in the eyes of the Kauravas, Draupadī’s is a prostitute
because of her polyandrous marriage. Of course, in the epic, this fails as a
strategy because, aside from a brief altercation between Bhīma and Arjuna
over Yudhiṣṭhira’s actions, it does not create much discord among the
brothers. However, it is, perhaps a consequence of the strategy’s failure that
the Pāṇḍavas are able to claim Draupadī’s unjust treatment as a reason for
war and a reason for foul play; and, thus, from the viewpoint of warcraft,
their claim can be considered a counter strategy. Hence, the Kauravas’
behaviour in the dice game can be seen as tactics—for though these
strategies were immoral, they were part of the dharma of war.
Another very significant war strategy that Kautilya advises and the
Pāṇḍavas clearly use further vindicates the perception that Duryodhana was
pure evil and provides new insights into how tradition may have wronged
the Kauravas. Kautilya advises that one effective way of breaking the
enemy or creating dissension in his ranks is by constantly berating him for
being wicked and full of adharma. He says that the enemy should be shown
the ‘immorality of his ways by constantly being told that he is morally
wrong or that because of him innocent people will die, or that the enemy is
strong and that he will surely lose’ (Boesche 2003: 25). Bhīṣma, too,
suggests this by advising that a king’s envoys should go into enemy cities
and ‘proclaim that the king and his cohorts are wicked men who have
suffered for their own misdeeds’ (Mbh 12.102.43). The Pāṇḍavas, and
especially Kṛṣṇa and Vidura, use this strategy extensively, almost
throughout the text. They continually call Duryodhana wicked and berate
Dhṛtarāṣṭra for his evil sons who want to retain the kingship illegitimately.
So, this persistent maligning of the Kauravas may actually have been just a
strategic war tactic. However, its purpose may have been misconstrued in
tradition and perceived as a literal fault in Duryodhana’s character.
This vilification of Duryodhana as a war strategy is also evident from
Kṛṣṇa’s conversation with Karṇa in the Udyoga Parva. His words in this
incident are devoid of any such negative remarks about Duryodhana. If
Duryodhana were truly evil, wouldn’t Kṛṣṇa have used this opportunity to
persuade Karṇa about his evilness? On the contrary, just before parting with
Karṇa, Kṛṣṇa promises him that ‘The kings and princes, who are under the
leadership of Duryodhana will, by coming into contact with weapons, meet
with death and attain to very excellent salvation’ (Mbh 5.142.20). Kṛṣṇa
does not defame Duryodhana in his meeting with Karṇa because there is no
point. Karṇa knows the truth about Duryodhana.
Another very meaningful strategy that Kautilya cites to frighten and
weaken an enemy is to spread rumours about one’s own force—that it
possesses miraculous powers and has celestials in its ranks. In fact, Kautilya
specifically advises the use of reciters of the Purāṇas to tell one’s own
troops and the enemy that the king is associated with divinities and hence
cannot lose because he will have divine powers working for him (Boesche
2003: 35). Bhīṣma does not specifically state this strategy because,
obviously, it would have undercut his greater purpose of establishing
Kṛṣṇaism. However, this is clearly the key strategy of the Pāṇḍava camp
from day one. They boast of divine connections and they claim an
association with Kṛṣṇa, who they claim is divine himself. Thus, it is
possible that Kṛṣṇa’s divinity, too, is just a strategy that the brāhmin policy
experts on the Pāṇḍava side developed to frighten the Kauravas. In fact, not
only is this strategy used to awe the Kauravas, but it is also used to instil
awe in the Pāṇḍavas themselves, especially in Arjuna, to empower him and
impel him into action, making him believe that he is not only supported by
Kṛṣṇa, who is the supreme divine, but that he himself is divine. As the
composers intended, Kṛṣṇa’s legend proved so effective that the idea
concretized and gave birth to the divine Kṛṣṇa we know in post-
Mahābhārata texts.
Kautilya’s idea of dharma was practical; it signified economic prosperity
of a state, and he believed that to achieve that end, war was a realistic
means. From this perspective, the puruṣārthic trivarga that the Mahābhārata
touts over and over again is sustainable through war; and in war, ideal
dharma must necessarily be the first casualty. Kautilya’s aim was utilitarian;
therefore, for him, war was for the common good, and this makes his
treatise dhārmic. In contrast, the Pāṇḍavas’ war becomes adharmic because,
as Kautilya states, a king whose kingdom is strong and the people are happy
should not be attacked, because it will result in bringing unnecessary pain
and suffering to the people and victory against that king is not possible
(Boesche 2003: 29). In the Mahābhārata, the people of Duryodhana’s
kingdom are happy. Duryodhana states this himself when he is dying and
the people of Hāstinapura attest to this fact too when they meet Dhṛtarāṣṭra
in his forest retirement. Additionally, Duryodhana is certainly more
powerful and has a larger force, yet the Pāṇḍavas attack him. The
consequence (just as Kautilya foretells) is immense and unnecessary pain
and suffering to the people of Hāstinapura. Considering this factor, it is
irrelevant whether, technically, the Mahābhārata is a dharmayuddha and
whether the rules of war have been followed, because just the fact that the
Pāṇḍavas destroy the peace and happiness of an entire land proves that their
yuddha is an adharmayuddha.
Although the Mahābhārata text treats the subject of rules of war
extensively, and it posits the war as one in which the rules are followed as
per yuddha dharma, the fact is that many rules are only theorized. In
practicality, what is revealed are strategies of war that not only breach the
rules but are also unethical. The main reason for this lack of adherence to
dharma rules is that war is an āpad situation in which securing a quick
victory is more important than observing conventions. Therefore, if the
Mahābhārata war is a dharmayuddha, then it is only so from the perspective
of āpad dharma, which is impractical in all other situations.
 Modern wars, even if they qualify as dharmayuddhas, do not follow the
prototype of the dharmayuddha in the Mahābhārata. They follow
international laws which are based on international conventions,
declarations, and treaties on the laws of war, and are mostly concerned with
justified causes to engage in war (jus ad bellum), and just and humanitarian
conduct in war (jus in bello). An early source for these modern principles is
the Just War Theory (jus bellum iustum) shaped by the Roman philosopher
Cicero and moulded by the Christian principles of Thomas Aquinas and
Augustine of Hippo, which addresses not just jus in bello, but also jus ad
bellum, and jus post bellum, ensuring military ethics in all three
eventualities of war. This theory—although critiqued by most modern
scholars—in a practical sense, accepts that war is necessary in certain
circumstances, similar to what the epic suggests. But many of the rules of
Just War and of modern international laws not only contradict the
Mahābhārata’s rules of war, they are also more moral in terms of universal
values. Therefore, in principle, today, most wars can be considered
dharmayuddhas, because they generally have the oversight of international
peace-keeping bodies. In addition, these rules are improved upon every
time there is a violation of human rights. For instance, following the
atrocities of World War II, the laws of war were made rigid, and a number
of protocols and conventions by international bodies were formed to protect
human rights; and after the atrocities in Yugoslavia and Rwanda, the UN
Security Council mandated International Criminal Tribunals such as the
1949 Conventions and Additional Protocols in 2005.
One would think that with the world keeping watch on war and ensuring
that wars remain dharmayuddhas, such dharma wars would serve only the
practical purpose they should—righting a wrong and protecting people.
However, these rules of jus ad bellum and jus in bello are also constantly
violated by warring nations, simply because war is never just an endeavour
to right a wrong; it is ultimately a show of power and superiority, and power
involves subjective agendas of warring parties. Hence, in the final
reckoning, no war can be a dharmayuddha, and no theory or rules of war
prove practical because, to use the phrase attributed to Cicero, inter arma
enim silent leges—in times of war the law falls silent.
 THE MAHĀBHĀRATA AS INTERNAL DHARMAYUDDHA
Aside from being a narrative about a literal yuddha, the Mahābhārata is an
allegory of an internal war that each individual experiences. This yuddha of
self is an inner conflict about the self’s relationships with the world in all
aspects of life. In fact, this battle is constant and the self as warrior is
always a dharma warrior because, inherently, simply by virtue of being
human, a person intuitively knows right and wrong and the dharma of
humanness. However, his needs and desires often sway him from the right
path, and he therefore has to constantly do battle with his self for the victory
of what he knows to be his dharma. Admittedly, the values of right and
wrong are relative to deśa and kāla, and they are subjective. But, because
they are determined by environment and familial, cultural and societal
perceptions and experiences, these values are most relevant to his
wellbeing. The battle ensues because these very same value determinants
are the forces in the battle—as either opponents or allies of the self.
Sometimes these battles occur when the self has no moral justification for
one course of action but is impelled by desire, greed, anger, and other such
negative impulses. In this case, the self is aware of the evil inherent in the
path, but the pull of the evil is so strong that the individual has to battle with
his own self to resist it. Sometimes these battles are moral dilemmas where
the self has moral reasons to justify each of the paths. In this case, the moral
agent has to battle with himself to determine which path is best suited for
his own wellbeing, the wellbeing of his family and society, and the
evolvement of his self.
From the perspective of this internal dharmayuddha, the Mahābhārata is
a guide for everyman, because its characters and their actions and
behaviours are representative of everyman. Through the morality and
immorality of its characters, the text shows that everyman is a moral agent
with free will, and everyman is fighting a yuddha for which the puruṣkāra is
geared towards a goal that the individual perceives as dharma. The text also
shows how, in the process of this yuddha, moral agents do sometimes veer
into adharma because their self is not strong enough to resist it; but then
that is the lakṣaṇa of a true moral agent—one who faces evils and battles to
overcome them, and one who seeks to resolve moral dilemmas. While in
the former case the self of the moral agent sometimes loses to adharmic
behaviour and indulges in evil, in the latter case, there is no adharma. It is
not a sin to be caught in a moral dilemma; it is also not a sin to make the
wrong choice to resolve a moral dilemma. The sin would be not to fight
these inner battles; therefore, conversely, to fight these battles is dharma. In
addition, every time dharma is victorious in these inner battles, the self of
the moral agent takes one step closer to align with his divine self. Hence,
from this perspective, the whole Mahābhārata is a dharmayuddha. Not only
does it visibly portray the inner battles that its characters fight but, through
them, it also conveys every person’s necessity of the battle which, at its
core, is a battle that a person’s higher self fights to gain victory over his
baser self.
Some of the most revered scholars see the true tradition of the
Mahābhārata as a metaphor for this inner battle. For example, Gandhi
believed that ‘[The Gītā] was not a historical work but that under the guise
of physical warfare it described the duel that perpetually went on in the
hearts of mankind, and that the physical warfare was brought in merely to
make the description of the internal duel more alluring’ (quoted in K.N.
Upadhyaya 1969: 1). Similarly, Dr Radhakrishnan said, ‘The life of the soul
is symbolized by the battlefield of the Kurukṣetra … The chariot stands for
the psychological vehicle. The steeds are the senses, the reins their controls,
but the charioteer, the guide is the spirit or real self, atman. Kṛṣṇa, the
charioteer is the Spirit in us’ (quoted in K.N. Upadhyaya 1969: 1).
The Mahābhārata itself claims to be a text about the metaphysics of the
soul. For example, when introducing the epic to the ṛṣis at Naimiṣāraṇya,
Ugraśravas says that this work has ‘opened the eyes of the world, which
were covered by the darkness of ignorance. As the sun drives away
darkness so does this Bhārata, by its discourses on dharma, artha, kāma and
mokṣa, to drive away the ignorance of men’ (Mbh 1.1.84–85). From the
implication that the Mahābhārata drives away darkness, it can be surmised
that the ‘darkness’ is created by a person’s baser self and, by striving for
knowledge and realization, he can aspire to connect with his higher self.
Thus, the Kurukṣetra war is metonymic for the dharmayuddha that the
whole text implies, and amongst the many types of dharmayuddhas, an
internal dharmayuddha is one of the most significant. In this
dharmayuddha, all key characters become allegories for the good and evil
that the self is constantly battling—those that are allies of the self’s pursuit
of highest dharma and those that oppose it. Furthermore, in this allegorical
perspective, even destruction and violence are the means to a soul’s
evolution, because what is being destroyed are the desires of the baser self.
Hence this internal dharmayuddha is necessary in the journey towards self-
realization, and it is only in this dharmayuddha that the Mahābhārata
tradition is successful.
The most obvious proof that the Mahābhārata is a guide to realization
and liberation is that it houses the Gītā and Kṛṣṇa is a metaphoric charioteer
in the war. But, from the perspective of the soul’s metaphysics, the
Mahābhārata rises even above Kṛṣṇa and his divinity. Matilal (2007: 413–
14) aptly points out that Kṛṣṇa-theology or ‘Kṛṣṇalogy’ in Hindu
philosophy does not make Kṛṣṇa a god. He adds that in early Sāṃkhya, the
very ‘category of God was declared as redundant’. God was only the goal
of yoga—a god whose will it is to bring the already existent atoms together
in a gross universe. But human beings have the ability to act freely within
this universe and ultimately realize a god that has all kinds of lovable
qualities of humans. Therefore, in the internal dharmayuddha, it is
irrelevant whether Kṛṣṇa is a man or a god. His historicity is
inconsequential and his incarnation is only important on a mythic level.
What is relevant is the knowledge that Kṛṣṇa exists, because Kṛṣṇa is really
a person’s Self, which every individual must realize. He is a being’s higher
self, the Self with the most lovable human qualities, and which is unborn
and infinite. It is for this reason that, over the course of the Mahābhārata,
the understanding ‘where dharma is, there is victory’ transforms into ‘where
Kṛṣṇa is, there is victory’. Sukthankar (1998: 108–9) adds to this truth
about the correlation of Kṛṣṇa and everyman by suggesting that ‘[Kṛṣṇa] is
manifestly a God who has become a Man. How little difference, if any,
would there be between God who has become Man and Man who has
become God. Must it not be a reversible equation?’
In this indiscriminate realm, where god and man are the same,
the relation of God in man to man in God [is represented] by the double figure of Nara-Nārāyaṇa.
Nara is the human soul, the eternal companion of the Divine, which finds itself only when it awakens
to that companionship and begins, as the Gītā would say, to line in God. Nārāyaṇa is the divine Soul
always present in our humanity, the secret guide, friend and helper of the human being. (Aurobindo
1997: 14)
Aurobindo suggests that the historicity of the Gītā, or of Kṛṣṇa, or of Arjuna
does not matter, just as long as an individual knows from spirituality the
inner Arjuna or the inner Kṛṣṇa (Aurobindo 1997: 15). And ultimately,
Arjuna and Kṛṣṇa are also one. Sukthankar (1998: 108) explains how this is
so: ‘Arjuna appears different and acts differently from Śrī Kṛṣṇa merely
because his essential identity on the transcendental plane is realized neither
by Arjuna himself nor by others around him’. However, Kṛṣṇa tells Arjuna
to realize this oneness; therefore, they are both called Kṛṣṇa, because after
realization, Arjuna will be Kṛṣṇa, just as anyone who has realized the
oneness will be Kṛṣṇa.
Arjuna is that everyman who Aurobindo classifies as a man of action,
who has lived morally according to the codes of society and dharma but is
not a thinker. He has never internalized his actions; it is only in the moment
that he faces his relatives on the battlefield that he is suddenly thrown into
this kṣetra where he must now think. He must think beyond the action,
because action at this point will result in everything immoral—loss of moral
value, sin, society, the mixing of races, the annihilation of family, etc. But
without action he feels lost and bewildered. In fact, he is so lost that he is
willing to die without any further action. Aurobindo names this state of
Arjuna ‘bankrupt’ (1997: 23–6). In this bankrupt state, Kṛṣṇa advises
Arjuna not so much to change the state of action, but the knowledge behind
the action and to ‘yoke’ knowledge and action. This union is termed ‘yoga’.
Hence, Arjuna is the narottam, the ideal man who is closest to realizing this
truth. In this state, Arjuna is representative of the higher self that
understands, but he is also like the tamasic self that needs to understand. He
is Kṛṣṇa, the realized Self, and he is also Dhṛtarāṣṭra—vacillating, unsure,
listening to Vidura’s advice about following his true self, but often rendered
blind to the advice. Sometimes he listens to the Gītā and understands, and
sometimes he forgets the lessons he has heard. When he is given special
insight to see the theophany of truth, he is amazed by it, but once it is gone,
he is back to being his blind and deaf self again. But Arjuna, unlike
Dhṛtarāṣṭra, has the capability to rise above it all to reach his higher self and
fully realize the Kṛṣṇa that he is. Therefore, the key lesson of
Mahābhārata’s dharmayuddha for everyman Arjuna is to recognize the
blind Dhṛtarāṣṭra within, and battle him to strive to be a true Arjuna who is
capable of being Kṛṣṇa.
The opponents that hold an individual back from seeing and hearing the
voice of the inner Self are those aspects of his being that prevent knowledge
and realization, and because these aspects of ignorance hinder realization,
they are evil. However, these opponents do not always appear evil; in fact
they appear to be good allies aiding the person in his path of righteousness.
For example, they can be the kṣatriya desire to prove valour, as is Karṇa’s
desire; they can be adherence to tradition to the exclusion of everything
else, just as Bhīṣma’s motives are; they can also be attachment to progeny,
just as Drona is. These are not ‘evil’ opponents in the sense that they force a
person to commit sin, but they are opponents that bind and prevent the
individual from transcending to a higher place, because they generate
attachment to action. These opponents may also simply be external dharmas
that are a society’s ethics, such as the pursuit of puruṣārthic goals of artha
and kāma. But these too bind a person. Therefore, the first battle in the
dharmayuddha of self is to abandon the limitedness of an externalized
dharma. Because adhering to the normative duties and desires of dharma,
individuals forget to listen to their Self. This is the dharma that Kṛṣṇa in the
Gītā advises when he says: sarva-dharmān parityajya, ‘abandon all
dharma’ (BG 18.66). Ultimately, what must be realized is that moral law is
above social law (Aurobindo 1997: 35), only then will dharma become
internalized, and the self will understand what Kṛṣṇa means when he says,
‘mām ekaṁ śaraṇaṁ vraja’ [just surrender unto Me] (BG 18.66).
A good analogy of this internalization of moral law is in the Upaniṣads
that internalized sacrifice. The Upaniṣadic seers ‘synthesized the plurality
of the Vedic gods into one Ultimate Reality’, translating ‘the heavens from
beyond the skies into the case of man’s own heart’ (Sukthankar 1998: 94).
By doing so, the lokas and the old devas became merely levels of reference
and symbolic entities that are neither individuals nor planes (in the
theosophic sense) but states of being, realizable within oneself. Similarly,
internalized dharma can make a person’s very self the Kurukṣetra—a
symbolic battlefield in which his ultimate dharma will be to fight a
dharmayuddha to make the Self victorious against the opponents of the
lower self.
 It is important to realize that externalized dharma opponents that appear
good are illusions of the lower self, but because these opponents disguise
themselves as goodness, they are hard to identify and destroy. Therefore,
often, the only means possible for their destruction is through deceit and
trickery. In fact, the rule of war that Bhīṣma cites to fight deceit with deceit,
which is adharmic in the literal sense, becomes a person’s greatest ally in
the internal dharmayuddha. To ‘kill’ these opponents that are deeply
entrenched, a person must trick them to destroy them. He must strike them
on the thighs, as Bhīma does Duryodhana; strike them while they are hiding
behind a Śikhaṇḍin, like Arjuna; strike them while their wheel is stuck, as
Karṇa’s is. A person must even ‘lie’ to them to deliver the strike. No matter
what the means, these opponents of the lower self must be destroyed for the
individual to reach a higher plane.
In addition, in this battlefield, even violent destruction is necessary.
Aurobindo (1997: 39–46) says that, most importantly, man must first realize
that the self-soul is the creator and the destroyer. Death is the law of life,
and an individual must preserve his higher self by destroying his baser self.
In material terms, this is actual physical violence, but in metaphysical—
soul-force—terms, it is figurative violence. For example, the patriot dies—
kills himself and his enemy, but what has his spiritual Self destroyed?
Perhaps the aggressor. The physical violence seems extreme, and it appears
evil to those who don’t believe in war, but what is it preserving? Similarly,
Christ may die, but Christianity will live. It is important to recognize that
the Self is both Durgā the mother and Kālī the destroyer. Both are equally to
be adored. Hence,
[a person] must acknowledge Kurukṣetra; [he] must submit to the law of Life by Death before [he]
can find [his] way to the life immortal; [he] must open [his] eyes with a less appalled gaze than
Arjuna’s to the vision of [the] Lord of Time and Death and cease to deny, hate or recoil from the
universal Destroyer. (Aurobindo: 1997: 46)

To explain the necessity of this metaphoric violence, the Gītā is the

perfect guide, as is the occasion of the Gītā: poised between the two sides—
the catalytic moment—an individual can make a breakthrough. Either the
individual succumbs to the warriors that are guarding his lower self, or he
can kill them violently to gain victory of the Self. Because the opposing
warriors are a person’s means of joy, pleasure, and enjoyment, destroying
them will be very painful. Also, these opponents of pleasures and
indulgence have taken root deep in the consciousness and subconsciousness
of a being; therefore to dig them out, he will bleed—emotionally, mentally,
and psychologically. However, this violence is necessary to transcend the
conflict and achieve realization. The Gītā can guide a person through this
conflict by leading the individual through the triune path of karma, jñāna,
and bhakti. But, before a person chooses a path to realization, before the
battle begins, it is important to acknowledge the state of poise because, in
this state, he needs to do a systematic analysis of the forces of both sides:
those which bind him to the lower self, and those which will help him
transcend. This, too, can be accomplished through the guidance of the Gītā,
because the Gītā is ‘a document of self-analysis or psycho-analysis …. The
cosmic mind, symbolized as Bhagavān Śrī Kṛṣṇa analyses by introspection
with the Gītā the conscious mind, symbolized as Arjuna, who determines
and eliminates its complexes and synthesizes it’ (Sukthankar 1998: 119–
20).
However, most people never reach that stage of facing the opposing
forces because they never even realize that these are all forces within them.
And even if they do realize this, most people skip over that perfect state of
poise between opposing forces, when they should perceive them and
analyse them before they attempt to destroy them. Even for a person who
has recognized the power of these forces, the tendency is to skip over this
stage of being poised on the verge of yoking action and knowledge, and
jump right into the fray of the Kurukṣetra—the battle itself. But, in this
impulse of battle, the chances of achieving victory of the higher self are less
likely, because the forces allied with the lower self are too strong. Arjuna
himself is a good example of this failure. He is poised between the two
opposing forces. He also receives the knowledge of the nature of the two
forces, and he is shown by Kṛṣṇa the transcendence that is possible.
However, he does not analyse, and he does not yoke this knowledge to
action. Instead he jumps right into the fray of battle and is not able to root
out the forces of the lower self. Therefore, even while acting as per Kṛṣṇa’s
advice, he remains attached to his love for his grandfather, his son’s sorrow,
his egoity, and his material victory.
 But why must a person engage in an arduous battle to win victory over
his or her empirical self? It is to be free from the constant tension of
experiential polar realities of sukha and dukha (pleasure and pain), which
are the basis of a person’s whole existence (Badrinath 2006: 225). What
causes pain are a person’s own behaviours (be it greed, ignorance, or anger)
and relationship with others, which evoke expectations; and when
expectations are thwarted, there is pain. Another, greater reason for pain is a
person’s awareness of decay and death, which cannot be ignored even in the
midst of sexual and material pleasures; therefore, even an individual’s
sukha is shadowed with pain. These facts of life are so potent that even
Kṛṣṇa’s mortal self experiences it. For example, in the Ādi Parva, Kṛṣṇa
tells Nārada about this unhappiness and laments about how helpless he feels
in his relationships with his kinsmen. He says, ‘Saṃkarṣaṇa is powerful,
Gada is mild, Pradyumna is beautiful but no one seems to get along with
each other.’ Therefore, Kṛṣṇa feels caught in the middle and feels hurt when
they utter cruel words to him (Mbh 1.81.8–14).
There are many other apt examples in the Mahābhārata about the
constant dukha that plagues a human being’s life. For example, in the Śāntī
Parva there is a story of Senajīt, a father who is sorrowful at losing his son,
and he cannot seem to alleviate the sorrow. A brāhmin then tells Senajīt a
whole host of reasons for his grief: attachment to children and to spouse;
loss of wealth, son, or relative; having friends or having no friends; having
enemies, etc. The brāhmin tells Senajīt that even wisdom and intelligence
do not drive away sorrow (Mbh 12.174.23–33). It can be concluded from
the brāhmin’s words that the very relationships of self are a cause of dukha
in the world. And this truth—that life is persistent sorrow—when perceived
in reverse, presents itself as sukha: that every relationship of self that does
not cause dukha causes sukha. But that sukha too, ultimately and inevitably,
causes dukha because the material objects and relationships of self that
bring sukha are never permanent; they are transient and subject to decay.
The only true happiness is to be free from both sukha and dukha—
pleasure and pain (Mbh 12.174.35). In order to accomplish this, a person
needs to eradicate the kāma, or desire, in which the self is mired; and once
that is accomplished, even living in the material world, a person can rise
above it. Thus, for a karmayogi, the true dharmakṣetra is one in which the
material is combined with the spiritual—a life governed by the discipline of
yoga. This, then, is the key battle in life’s dharmayuddha: eradicating desire
or kāma from all action. This internal yuddha, as opposed to outward
conflict, is ultimate dharma. Consequently, victory achieved in this dharma
is absolute, because it is through total cognizance. This internal yuddha is
not only good, but it also leads to an individual’s most natural holistic state.
Ordinarily, people are constantly engaged in conflict, which implies that life
is a struggle of good and evil and is full of unrest. But, in an individual who
has realized the highest good, the struggle ends, because the state of good
becomes constant, and quiescence becomes a natural state. In addition, this
good or śreyas is amoral, because morality also implies that there is an
opposite, conflicting value—immorality. On the other hand, in this
individual, there is no remainder that can be classified further as morality or
immorality. Therefore, this realized person is not only devoid of morality,
but also of the polarities of sukha and dukha.
For those who aspire to achieve śreyas, engaging in dharmayuddha is
normal because when their social self, the self that interacts with the world,
relates to others, their social dharma comes into play, which is always
changing and inconstant, depending on deśa and kāla, and their own
subjectivity. For this reason yuddha is normal in the inner self, which
strives for the constancy of the higher self. This struggle is what Arjuna’s
dejection at the beginning of the war is about; and Kṛṣṇa shows him how to
allow his constant inner Self to gain victory over his social, inconstant self.
Therefore, even after Arjuna learns the truth, the conditions of war remain
the same, that is, Arjuna still has to do battle with his relatives and his duty
as warrior still remains the same; however, the motivation of doing battle
ceases to be victory or gaining his lost wealth. Instead it becomes an
extension of his śreyas. On the other hand, as compared to Arjuna,
Duryodhana is considered ‘evil’ not because his actions are evil or sinful,
but because his social self is the only one he knows. He knows no inner
struggle and only glories in an outward, physical yuddha in which he seeks
dharma and victory only for his social self.
If an individual has to engage in a physical dharmayuddha, the ideal
condition to do so would be only after he has battled with his self and won
the internal dharmayuddha. Only then should he turn the yuddha outwards.
In fact, it is necessary to emphasize that it is mandatory to win the internal
dharmayuddha before attempting any external dharmayuddha; otherwise the
external dharmayuddha will have an evil causality. The individual who is
engaged exclusively in this external war will act in accordance with his
desires, attachments, and aspirations, not even realizing that he is being
impelled by these forces of evil, and the consequence, too, will be injury to
self and others. Therefore, even if he wins victories, they will only be
victories of the lower self. On the other hand, if a person wins the internal
dharmayuddha first, he will have gained equanimity, and the external war
will simply be a duty that must be fulfilled. In this case, victory will be
assured, even if the war results in a defeat, because the victory over the self
will become the victory outside, and the truth of ‘yato Kṛṣṇa tato jayaḥ’ will
be realized. This victory of Self—Kṛṣṇa—will then be victory on all levels.
However, notwithstanding its truth and value, is an internal
dharmayuddha practical in the contemporary world? The fact is internal
dharmayuddhas, although necessary for all human beings, are hard to
accomplish today because they require the recognition of metaphysical
truths that go beyond the everyday practical human experience. While the
dharma of the lower self is based in empiricism and practicability, a true
dharmayuddha requires a yoking of practical dharma and absolute dharma.
The problem is that, today, any one unified concept cannot be applied to
man’s total cognition, because this totality requires all knowledge necessary
for existence, including practical, material, and truth knowledge. It is true
that dharma concerns itself with both practical and truth-oriented
knowledge, but while practical dharma defines rules of action and
behaviour for dealing with man’s practical problems of life, absolute
dharma of knowledge remains unexplained.
Additionally, for most people, while knowledge is important, truth
knowledge is not; it is not what people seek today. Or, the only truth
knowledge they seek is the truth of scientific knowledge, and unless
absolute truth knowledge can correspond with empirical knowledge, it is
not considered important. On the other hand, material values like ambition,
individual aspiration, etc. are what nurture a successful life today. And if
this promises a good life, what is the need for individuals to detach
themselves from this life? In fact, most often, only the unhappy seek
release, and that too only till the point where they can secure material
happiness again. In other words, people are not concerned with the
metaphysics of dukha, but are simply interested in a quick release from it.
A significant factor that contributes to the failure of self-realization is the
actualization of the self. This is a person’s desire for personal external
success—in a career, in relationships, and in personal life. However, in
order to achieve this success, a person has to often engage in manipulation,
cheating, and deception. Also, the more fragmented and disorderly the
world becomes, the more individuals need this self-actualization, and the
more they strive to attain it. This striving then leads them to more
manipulation, cheating, external violence, etc., because the odds are stacked
against them. The dharmayuddha with one’s self is most difficult in these
strained circumstances, because people persist in this process of achieving
desires and push themselves into deeper striving, using free will. In other
words, free will is constantly catering to a person’s desires. Thus, ‘freedom
is not freedom—to choose, but freedom from having to choose under
impelling force of desire. In the natural condition, therefore, we do not find
true freedom’ (Agrawal 1998: 41).
This conflict with desire is yuddha, and the self’s effort of deliverance
from it would be victory of dharma. In this victory, there would be holistic
transformation. In its evolved form, it would also be free from the slavery
of free will and choices, because the very natural condition would change.
But the process is a difficult one, requiring a negation of the ‘I’ through
understanding oneself as a total process—‘an understanding that reveals the
truth about self, about what lives qua self and why it gets engaged in life
the way it does’ (Agrawal 1998: 41). This negation of self and its
endeavour, when it pertains to personal consciousness, is what Agrawal
(1998: 51) terms as ‘spiritual’ and when it pertains to relationships, he
terms it as ‘ethical’. However, Agrawal also warns that these solutions that
give a person the ability to understand and recognize the truth of the self are
idealistic. The biggest hurdle to this comprehension is that this need for
self-consciousness only arises when a person is disenchanted with the
natural conditions of the self’s desires, and with material gains, which is
almost an impossibility in today’s world.
 The Gītā offers an easier path to overcome the hurdles to self-realization
—the path of bhakti, which even Kṛṣṇa establishes as being accessible to
everyman in today’s world. He tells Arjuna, ‘For those who worship Me,
giving up all their activities unto Me and being devoted to Me without
deviation…having fixed their mind of Me, O son of Pṛthā—for them I am
the swift deliverer…’ (BG 12.6). Thus bhakti is a recognition of a personal
god and devotion to him or her, and, through this path, a person can also
aspire to a realization of self.
However, it is important to point out that unless bhakti is practised in its
purest form of total and absolute devotion, rather than freeing the self, it can
bind it even more because bhakti, today, is most often practised with the
help of organized religion, and it concretizes the self even more. When
bhakti is practised through social institutions, the danger is that the self
begins to see its continuity through visiting the temple, giving to charity,
worshipping the idol, and performing rituals—pursuits for the acquisition of
personal goals and desire for materiality. The only difference between
following the path of this ‘false’ bhakti and not following any path of self-
realization is that bhakti gives a person a tangible sense of a personal ‘god’
to whom he or she can turn to. But then people can also blame their
insecurity and failures on this personal god; thus, some of the suffering and
dukha that causes these fears of self are given a cushion. But in this false
sense of security, the attachment and the desires remain the same; or worse,
they become keener, because now the self has someone other than its own
striving to fulfil desires. And if there is failure, it is not a failure of self, but
a failure of the divine. Furthermore, if material success is achieved, it is
even more dangerous because the devotee believes this success is a result of
his devotion being ‘true’. Consequently, this person sees no need for any
other form of transcendence. Hence, self-knowledge remains as elusive as
ever. Admittedly, the form of bhakti described above is not the pure bhakti
that Kṛṣṇa offers Arjuna, which involves love for all and is life-negating.
But that form of bhakti is also not practical for the person who lives a life of
affirmation in today’s world.
Despite their impracticability, the ideal to achieve ultimate dharma and
the aspiration for internal dharmayuddha still exist in Hindu culture and
tradition. And Hindus know, through texts like the Mahābhārata, that
internal dharmayuddhas are not only possible but also exigent. There is also
no denying that even when faced with the dangers of fact-based truth and
theology, a Hindu strives for a way of life that adheres to both material
dharma and absolute dharma. And, perhaps, that is where the greatest
tragedy is, because in this complex time when people need the clearest
guidance, they are presented with ambiguities that the Mahābhārata
tradition has created. In an earlier time, the ambiguities prompted people to
think for themselves; but today, with all the other concerns of competition
and survival, they are only confused by this equivocacy which creates
moral dilemmas to which they have no answers.
There is no doubt that the Mahābhārata is a paradigm of a
dharmayuddha, both internal and external. As the latter, it establishes moral
and ethical parameters to contain the anarchy that war can unleash. Through
didactic means, it indicates preservation of the dharma principle, ensures
the legitimacy of war, and emphasizes the rules of war. However, it fails to
adhere to these very same codes in its exemplification, because all its
characters—both the supposed villains and dharma heroes—violate them in
the praxis of the war. Further negating the dharmayuddha paradigm, the text
sanctions dangerous practices such as personal vendettas, eye-for-an-eye
justice, and unlawful means to justify ends. Not surprisingly, when this
exemplar is used in today’s context, the consequences are just as
devastating as described in the Mahābhārata. In fact, the Mahābhārata’s
yuddha dharma is so apocalyptic that, despite being hailed as a śāstra and a
tradition, this scriptural text is not recited during pious events in many parts
of India. Some Hindus consider it an ill omen to even keep this text in their
homes for fear of evoking its spirit of disunity, extreme violence, and
pralaya. Thus, considering these evidential perceptions, the Mahābhārata’s
dharmayuddha can hardly be touted as a yuddha of practicability.
On the other hand, the internal dharmayuddha symbolized in the
Mahābhārata is not only applicable in today’s world, but it is also exigent
for the everyman caught up in tensions, anxieties, ambitions, and fulfilment
of desires. However, this internal dharmayuddha is not only arduous, it also
requires edifying guidance. The Mahābhārata tradition poses as a lucid
guide to lead everyman through internal conflicts to the victory of Self. In
actuality, it convolutes the path even more with its ambiguities and
contradictions. Therefore, even in this respect, the dharmayuddha of the
Mahābhārata fails in its practicability.
Conclusion
Questioning the Tradition of the Mahābhārata

The Mahābhārata is ‘sacred history’ (Mbh 1.62.17) about events in the past
that relate to all aspects of life and pertain to both good and evil. It also
portrays divine and human characters that were engaged in both ethical and
unethical behaviours. And, most importantly, it presents issues of ethics and
morality with which people at that time were grappling. However, around
the first century CE, when the Mahābhārata’s oral narrative was written
down in Sanskrit, it came to be considered as not just a purāṇa, but also as a
śāstra in the tradition of other śāstras, such as the Mānava Dharmaśāstra.
One prominent factor resulting from this formalizing of the Mahābhārata
was that its narrative was concretized, which meant that it was no longer
open to accretions and interpolations, and this, in turn, meant that all its
good and evil, and moral and immoral facets were established as tradition.
Another, and perhaps the most significant factor was that, as a śāstra, it
came to be seen as a scripture. Wendy Doniger (2009: 309) explains that the
word śāstra comes from ‘shas’, which means ‘discipline’, which in turn is
derived from ‘shams’, a verb meaning ‘to injure’, and the root of the noun,
meaning ‘cruelty’. Therefore, the word śāstra is related to disciplining by
‘chastening’ or ‘chastising’. Thus, as a śāstra, the Mahābhārata was no
longer just history that presented life as it was, with all it perfections and
flaws; instead it became a text that taught how life should be lived
according to ethics of doctrinal traditions. This also gave the brāhmins, who
were creators of the śāstra, and the śiṣtas, who were keepers of the śāstra,
sanction to discipline those who violated its traditions.
In actuality, the Mahābhārata is not a text that creates tradition; it is, in
fact, a text that questions tradition. Therefore, the only tradition the
Mahābhārata actually institutes is one that makes enquiry customary. It
raises questions about all conventions of behaviour and ideology—from
divine to human, from past to present to future, and from existence to non-
existence. It interrogates the Vedas, Upaniṣads, and Vedāṅgas; Ṛg, Saman,
and Yajur; celestial and human births; the art of war, and tolerance and
intolerance towards different people; Kāla and the yugas and kalpas; the
earth, the sun, and the moon; pilgrimages and rituals; death, decay, and
disease; modes of life, castes, asceticism and the goals of dharma, artha,
kāma, and mokṣa (Mbh 1.1.62–7). Altogether, it evokes such questions
about these ‘mysteries’ that even the self-knowing Gaṇeśa had to pause to
consider his own answers before scribing the verses that Vyāsa recited to
him (Mbh 1.1.78–80).
Gaṇeśa, being self-knowing and wise, may have been able to find
answers to his questions within his all-knowing self so that he could
proceed with the scribing, but the ordinary mortal is not so equipped, and
the text itself offers no answers because the questions it raises have no
clear-cut explanations. These questions, such as the one Draupadī asks the
Kuru assembly in the dice game, or the ones Arjuna asks Kṛṣṇa at the
beginning of the war, or the questions of dharma that every character raises,
receive only one answer from the authors of the text—that dharma is subtle.
This equivocacy is no answer at all; in fact, it compounds the challenge for
moral agents grappling with problems of right and wrong and good and
evil, because no matter what they do or say, or how they behave, they are
never sure whether they are fulfilling dharma or violating it. Only the
consequence of their behaviour reveals its right and wrong and, often, this
consequence is actually at variance with what the moral agents expect.
Perhaps this is the reason why most actions of good and evil intent in the
Mahābhārata do not reach their expected completion, because the authors
themselves were not sure of the moral and immoral veracity of these
actions.
There are many key incidents of good and evil intentions in the
Mahābhārata that don’t reach absolute fruition. To cite just a few: Bhīṣma
takes the vow of celibacy to gain merit of asceticism and protect
Hāstinapura, but both he and Hāstinapura are ruined as a result of it.
Hāstinapura erupts in a war of legitimacy and Bhīṣma himself is destroyed
by Ambā, who condemns him for his vow. Then, there is Draupadī’s
situation: The Kauravas drag her into the assembly hall with the evil intent
to strip her of clothing and dignity but, at the last minute, her garment and
dignity are mysteriously restored. Another example of an incomplete action
is the burning of the Khāṇḍava in which Arjuna and Kṛṣṇa annihilate the
forest and all the forest creatures to help Agni. But not all creatures are
destroyed; four Śārngaka birds, the asura Māyā, and Takṣaka’s son,
Aśvasena, escape. (The survival of the latter two is especially significant,
because they are both instrumental in inciting future evil. Māyā builds a
māyāvi palace which hastens the war, and Aśvasena intensifies Takṣaka’s
vendetta.) Another unfinished evil is Aśvatthāman’s night raid in which he
wants to wipe out the Pāṇḍavas; however, not only are the five Pāṇḍavas
and Kṛṣṇa preserved, but Kṛṣṇa also ensures a Pāṇḍava heir by restoring the
life of Uttarā’s foetus. Then, there is Janamejaya’s snake sacrifice which, in
itself, is morally ambiguous, but it is a result of Janamejaya’s vow to
avenge his father’s death. However, the nāga race is saved by the sage
Āstīka.
Another unfulfilled intended action of moral ambiguity is the war itself.
The Pāṇḍavas declare the war a dharmayuddha by claiming legitimacy to
the kingship of Hāstinapura as the dharma for which they must fight.
However, when the war is over, even Yudhiṣṭhira, the victor, bemoans the
adharmas that the Pāṇḍavas committed, and he calls his victory his defeat
(Mbh 12.1.14). In addition, and ironically, the actual heir to the Pāṇḍava
legitimacy, Karṇa, is killed illegitimately by the Pāṇḍavas themselves.
Moreover, at the end of the war, Yudhiṣṭhira performs a grand Aśvamedha
with immense wealth to gain the merit of this Vedic sacrifice and expiate
his guilt, but his ostentatious yajña is declared unmeritorious by Dharma
disguised as a mongoose (Mbh 14.90. 7 & 114). These are just a few
examples of the many incidents of good and evil in the Mahābhārata that
are inconclusive. This failure to complete moral and immoral actions is so
indicative of the questionable nature of these values that even the
consequentiality of heaven and hell is made dubious when Yudhiṣṭhira’s
sojourn to these places is revealed as no more than an illusion.
In addition to the unrealized intentions of the characters, the ideologies
that the text presents are also not uniform or absolute. For example, ahiṁsā
is emphasized as param dharma for everyone; yet, the kṣatriya’s highest
dharma is to engage in violence. Similarly, the characters in the text clearly
recognize a hierarchy of varṇa and act according to set standards towards
people of different varṇas; yet all varṇas are stated as equal, because they
all arise from Nārāyaṇa. In the same way, people of each varṇa are enjoined
to perform the duties of their own respective varṇas; yet some of the most
respected brāhmins in the text, such as Drona and Rāma Jamadagni, behave
like kṣatriyas. But if people of the lower varṇas, like Ekalavya, aspire to the
actions of a higher varṇa, they are punished. Then there is the credo of
puruṣārtha, which is stated as the ideal way to live a life. But puruṣārtha’s
fourth ideal of mokṣa is in direct contradiction to the other three goals of
artha, kāma, and dharma, because while the goals of trivarga are life-
affirming, the former requires life negation. To add to the inconsistencies is
the philosophy of karma. While there is an underlying sense of karmic
consequentiality in the actions of the characters, in most of the text, karma
is portrayed as daivic design over which humans have no control.
These incomplete executions of good and evil action and the ideological
paradoxes in the Mahābhārata appear either like narrative and editorial
flaws in the text, or like ethical contradictions that the authors of the text
did not know how to resolve. But neither of these conclusions is accurate.
Doniger (2009: 264) says, ‘The contradictions [in the Mahabharata] … are
not mistakes of a sloppy editor but enduring cultural dilemmas that no
author could ever have resolved’. Therefore, a more accurate assumption
seems to be that the authors of the text used this equivocation to show that
morality and immorality can never be absolute or fully executed, because
these values are always subjective and always questionable. But most
importantly, while these values are inherently subject to enquiry, the
specificity of the questions they invoke cannot be instituted for all time.
Each yuga, each phase of human development, and each stage of social and
cultural evolvement must mould its own enquiry and ask its own questions.
Therefore, what is provided in the text are not answers, but ways that moral
agents can contextualize the enquiry in their own deśa, kāla, and āpad
imperatives.
The Mahābhārata itself is a true product of its own time. When it was
composed (between 900 BCE– and 1st century CE, which are the most
accepted dates), it was a time of social, political, and ideological flux.
Added to that is the fact that the story of the war is set in a time which is
nebulous in terms of historical evidence (approximately 900–600 BCE), but
this period was witness to rapid changes in religious outlook. Consequently,
the Mahābhārata is a reflection of both an ideological metamorphosis and a
social, political, and cultural transformation that occurred from the time of
the story’s backdrop to the time of its composition. During the period of its
composition, the four powerful and influential kingdoms of Kosala,
Magadha, Vatsa, and Avanti had eclipsed the old Kuru land. While not
many records of Vatsa and Avanti survive, there is historical evidence that
Kosala and Magadha were themselves in turmoil because of either
ineffectual rulership or wars of succession. This was also a time when the
old tribal organizations that had provided people a sense of community and
belonging were breaking up and consolidating into little kingdoms with
despotic kings who ruled with absolute power. The only limitation to the
rulers’ power was the dictates of the brāhmins—who were themselves
autocratic—and they weighed even heavier on the people with their
strictures of tradition and enforcement of ritual and sacrifice. At this time
also, a new philosophical order was coming into existence, advocated by
texts such as the Brāhmaṇas and Upaniṣads, which negated the good life in
heaven and gave prevalence to practices of asceticism and aspirations of
mokṣa and liberation from saṃsāra.
Added to this mood was the new thought of Buddhism and Jainism,
which were propagating nonviolence; hence even what the Vedas perceived
as ‘necessary violence’ was being questioned. Additionally, Upaniṣadic
ideas of karma and transmigration were sweeping the scene and taking the
very gods into their fold. Therefore, myths of revered gods like Indra were
being re-examined. For example, while Vṛtra in the Vedas was seen as an
evil asura, holding back the waters, and Indra’s slaying of this asura was
hailed as good; in the new era, this same Vṛtra became a brāhmin, and his
slaying was deemed as Indra’s treachery. Furthermore, even low-born
people, like woodcutters, were allowed to question Indra’s morality. For
example, in one retelling of this myth in the Mahābhārata, when Indra slays
Vṛtra and asks the woodcutter to cut off his head, the woodcutter wants to
know who Indra is: ‘I must know who you are and I want to hear why you
have done this cruel deed today. Tell me the truth.’ And when Indra tells
him that he is king of gods, the woodcutter questions, ‘How is it that you
are not ashamed at this cruel deed?’ (Mbh 5.9.32–4). In fact, this was such a
time of turmoil and change that a mortal like Nahuṣa could replace Indra as
king of gods and question the authenticity of the Vedas and the actions of
the solar gods. In this myth, when Nahuṣa becomes king of devas, he asks
the gods why they did not prevent Indra ‘in bygone days, [when he
committed] many deeds of cruelty and viciousness and deceitfulness’ (Mbh
5.12.7). And when the brahmaṛṣis and devaṛṣis ask Nahuṣa ‘if the hymns
prescribed to be chanted by Brahmā are authentic,’ he replies, ‘They are
not’ (Mbh 5.17.9–10). Clearly, at this time, nothing was sacrosanct—not the
gods, not the Vedas, and not traditions.
People’s disenchantment with old ideas and beliefs created a cultural and
ideological vacuum; this was the reason why kings and brāhmins were able
to impose their own form of stability through rāja and ḍaṇḍa nīti. But,
instead of appeasing the tension, the social structure created by kṣatriya
kings and brāhmin śiṣtas was oppressive for ordinary people, especially for
people of the lower varṇas and women. In fact, in such a repressive
environment, even the upper castes were no longer sure about what was
right and what was wrong, or what path would ensure them a happy and
righteous life and a good afterlife.
In this climate of chaos, there were no clear answers to questions of
ethics and morality—answers that could be a continuum of tradition in the
coming eras. Therefore, it is possible that to depict how ethical degradation
was thrusting society into a dire state, the authors of the Mahābhārata
created a narrative of an annihilating war in which everyone and everything
would be wiped out. This was to warn people that such āpad situations
force people into committing grievous acts of immorality that can destroy a
society and cause widespread sorrow. The authors also cautioned that the
degradation would reach so deep that even after the war, even among the
few who survived, morality would take a further dive and ‘men…would
deceive their fellow men by spreading the [false] net of virtue, and men of
false pride would make truth concealed’ (Mbh 3.190.10). To help them
convey this cautionary tale, the authors also created characters that were
representative of the problematic times. This new breed of heroes—the
Pāṇḍavas—had no historical precedence and may have been fictitious
characters superimposed on existing warriors (Katz 1990: 38, 51 & 134).
That is also why heroes of thorough Indra-like warriorship, such as
Duryodhana, were examined, deemed no longer viable, and discarded. Also
instituted was a new divine—Kṛṣṇa—who not only encapsulated the
pantheon of Vedic solar gods but also set a new convention of divine
execution—one of machinations to achieve a desired end. Deviously
manipulating situations, he unified conflicting beliefs—Vedic, Upaniṣadic,
and folk—to give people a new direction. Thus, though the Mahābhārata is
a war text, at its core, it is actually ‘passionately against war [and] vividly
aware of the tragedy of war. (Doniger 2009: 283). By advocating a war, the
authors hoped to use the metaphor of war as a catalytic goad to elicit deep
questioning about moral and immoral behaviours. They hoped that by
showing how certain conduct can lead to a gory war that can plunge society
into a Kali Yuga, they could make people cognizant of their own actions
and behaviours.
This purpose of the Mahābhārata, as a text invoking enquiry, is quite
evident from Sauti’s proclamations about it. At the very beginning of the
narrative, Sauti tells the ṛṣis in Naimiṣāraṇya that the wisdom of this text is
‘like a stick used for applying collyrium and it has opened the eyes of the
world which were covered by the darkness of ignorance’ (Mbh 1.1.84). By
this statement, Sauti does not mean that the knowledge contained in the
Mahābhārata has cleared away all doubts and evils, or that the knowledge
that this text expounds must be established as society’s traditions of
śiṣtācāra and sadācāra. Instead, what Sauti means is that when the wisdom
of this text is applied like collyrium in the eyes, people can discern right
from wrong. In other words, the collyrium is the wisdom of questioning
what is right and what is wrong, and the cognizance derived from this
questioning is what clears away the darkness of ignorance. Therefore, it is
evident that if any tradition is established by this text, it is the tradition to
eradicate the ignorance of narrow-mindedness so that people can open
themselves to potential knowledge that may be revealed through enquiry.
Sauti then continues to clarify this purpose of the Mahābhārata further by
using more similes: ‘As the full moon with its mild light opens the buds of
the water-lily, so does this Purāṇa with the light of Śruti expand the human
intellect.’ And ‘The whole house of the womb of nature is properly and
completely lighted by the lamp of history which destroys the darkness of
ignorance’ (Mbh 1.1.76-7). All these declarations of the Mahābhārata’s
significance clearly indicate that the history it contains sheds light on all
aspects of life and expands people’s minds so that they can better
understand their world, their selves, and their truth values. However, in
order to receive this light, people must open themselves to questioning and
self-analysis, which is only possible when they are not bound by restrictive
and disciplinary traditions.
Arjuna in the Mahābhārata is a good example of how this emergence
from ignorance can occur through enquiry. His character is full of questions
about how to resolve ethical dilemmas so as to follow the path of dharma.
Therefore, he is a representative of what the authors hoped would occur to
everyman—that by relating to the ethical situations portrayed in the
Mahābhārata, people would come face to face with their own sense of right
and wrong and question these values in the contexts of their own deśa and
kāla. They hoped that this enquiry may lead people into such depth that it
would help them emerge from ignorance to arrive at the realization of the
absolute and unchanging dharma of the self that Kṛṣṇa teaches Arjuna in
the Gītā. Admittedly, Arjuna does not experience any significant realization
or transformation; but, perhaps, this too was by design—to show that
although people don’t always learn what they are taught, if there is a
tradition of enquiry, there is always scope for questioning and learning.
Perhaps this is why Vyāsa taught the Mahābhārata to five different disciples
so that they could venture out among diverse people, elicit diverse enquires,
and show how the wisdom of the Mahābhārata pertains to all who are open
to self-development.
However, instead of keeping the spirit of diverse enquiries alive, the
‘Brahmins perceived this same diversity as a threat and therefore set out to
hierarchize, to put together in its proper place, to form, to mold, to repress,
to syncretize—in a word discipline (shas) the chaos that they saw looming
before them’ (Doniger 2009: 309). The consequence was that, instead of
eradicating or finding solutions to the problems of evil that were revealed in
the groundswell of social, political, and ideological change, the brāhmins,
to ensure their own hegemony, not only eradicated all enquiry, but also
conventionalized these very problems as norms. Therefore, the tradition of
the Mahābhārata that was concretized as a śāstra still retains ethical
problems of a bygone era, and these continue to harm Hindu society.
There are numerous problems of evil in this śāstric tradition of the
Mahābhārata. For example, unethical behaviours, such as those of Kṛṣṇa,
that even in the time of the epic had evoked questions about good and evil,
were authorized as a legitimate means to restore dharma. Ironically, in the
Mahābhārata, dharma is so ambiguous that its preservation or restoration is
a moot point. However, this fact was overridden when the principle that
dharma is ambiguous was regularized, and, henceforth, accepting dharma’s
vagueness as the mysterious ‘subtlety’ of dharma became the mark of
śiṣtācāra. And dharma’s amorphousness became a vehicle in the hands of
the śiṣtas, who interpreted dharma situations to their own advantage, mostly
for self-aggrandizement and oppression.
Furthermore, despite this equivocation of good and evil within the
construct of dharma, the yuddha kṣetra that was drawn in the Mahābhārata
was classified as a dharmakṣetra, demarcating one side as good and the
other as necessarily evil. In actuality, neither was the kṣetra a dharmakṣetra,
nor was it an adharmakṣetra. And, by extension, neither was the yuddha a
dharmayuddha, nor was the victory in the war dharma’s victory. This was a
political war between two parties battling over legitimacy of a kingship.
Admittedly, there was a dharma factor involved in the conflict, but it was
not of good and evil. It was simply a conflict between the old-style Vedic
dharma of warriorship and the new form of Kṛṣṇized dharma. But the
conflict was mirrored as the archetype of deva–asura battles and portrayed
in the symbolic mould of archetypal good and evil. Consequently, this
misrepresentation created the concept and scope of dharma-based yuddhas
in society which, even today, can be invoked by anyone who feels a threat
to his or her dharma values, and pit one side against another in a good
versus evil paradigm.
Another example of an evil that continues to be problematic in Hindu
cultures is the concept of the ‘other’, which, in the Mahābhārata, is
represented by the nāgas, the Niṣādas and other aboriginals, the Mlecchas,
and, sometimes, the asuras. The Mahābhārata presents numerous incidents
in which these ‘others’ suffer grievous injury at the hands of the Aryans.
However, this problem of violence against ‘the other’ had already been
examined in the Mahābhārata’s ethical context, and it had actually been
condemned in the face of new ideas of ahiṁsā, a fact that is clear from
Āstīka’s intervention in the snake sacrifice and Janamejaya’s acquiescence
to stop the genocidal sacrifice. In fact, not only had the epic Aryans realized
the evil of injuring ‘the others’, they had also accepted the Nāgas into the
fold of their society. This is evident from many Mahābhārata myths;
especially noteworthy is the final myth in the Śāntī Parva of the Nāga king
Padmanabha, who is portrayed as having the knowledge of both an Aryan
householder’s dharma and the ultimate dharma of mokṣa. In fact,
Padmanabha even instructs a brāhmin about the wisdom of the soul (Mbh
12.364.7). However, the śāstric tradition curtailed these progressive ideas
about tolerance, acceptance, and assimilation of ‘the other’. Instead, the
concept of the non-Vedic, an-Aryan ‘other’ (which became un-Hindu in
later times) was re-instituted, and anyone outside the Aryan fold was once
again labelled ‘evil’. The problem was further exacerbated by dharmaśāstric
laws, which drew indelible lines between Aryan and an-Aryan, and not only
sealed the fate of ‘the other’, but also created a divided Hindu society.
Another similar problem that the authors of the Mahābhārata wrestled
with but could not resolve was the idea of varṇa and the role different
varṇas played in society. However, in the śāstra tradition of the text, instead
of examining the questions on varṇa that were raised, discriminatory
practices of varṇāśrama were rigidified, creating a caste system that left no
scope for enquiry or flexibility. Consequently, strict adherence to, and the
preservation of varṇa dharma became social law, and anyone crossing over
caste lines was penalized. But, once again, the law was inequitable, because
while the upper castes were given leeway to practise the dharma of other
varṇas if it suited their purpose, the lower castes suffered grievous injury if
they attempted a crossover.
Another problem of evil that can be traced to the epic’s śāstric tradition
is the misuse of the puruṣārthic goals of artha and kāma. The Mahābhārata’s
ideal practice of these two goals was their pursuit within the limitedness of
dharma. But because dharma’s parameters were malleable, these goals were
often abused for selfish gain. That is why ascetic and ethical characters like
Yudhiṣṭhira question them. However, in the tradition that formed, Bhīma’s
and Arjuna’s response to Yudhiṣṭhira’s questioning became the norm.
Bhīma chastises Yudhiṣṭhira for focusing only on virtue to the exclusion of
all else and tells him that to live a happy life, ‘All three [virtue, profit, and
pleasure] should be equally pursued’ (Mbh 3.33.40). And Arjuna advises
Yudhiṣṭhira that ‘poverty is a sin’. And ‘From wealth originates all religious
acts, and pleasures and heaven itself. He who has wealth is regarded as a
sincere man. He who has wealth is regarded as a learned man … He who is
without wealth has neither this world nor the next’ (Mbh 12.8.13–23).
Therefore, pursuit of wealth was validated as a moral necessity of life,
because it facilitated not just a prosperous life and afterlife but also
sacrifices and charity, whose beneficiaries, needless to say, were the
brāhmins.
Kāma, too, was questioned in the history of the Mahābhārata—
especially its abusive practices against women. For example, it is
Yudhiṣṭhira’s lust to gamble that causes him to stake Draupadī, and the
interrogative custom of the Mahābhārata not only questions Yudhiṣṭhira for
this act through Draupadī’s remonstration, but it also condemns him by
showing his ruin. Moreover, by depicting Draupadī’s injury at being treated
like property, all of society is asked to account for its norms about the
treatment of women. Similarly, it is Pāṇḍu’s desire to acquire sons that
makes him prostitute his wives; hence the birth of the Pāṇḍavas is always
cast in doubt and raised in enquiry. Additionally, narratives of women like
Oghavatī and Mādhavī were included so that they could invoke
investigation about such reprehensible practices. However, when śāstric
traditions about kāma evolved from the Mahābhārata, they were not about
condemning crimes against women. Instead, what came to be sanctioned by
tradition was the justification of men’s pursuit of kāma and a condemnation
of the same pursuit by women. Additionally, in a twist of irony,
pronouncements were made against women that further curtailed their
freedom and desires, such as the one Jamadagni makes when he tells his
sons to kill their mother, Reṇukā, who experiences a fleeting moment of
lust for another man (Mbh 3.116.5–15). Furthermore, misogyny was
disguised as wisdom by making characters like Bhīṣma denounce women as
‘sunk in the quality of darkness’ who ‘stupefy’ the wisdom of men (Mbh
12.213.9). Thus, tradition not only reduced women to no more than objects
to serve the interests and desires of men, it also blamed them for the
immoral acts that men committed. Essentially, tradition robbed women of
their character and humanness.
The fact is that Mahābhārata’s history is replete with problems of evil.
Yet, it is also evident that the authors were not only aware of these evils,
they were grappling with them and trying to find solutions so much so that
they had created a tradition of fluid enquiry that would promote a
questioning of these evils in every era. Perhaps if this tradition had
remained fluid, the questions that were raised may have been answered, and
these problems may have been resolved. However, when the Mahābhārata
became a śāstra, not only did its evolution cease, its problems of evil
transformed into the customary way of life.
Admittedly, over the centuries, there have been some attempts to
continue to address the problems and to question the conventions of good
and evil that were established, but these attempts have been more in the folk
and literary tradition rather than in the social and ethical spheres. For
example, Draupadī’s humiliation in the dice game led to the creation of the
folk tradition of Therukoothu plays in Tamil Nadu in south India, in which
Draupadī is raised to the status of a goddess and worshipped, so as to
compensate her for the insult she suffered at the hands of her husbands and
the Kauravas. In literature, too, the enquiry about what is rightful behaviour
and what behaviour causes injury to others continued. For example, in
Kālidāsa’s Abhijñānaśākuntalam, Duśyanta’s abandonment of his wife and
child is questioned by Śakuntalā herself, who berates Duśyanta for violating
his patidharma, just as she does in the original version in the Mahābhārata,
even though Kālidāsa’s Śakuntalā herself is rendered powerless through
convention and Ṛṣi Durvāsa’s curse. In Bhāsa’s plays, the questions of who
is good and who is evil and what is rightful behaviour in relationships are
re-examined. For example in Urubhangam, Duryodhana is portrayed as a
sympathetic noble king, and Bhima’s breaking of his thighs by violating a
code of war is examined. Pañcarātram is about honouring promises, and it
once again establishes Duryodhana as an honourable king who fulfils the
promise he makes—that if the exiled Pandavas are discovered within five
nights, he will hand over the kingdom. Karnabhāram explores Karna’s
relationship with his charioteer, Śalya—through the incident in which Indra
tricks Karna to give up his kavaca and kuṇḍala. Bhāsa’s Śalya, unlike in the
Mahābhārata, where he plays Karna false, advises the warrior like a true
charioteer. There are other similar portrayals in literature that raise
questions about right and wrong; however, though these attempts make a
strong statement about the dynamic nature of the Mahābhārata, they have
not been enough to keep the tradition fluid.
The Mahābhārata tradition that was established when the text was
written in Sanskrit is the tradition that has dictated śiṣtācāra and sadācāra in
Hindu cultures; therefore the problems of evil that were inherited became a
part of Hindu conventions. The only way to break from these problems of
evil is to re-examine the text as a chronicle of its time and re-interpret its
myths for what they really are—not binding traditions but metaphors of
enquiry into the changeable human condition.
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Index

Abhimanyu, 39, 51, 85, 102, 131, 162, 176, 201–2, 218, 235–6, 271, 286
Adharma
of Pāṇḍavas, 193
of Viṣṇu/Kṛṣṇa, 259–60, 265–6
of Yudhiṣṭhira, 193, 242
adharmakṣetra, 24, 144, 165, 173, 180, 204, 221, 246, 335. see also
dharmakṣetra of Mahābhārata
Ādi Parva, 66, 86, 119, 157
agent of evil, 105
Agni, 41–2, 66
Ahura Mazda, 63
Airāvata, 32, 54, 207
akrodha, 126
Ananta, 49
Ancient Kurukṣetra, 17
Anuśāsana, 97
Arjuna, 24, 42, 55, 60, 205–7, 333–4
accomplishments, 222–3
adroitness in archery, 222–3
breaking of codes and vows, 226–7, 235
character, 237–8
destruction of the Nivātakavacas, 86–7
Drona’s appreciation and gratitude, 221–2
 jealousy of, 224–5
inclination to violence, 124
Khāṇḍava forest, burning of, 18, 42, 51, 55, 222–3, 230–3
killing of Karṇa, 217–19, 234, 236–7
kṣetra of actions, 219–39
moral dilemmas, 237–8
as new Indra, 87
possession of weapons, 221–4
role in killing Bhīṣma, 233–4, 237
statements about wealth, 130
as a true everyman representative, 219–21, 239
true kṣatriya/hero dharma, 238
warrior qualities, 224
Yudhiṣṭhira’s insulting words against, 225–6
Arjuna–Duryodhana battle, 86–94
Art of War, The, 279
artha, 7, 127–33, 181, 244
as a means to living a moral life, 129–33
Pāṇḍavas’ perception of, 130
purpose of, 128–9
Aruṇa, 45–46
Aryan society, 11, 15, 18, 76
ethical principle of, 97, 112
Aryanism, 11, 15
Aryans, 29–30, 46, 54, 90, 128
assimilation between non-Aryans and, 12–14
identity, 11–15
language and culture, 11–12
marriage practices, 67
śiṣtācāra, 14
Āstīka, 49–50
asura, 60–74. See also dānavas
Aryan background of, 66–7
Avestan and Assyrian associations, 63
battle between brāhmin and śūdra, 65
dāsaand asura connection, 64–8
Hale’s interpretation, 63–4
in the Mahābhārata, 27–9, 61–62
myths, 74–94
quality of asura-ness, 61
in Ṛg Veda, 62–3
victims of Aryan oppression, 90, 277
asuryam(asuraship), 68
Aśvamedha, 16
Aśvatthāman, 109, 151–6, 163–4, 203, 221, 231–2, 244–6, 301
night raid, 147, 151, 328
Atharva Veda, 53, 288–9

Bhagavad Gītā, 2–3, 60, 100, 111–12, 143, 180, 227, 238–9
idea of non-attachment, 102
as a moral text, 102–3
Bhagīratha, 132
Bhīma, 48, 55, 73, 76, 106–7, 110, 120, 123–4, 136, 159, 161, 164
relation with Duryodhana, 188–91
Bhīṣma, 21, 55, 91–2, 146, 148–9, 161, 255
Ambā’s curse and, 106, 161
apathy towards social justice, 168
character of, 166–167
comparison with Takṣaka and Vṛtra, 56
condemnation of female, 134, 138, 141
enmity and denigration of Karṇa, 177, 213
Gautamī, story of, 104–5
 link with motherhood of Ambā, Ambikā and Ambālikā, 167–8
mokṣa dharma, 115
on qualities of king, 166
realm of dharma, 127
sacrifices of, 160, 168
on truth, 97–8
varṇa division, 289–90
version of myth of Dakṣa’s sacrifice, 160–1
on wealth and kingship of Hāstinapura, 131
brāhmins, 118–19
Buddhism, 9n4, 54, 57–8, 331

caste practices, 117–22

code of conduct, 6, 116, 304
cosmic order, 37, 41, 69, 71–2, 75, 84, 116–17, 231
creation myth, 75–95
Ādi Parvamyth of origins, 90
Madhu and Kaiṭabha, myth of, 75–7

Dakṣa, 74
dānavas, 66, 74–8, 82–4, 86–92, 123–4, 130, 149, 161, 163, 176, 184, 207,
224, 277
deva–asura battle paradigm, 79–84
Arjuna and Duryodhana, 86–94
Devayānī, 77–8
dharma, 6–7, 97, 115–27, 174, 244, 313, 316
āchār, 288
āśramadharma, 117
as code of conduct, 116–17
ambiguous, 24, 97, 172, 237, 260, 281–2, 334
consequential nature of, 116
defined, 281–2
 kuladharma, 117, 288
mutability of, 116
naimittakadharma, 117
nivṛtti-dharma, 288
nyāya, 288
pravṛtti-dharma, 288
puṇya, 288
rājadharma, 117, 126
rāṣṭra-dharma, 288
sādhāranadharma, 126, 288
as a sanction for immoral action, 125
strīdharma, 117
sva-dharma, 123–4, 126, 288
Yudhiṣṭhira’s analysis, 282, 285
yugadharma, 288
universal values, 281–7
varṇadharma, 117–22
Vedic-vidhi, 288
dharmakṣetra of Mahābhārata, 24, 144, 165. see also adharmakṣetra; kṣetra-
defining layers in Mahābhārata
evil actions and behaviours of Pāṇḍavas and Kauravas, 180
dharmaśāstra, 3, 208, 277
dharmayuddha, 50, 280–1
genocidal, 51
legitimacy of, 295–302
Mahābhārata as, 311–25
meanings, 281
religion-based, 293–5
rules of war, 302–11
Śaivas and Śramaṇas, violent conflicts between, 293–4
varṇāśrama dharma and, 287–95
 value pluralism, 4–7
Dhṛtarāṣṭra, 47, 146
dice games, 157–9
Śakuni’s cheating in, 195–6
Śiva’s, 247
Yudhiṣṭhira and, 246–251
Yudhiṣṭhira’s addiction and wagers, 196
Draupadī, 140–2, 196–197, 257–8, 338
disrobing, 274n8
marriage, 157–8
as reincarnation of Śrī, 175
relation with Yudhiṣṭhira, 252–3
prostitution, 253–5
Drona, 19, 21, 62, 91–2, 99, 101, 106, 108, 118, 122–3, 139, 157, 159, 164,
174, 177, 188, 197, 214, 221–7, 242–6, 285, 300, 316, 329
Duḥśāsana, 56, 196, 199, 266
Duryodhana, 28, 62, 76, 82, 86–94, 106–109, 122, 128, 257, 338
Bhāsa’s portrayal of, 201–4
birth of, 179
breaking of slave law, 196–7
as dānava/asura, 184
death by treachery, 188–9
difference between evil and goodness in, 181
‘flaw’ of, 183
friendship with Karṇa, 186, 209
jealousy of, 193–4
kṣatriya dharma of, 182–3
as a noble warrior, 186–8
puruṣārthic dharma, 180
rājadharma, 185–186, 194
recognition of errors, 198–9
 rejection of caste bias, 185–6
rejection of Kṛṣṇa, 183–4
righteousness in battlefield, 190–1
varṇadharma of, 194
as Vedic hero, 181
wickedness of, 191–2, 200
dvijaHindus, 292

egoity, 101–2, 216, 227, 230, 318

ethics and moral action in Mahābhārata, 6n3, 96–103

Gālava, 134–5
Gāndhārī, 47–9, 141
Garuḍa, 45–8, 50, 55
Gautami’s story, 104–6, 235–6
God concept, 1
good vs evil in Mahābhārata, 1–2, 61, 80, 95–6, 144, 328–30, 334–6
deva–asura battle paradigm, 79–84
goodness, 282–3

Hindu ethics, 1, 15, 95, 281

historical constructs, Indian perspective, 15–24
Kṛṣṇa, 22–4
burning of the Khāṇḍava forest, 18
Mahābhārata, 16–17
sacrificial rituals, 16
time of the Buddha’s death, 16
time of war, 18–19
Hitler, Adolf, 291–2

Indra, 41–2, 47, 63, 66, 71, 92, 128

Indra/Vṛtra battle, 79–84
Jamadagni, 138
Janamejaya, King, 25–7, 31, 57–9
Jaratkāru 49–50

Kāca Devayānī myth, 86

Kadrū and Vinatā myth, 43–51
elevation of male gods and catastrophe for female power, 44, 46
reflections in Mahābhārata, 47–8
kāma, 7, 100, 133–43, 313, 316, 337
brāhmin males and, 139
in Mahābhārata, 134–5
Mamata and Bṛhaspati, story of, 137
marital, 136
prostitution, 120, 135–6, 253, 306–7, 337. See also Mādhavī; Oghavatī
women as victims of, 133–4, 137–8
karma, 7, 100, 103–13, 244
Draupadī ’s questioning, 108
equitable retribution, 110
evil, 105–6
Gautamī, story of, 104–5
Kauravas’ actions in karmic light, 109
link between action and consequence, 105–13
in Mahābhārata, 106–9, 112–13
niṣkāma, 112
theory of, 111–12
Vedic concept of, 111
Karṇa, 109, 136
adherence to dharma, 209–10
battle between Arjuna and, 205–7
Bhīṣma’ enmity and denigration of, 177, 213
communication between Śalya and, 213, 338–9
 curse of Rāma Jamadagni, 214
death of, 217–19
friendship between Duryodhana and, 186, 209
generosity of, 214–16
Kṛṣṇa’s description, 205
kṣetra, 204–19
Kuntī’s behaviour towards, 209–11
motivation in life, 209
oath to Kuntī, 215–16, 225
perception of Kurukṣetra, 205–6
rejection of Kṛṣṇa, 208
as victim of fate, 214
warrior dharma and skills, 206–7, 217–19
Kauravas, 4, 10, 18, 21, 28, 47, 56, 78, 107–9, 128
brith of, 179
Khāṇḍava forest, burning of, 18, 42, 51, 55, 222–3, 230–3
Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna’s friendship, 208, 227–30, 235
Kṛṣṇa cult, 261
Kṛṣṇa. see Viṣṇu/Kṛṣṇa
Kṛṣṇaism, 146, 153, 178, 183–5, 202, 266, 269, 275
kṣatriyas, 14, 51, 61, 67, 83, 85, 118–19, 122–4, 129, 188, 245, 250, 289–
91, 301, 329
kṣetra-defining layers in Mahābhārata, 145–64
biased kṣetra, 172–8
battlefield of Kurukṣetra, 164–78
incident of Vaiṣṇavas and Śaivas working together, 162–4
of kingship, 165–72
Śiva-centric and Kṛṣṇa-centric incidents, 146–60
Kuntī, 47–9, 128, 136, 141, 160, 168, 170, 181–2, 204, 209–12, 215–16,
219, 221, 225, 281, 296–8, 305
Kuru dynasty, 16–17, 21, 40–1, 78
Kurukṣetra, 8–11, 144
battlefield of, 9–10, 271
geographical parameters, 8
for Karṇa, 205–206
legends, 10
sanctity of, 9–10

legitimacy
of kingship, 90, 130, 145, 165–72, 229, 328, 335
of Śaivism, 150
of war, 165, 295–302, 324, 328
legitimate right, 89–90, 281, 297, 299

Mādhavī, 134–5, 253, 337

Madhu and Kaiṭabha, myth of, 75–7
Mamata and Bṛhaspati, story of, 137
Mānava Dharmaśāstra, 326
Manusmṛti, 197, 290
mokṣa dharma (mokṣadharma), 3, 114–16
mokṣa, 3, 7, 57, 96, 111, 114–15, 139, 148–9, 240–1, 244, 270, 313, 327,
331
moral agents, 98, 179, 181, 193, 204, 224, 232, 234–8
moral conduct, 1
moral dilemma in Mahābhārata, 198, 203, 219–20, 237–9, 244, 260, 285–7,
311–12, 324
moral order, 70, 116–17
morality, 6n3, 96–103
Mūlasarvāstivāda, 9n4
Mūlasarvāstivādins, 9
Muṇḍaka Upaniṣad, 99

Nāgas, 29–40
 Aryan-Nāga enmity, 31–4, 37–8, 51
Aryan perception about, 32–8
as indigenous inhabitants, 31
Kashmiri, 30–1
living conditions, 35
myths, 25
nature of nāga reference in Mahābhārata, 39–40, 55–7
respected for their good qualities, 55
Nazi Germany, 291–2
Nīlmata Purāṇa, 30
Nirṛti, 44–5
Niṣāda tribe, 50

Oghavatī, 135–6, 337

‘other’, 41, 93

Pāñcālas, 19–21, 51, 109, 148, 151–3, 245, 300–1, 304

Pāṇḍava–Kaurava conflict, 145–6, 164–78
factors of outcome of, 175–8
legitimacy issues, 165–72
objective of dharma, 174–5
Pāṇḍavas, 4, 10, 19–21, 28, 48, 51, 55–6, 78, 104, 106–9, 128, 159–60
adharma of, 193
birth of, 179
legitimacy, 328
Parikṣit, Raja, 51
Pishachas, 29–30
Pūru, 77–8
Puruṣa Sūkta, 76, 288–9
puruṣārtha principles, 5–6, 114–43, 182, 203, 244, 259, 270, 275, 309, 316,
329, 336
artha, 127–33
 dharma, 115–27. See also dharma
kāma, 133–43. See also kāma
mokṣa, 3, 7, 57, 96, 111, 114–15, 139, 148–9, 240–1, 244, 270, 313, 327,
331

race theory, 13, 291–2

Rāhu’s sabotage of soma, 74
Rājasūya, 16
rebirth, theory of, 111
Reṇukā, 138–9, 337
Ṛg Veda, 8, 13, 27, 29, 33, 62–3, 70–1, 128, 138–9
ṛta, 32–3, 42–3, 68–72, 74–5, 80, 84, 90, 115–16, 128, 145,

sādhārana dharma, 101

Śaivism, 146–147
power struggle between Vaiṣṇavism, 153–154. See also Śiva;
Viṣṇu/Kṛṣṇa
Śaktism, 150
Sanskrit, 11–13, 30, 57, 115, 201–2, 326, 339
Śāntī Parva, 56–7, 66, 97–8
Sarasvatī, goddess, 141–2
Śarmiṣṭha, 77
sarpasattra yajna, 25–7, 51–2. see also snake sacrifice myth
śāstric tradition of Mahābhārata, 334–7
Śatapatha Brāhmaṇa, 39–40, 45
Satyabhāmā, 140
Sauti’s proclamations about Mahābhārata, 333
secular aspects of Mahābhārata, 5
Śeṣa, 30, 38, 50, 54, 57–58
śiṣtas, 2
Sītā, 141
Śitikaṇtha, 150
Śiva, Lord, 39
anger of, 150–1
associstion with sacrifice, 152–3
Aśvatthāman’s divine transformation, 152–6
Bhīṣma’s deification of, 149
Dakṣa’s sacrifice and, 150
and dharma’s decline, 158–9
dice playing, 157–8
and Draupadī’s marriage, 157–8
conquest of Kanakhala, 150
kathenotheism, 154–5
Ganga’s liberation, 148
mokṣa’s association with, 148–9
as a rival candidate to Viṣṇu, 146–7
theophanies, 147–8
as Vīrabhadra, 150–1
Viṣṇu battling with, 150
Yoga, 148–9
Śiva-Sati myth, 39
Smṛitis, 1, 4
snake sacrifice myth, 25–7, 31, 58–60
evil implications, 50–60
of Kadrū and Vinatā, 43–50
snake, symbolism of, 53–4
for discarding evil, 54
to Mṛtyu/Kāla, 105–6
Śramaṇic cult, 146
Śrauta sarpasattra, 26
Śrutis, 1, 4
Sudarśana, 135–6
śūdras, 67, 90, 112–13, 117–18, 207, 289–90
Sunda and Upasunda, myth of, 84–6
Śvetaketu, 137

Taittirīya Āraṇyaka, 8, 17
Taittirīya Saṃhitā, 45
Takṣaka, 32, 50–52, 54–5

Ulūpī, 55
Urubhaṅgam, 202
Utanka myth, 40–3, 54

Vaiṣṇava brāhmins, 149

Vaiṣṇava creation myth, 149n2
Vaiṣṇavism, 146–9, 280
power struggle between Śaivism, 153–4. See also Śiva; Viṣṇu/Kṛṣṇa
value systems, 5
Vāmana Purāṇa, 8
varṇa division, 289–90, 336
varṇa ideologies, 2, 7
varṇāśrama dharma, 117–22, 287–95
Varuṇa, 32–3, 63, 68–73, 83
Vāsuki, 32, 49, 54
Vedas, 5, 77
Vedic Aryans, 13, 115–16, 128
Vedic divines, 54
Vedic rituals, 111
Vedic Sarasvatī, 8
vengeance and vindication, cycle of, 51
Vidura, 146
Vikarṇa, 255–256
violence, 280
Viṣṇu/Kṛṣṇa, 3, 14, 22–4, 39, 42, 47, 56–7, 75–6, 92, 97–8, 104, 145
 ambiguity of roles, 263
Balarāma and, 267–8
description of Arjuna, 60
dharma and adharma, 259–60, 265–6
Duryodhana vs, 263–7
duty to preserve dharma, 158–9, 263–4
element of mokṣa, 148
hostility between Indra and, 261
Jarāsaṃdha’s birth and killing, 160, 195
as Kāla, 266
Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna’s friendship, 208, 227–30, 235, 271
manipulation of Jayadratha’s death, 271–2
Pāṇḍava–Kaurava conflict, role in, 175–7
protection of Pāncālas, 153
qualities of a mortal, 260
rise to supremacy, 23, 261
Śiśupala death, 268–70
as a theistic divine, 261–5, 272–3, 276
theophanies, 147, 153, 183–4
as utilitarian consequentialist, 275
Varāha (boar) incarnation, 153
in Vedic literatures, 261–2
vināśa, 121
Viśvāmitra, 134–5
Vṛtra, 32–4, 148
Vṛtra, 331
Vyāsa, 4, 100–1, 131–2, 176

women in epic society, 133. see also Draupadī

Bhīṣma’s condemnation of women, 133–134, 141
Yayāti myth, 77–9
Yudhiṣṭhira, 62, 107, 125–6, 128, 130–2
adharma of, 193, 242
analysis of dharma, 282
ascetic qualities, 241, 248
and dice game, 195–6, 246–251
as an embodiment of dharma, 180, 239
incident of lying, 243–5
key sins performed, 239–40, 242–3
morality of, 98–99
relationship with Draupadī, 252, 256–9
as a virtuous man, 240–2
About the Author

Meena Arora Nayak is a scholar of mythology and a novelist. She is the

author of In the Aftermath (1992), About Daddy (2000), The Puffin Book of
Legendary Lives (2004), and Endless Rain (2006), and a forthcoming book
on myths and folktales of India. She is a Professor in the Department of
English at Northern Virginia Community College and lives in Virginia,
USA.