READING SARALA MAHABHARATA TODAY

 

Composed in the fifteenth century in Odia by Sarala Das, Sarala Mahabharata, as it is popularly known, is a remarkably creative retelling of Vyasa's Mahabharata. It is not a translation of Vyasa’s immortal work. Not only Sarala Mahabharata, but all renderings of the Sanskrit Ramayana and Mahabharata in local (“regional”, in today’s terminology) languages in the medieval period were “retellings”, not translations. Sarala Das is called the “Aadi Kavi” of Odia literature. He was not really the first poet in Odia literature, but the first truly great and impactful poet, which is how the phrase “Aadi Kavi” as applied to him must be understood. With Sarala’s Mahabharata,  the rich tradition of Puranic literature in Odia began, and Sarala’s contribution to this tradition is second to none. Sarala is said to be the first poet to retell all eighteen parvas of the Sanskrit Mahabharata, and he is the first non-brahmin poet to do so. He called himself a “shudra”; in our opinion, the best translation of this term in this context would be “non-brahmin. Explaining the logic of this translation is out of place here.

Sarala Das reconceptualised the ancient story of the Kurus (Pandavas and Kauravas, both), and retold it in a way that would embody his understanding of and insights into human nature, the human condition in the world, human relationships, dharma, karma (roughly, action) and its phala (consequences), nature of agency in a pre-determined world, the nature of divine intervention in the affairs of the mortals, the idea of Purna Avatara and much, much else. As he retold the ancient story, he deviated in many ways from the “Received” text, i.e., Vyasa Mahabharata. He deleted episodes, added episodes, modified episodes, among other retelling strategies. He incorporated into his narrative stories and insights from Srimad Bhagavata, Srimad Bhagavad Gita, Shanda Purana and Padma Purana, to name the prominent works, and, very importantly, local tales. In his narration, the local and the classical blended beautifully. His telling was audience-centric, and simplicity was the characteristic feature of his narration. His ideal in this respect is best captured in his own words: kahanara mitha jebe / sunanta loka bujhi ( roughly, the telling is sweet when / the listeners understand it).

A literary work is created in a particular time and place, and if it is a great work, it transcends its spatiotemporal limitations. The reader may belong to another place and another time, which forms his (her / their) view of literature, literary sensibility and taste. The reader may be widely separated from the text in time, as we, the readers of Sarala Mahabharata, are. This situation raises the issue of relevance, and relevance is basically about relatedness – how does the reader relate to the text? So, reading Sarala Mahabharata today is just another way of saying “how relevant is it for the present times?”

Sarala Mahabharata scholarship is about a hundred years old. Generally speaking, this celebrated work has been studied from the perspectives of comparative literature and literary criticism. There is no study of some length and depth as yet, to the best of my knowledge, of the contemporary relevance of this classic of Odia literature. This short article constitutes a humble attempt to initiate the study of the contemporary relevance of this work. It chooses some narratives from the text and analyses them to show their relevance in the present-day context. Incidentally, the episodes that have been chosen are deviations from Vyasa Mahabharata, and these can be viewed as poet Sarala’s innovations.

In Sarala Mahabharata, Krishna is not the last person to try to avoid a conclusive war between the Pandavas and the Kauravas. It is Yudhisthira. This last negotiation did not take place in the Kaurava Court in Hastinapura but on the Kaurava side of the battlefield of Kurukshetra. As the Kaurava and the Pandava armies stood face to face, Krishna, Arjuna’s charioteer, asked Arjuna to attack the enemy. Arjuna refused. He would not attack Bhishma, Drona, Karna, Duryodhana and the others, saying that they were his relatives, preceptors and the like. He told Krishna that he would fight with them only if they attacked him. Krishna didn’t say anything to him and went to Yudhisthira and told him that his brother was unwilling to attack Bhishma, Drona and the others because of his sacred bond with them. Bhima told Krishna that he was willing to attack the Kauravas if he wanted him to. Krishna asked him to attack Dussasana, and he was going to do so when Yudhisthira intervened and told Krishna that Arjuna was right and that he wanted to go to Duryodhana to negotiate peace. Incidentally, Duryodhana was the king and not the crown prince of Hastinapura in Sarala’s narrative. Saying this, he went alone and unarmed to the Kaurava side of the battlefield. Sarala’s depiction of this incident is justified - a brother was going to his brother with peace in mind; so, there was no need to go with someone or go armed.

Duryodhana flatly rejected Yudhisthira’s request for even one village, if giving five villages was unacceptable to him. He told him that he would grant him what he wanted only if the Pandavas surrendered to him. The eldest Pandava realised that war was inevitable. He then suggested Duryodhana, the like of which is not to be found, to the best of my knowledge, in the entire Puranic literature. He said that since it was a fight between the Pandavas and the Kauravas, only the five Pandavas and the hundred Kauravas should fight, and everyone else must leave the battlefield. Duryodhana did not agree, but that’s of no interest for our present purposes.

The basic idea was that only those who would directly benefit from the war must fight. For the rest, it wasn’t their war. When they get killed on the battlefield, the innocents’ blood flows. In Sarala Mahabharata, war is sin. There are absolutely no qualifications to this; there is nothing like “just war” or “dharma yuddha”, based on either the cause of it (injustice done to the victim) or the duty of the warrior (kshatriya dharma).

In the world of Sarala Mahabharata, it was believed that the one who starts the war is the one to whom accrue the sins of the war. But self-protection, when attacked, is not unethical (adharma). That was why Arjuna had refused to start the war. He was not unwilling to kill; he had no problems with killing Bhishma, Drona, Duryodhana and the others. But he would do so only in self-protection. Incidentally, in such a narrative, there is obviously no place for Srimad Bhagavad Gita. It is well known that Sarala Mahabharata does not contain Srimad Bhagavad Gita or Gita-like discourse.

Incidentally, this was not Arjuna’s “personal” dharma. On learning that Krishna had been humiliated in the Kaurava court when he went there as his emissary to negotiate peace with the Kauravas, Yudhisthira asked his brothers to get ready to attack the Kauravas. Dhaumya, the priest of the Kuru family advised Yudhisthira not to do that because the sin of a war accrues to the one who starts the war. He asked Yudhisthira to wait till Duryodhana attacked them.

Although Sarala Mahabharata considers war a sin since the blood of the innocents, that is, of those whose war it is not, as mentioned above, flows, it recognizes that war is a fact of life; that is, wars would be used to resolve political problems. There was one kingdom, and there were two claimants to the throne, and this is an issue which could be finally resolved only on the battlefield. Sarala Mahabharata resolves this contradiction by suggesting that if a war has to take place, its effect must be strictly limited. For instance, subjects must not be harmed, and the destructive power of the weapons must be restricted to the battlefield. Warriors like Arjuna, Bhishma and Ashwashthama had divine weapons which could destroy populations over a very large area, far beyond the battlefields and the natural environment as well. But it was required of them that they must never use them.

In today’s context, it would translate into the non-use of chemical and nuclear weapons against the adversary. “No first use” of these weapons must be viewed as an uncompromising moral imperative. This is one instance of how we, the readers of Sarala’s magnum opus, relate to it. We see in it a problem that is ours, namely war, and a way of dealing with it in a humane way.

Russian invasion of Ukraine started on February 22, 2002 and the Israel – Hamas war started on October 7, 2023 and the wars are still on. Technology has enabled us to experience the wars in some measure in our living rooms. We see civilian areas being targeted, educational institutions, hospitals, dams, roads and similar other public facilities destroyed, innocent people taken as hostages, hungry children and on the roads, dead bodies. These remind us of the insights from Sarala’s work with respect to the need to and the way to keep a war humane. We know the world has changed, but we also must know that the problems of the past are the problems of our times as well. We are aware that the solutions to problems of the past cannot be mechanically applied today. But we relate to the past as we re-live it in some sense today. That’s the relevance of a timeless work like Sarala Mahabharata for us, separated from it by more than five hundred years.

To consider another example. It concerns Sahadeva. In Swargarohana Parva, when the youngest Pandava fell to his death, Yudhisthira told Bhima not to grieve for that sinner. Yudhisthira said that he knew what would happen but would keep mum and not say anything about what he knew to those who it would concern. If he had told him what the game of dice would lead to, things would have been different. Thus, Yudhisthira held him responsible for the devastating war. In this episode, Yudhisthira was not just an individual, the eldest Pandava; he was the embodiment of Dharma in the sense of justice. The message of this episode can be said to be the following: one must share knowledge, which one is privileged to have, with others, especially those who would or could benefit from it. This message transcends time and place. It is as relevant today as it was in the world of Mahabharata.

In Udyoga Parva, as they were preparing for the war, Yudhisthira asked Sahadeva whether the Pandavas would win, in view of the fact that the Kauravas had a much larger army than the Pandavas. He said that he would choose to fight only if he was going to win. If he was not, then there would be no point in straining their relationship with their cousins. Besides, he would not like to be the cause of so many from both sides dying on the battlefield.

Incidentally, Queen Sudeshna had already told the Pandavas in the presence of Krishna that they would win the war. She had also told them who they would lose, but discussion of that is outside the scope of this article. Given this, Yudhishthira’s asking Sahadeva about the outcome of the war might look surprising. One might suggest that now since the war was imminent, the man of virtue wanted to be doubly sure for the reasons mentioned above,

Sahadeva said he knew what would happen, but he was not willing to tell. He said in the seven- day long war with Ravana, Lord Rama was not winning every day. It would be no different for Lord Krishna, that is, the Pandavas. Sahadeva told Yudhisthira that brother Bhima would rejoice on the days of the Pandavas’ victory and would be terribly unhappy on the days the Pandavas would lose. His telling the future would be unsafe for him because brother Bhima would take his anger out on him.  He did not want to suffer. Yudhisthira asked him who else could tell him the outcome of the war. Sahadeva named Bharada. We set aside his fascinating story barring just what he told the Pandavas. He said the Pandavas would win and the Kauravas would lose. After uttering this, he took his last breath, looking at Krishna’ face, and attained swarga.

But the question is whether Sahadeva was right in thinking about Bhima as one who could not accept unpleasant truth. Bhima’s action later proved that Sahadeva was right. When the war ended, the victorious Pandavas and the Pandava women – Kunti, Draupadi and Subhadra – claimed full credit for victory in the war – each of them said that it was solely for him or her that the war was won. As the exchanges were getting increasingly unpleasant, Krishna told them that the living severed head of Belalasena (whose equivalent is Barbarik in some Mahabharata traditions) would resolve the issue, as he had witnessed the war by his grace. Belalasena was Bhima’s son. On being asked by Krishna, the severed head told him that he saw only a Chakra (discus) blazing with the light of a myriad suns moving from side to side, killing fighters from one side now and from the other after that, and that he didn’t see anyone killing anyone else. Feeling badly let down by his son, Bhima was enraged in the extreme and slapped the head hard, killing him. Sahadeva was proved right about Bhima. He was an incorrigible egotist and was incapable of accepting the truth which he found unpleasant. We can state Sahadeva’s position on telling the truth as follows:  those who cannot accept unpleasant truth must not be told the truth, since it can be very unsafe for the teller.

Today we relate to Sahadeva’s story when we think of our conscientious dissenters. What Edward Said says of the intellectual actually applies to the dissenters among them. Most intellectuals are subservient to power for one reason or the other. Only a few of them are dissenters. He has famously said that the intellectual, that is, the dissenter, must “speak truth to power”. Noam Chomsky disagrees. He says that there is no point in speaking truth to power because power already knows the truth. According to him, the dissenter must speak truth to the people, who do not know the truth. Expressing dissent is considered today a moral act.

What both Said and Chomsky have not taken into consideration is the following: the dissenter is unsafe. If he tells the truth to power, power will look upon him as one who has figured out its agenda and, for that reason, a dangerous person since he could expose their designs to the people. So, they would find ways to silence him. If, instead of telling them, the dissenter tells people the truth, they would find him a nuisance and would throttle his voice or him. So, either way, the dissenter has a problem. Now and then in one country or the other, in a democracy or a dictatorship, we read news reports about bloggers being shot, protesters being harassed, sometimes imprisoned, and subjected to violence. When that happens, the dissenter finds himself alone. He works for others, but he receives support from none when he is persecuted by power. This was Sahadeva’s situation. Sahadeva chose not to speak the truth.

Today, when the dissenter speaks out the truth, he is condemned by power. When he does not, he stands condemned in the eyes of the people for not telling the truth, which might have helped them.

In sum, the discussion shows how the present connects with the past. The problems of the past, concerning society, cultures, attitudes, human relationships, and the like are, in their essentials, indeed the problems of the present, different only in their manifestations in a much-changed world. Seeing the past in the present brings clarity to our understanding of our own situation. And that is what, to my mind, the idea of relevance is all about.

 

Notes:

 

1 All references to Sarala Mahabharata in this article are to “Sarala Mahabharata”, published by Sarala Sahitya Sansad, Cuttack, in 2007.

2 The definite article is not used before the titles of the texts here. For example, there is no definite article before Ramayana.  The non-use of this article here is deliberate.

 

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SOME LESSER_KNOWN RITUALS AND PRACTICES IN SHRI JAGANNATH TEMPLE

 

This discussion invites attention to some lesser-known rituals and practices in the Temple of Lord Jagannath in Puri. The Temple is popularly known as Badadeula (Big Temple). It is also called Shrimandira, and some say that “Shri” here refers to goddess Lakshmi. The discussion maintains that “lesser-known” in this context does not mean “less important”. It proposes why it considers these rituals and practices significant.  

 

Goddess Lakshmi’s Jealousy (embodied in a certain ritual in the Jagannath Temple)

There are many Lakshmi-centred compositions in Odia:

“Sudasa Brata katha”, “Manabasa Katha”, “Dhana Manikia Katha”, “Shyamadei Bratakatha”, Lakshmi Purana, “Nityani Gurubara Katha”, “Laksmi Narayana Kali”, and perhaps more. In the last three, Mahaprabhu (Lord) Jagannath figures. Lakshmi Purana and “Laksmi Narayana Kali” are narratives of conflict. Lakshmi Purana is about space. The goddess demands her space within her family and successfully fights for it. “Laksmi Narayana Kali” is the wife’s protest against the indifference and neglect of her spouse, Mahaprabhu Jagannath. “Nityani Gurubara Katha” is about goddess Lakshmi’s caring nature. She is the thoughtful and loving goddess in the story of her elder sister,  Alakshmi, in Kartika Purana. In Sarala Mahabharata, goddess Parvati and goddess Lakshmi quarrel about whose spouse is greater. But in none of the narratives mentioned is Lakshmi jealous.

 In this context, the following practice in the Temple is interesting. It is rooted in goddess Lakshmi’s jealousy: Every morning, Lord Jagannath’s adhara mala of the bada sinhara besha (“besha”, i.e., dress) of the previous night is sent to the goddess (in the Lakshmi temple in the Jagannath Temple compound). But before it is given to her, every tulasi (tulasi leaf) is taken out of it. Lakshmi is jealous of Tulasi. The relationship between Lord Vishnu and Tulasi is part of the episode of Jalandhara's killing. Lord Vishnu violated the virtuous Vrinda, Jalandhara's wife and his ardent devotee, who self-immolated, knowing that she had lost her chastity. Lord Vishnu showered favours on his devotee. She was reborn as the plant “Tulasi”. The Supreme god wears the leaf on his head, and tulasi leaf is indispensable for his worship. In popular view, Tulasi is his spouse. In this ritual, namely, the removal of the tulasi leaf from the adhara mala, Lord Jagannath is considered to be the same as Lord Vishnu.

In the last besha every night, called the badasinghara besha, in which the Deities have shayana (sleep), Lord Jagannath wears “nakha (nail) tulasi”. On each leaf, a bit of Jayadev’s Gita Govinda is written in sandalwood paste. In their badasimhara besha, the Deities wear patta vastra (silk clothes) on which slokas from Gita Govinda are stitched. In Lakshmi’s eyes, Tulasi is her spouse’s other woman. This is the reason behind the ritual of removing tulsi leaves when Lord Jagannath’s garland is offered to goddess Lakshmi.

Lord Jagannath wears tulsi garlands in every besha during the day, the exception being the Abakasa besha (Snana besha). Some garlands are of tulsi leaves without any flowers, and some are long and reach the “Ratnasimhasana”, the mandapa on which he sits. On one side of him is the goddess Sridevi, a form of the goddess Lakshmi( Bhudevi on the other). The tulsi leaves touch her, but that is acceptable in the ritual system. But it conflicts with the removal of tulasi leaves from Lord Jagannath’s garland before it is offered to goddess Lakshmi. However, the ritual system in the Temple does not view it as a contradiction. After all, Shridevi doesn’t wear tulasi. The “no-tulasi restriction” applies to the goddess, worshipped as goddess Lakshmi, in her temple. In the “Lakshmi temple”, she is called “Lakshmi”, not “Sridevi”.

Interestingly, this restriction applies to Lord Jagannath himself during a certain period. He (and Lord Balabhadra, Goddess Subhadra, and Lord Sudarshana) does not wear tulasi during the first ten days of the fifteen-day Anasara period. Neither is tulasi used in any ritual, including food offering to him, during this period. Now, this is very atypical of the worship of Lord Vishnu. Incidentally, during the Anasara period, goddess Sridevi (Bhudevi, too) is not with Jagannath. The tulasi-restriction, even when Sridevi is not with Lord Jagannath, raises questions about identifying  Lord Jagannath with Lord Vishnu. 

Rukmini’s (treated as a form of goddess Lakshmi for at least one ritual in the Temple) uneasiness with the gopis of Srimad Bhagavata has no impact on the ritual system. This may be surprising because Krishna is identified with Jagannath by all sects of  Vaishnavas. Many Krishna-based rituals are part of the rituals in the Jagannath Temple. This fact could lead to meaningful explorations in the cultural history of Odisha with respect to the Radha-centric Vaishnavism. Incidentally, the observance of “Radhastami” in the Temple involves goddess Lakshmi, not Radha. Lord Madanamohana, the representative deity for Lord Jagannath, is not involved in this observance.

The same holds for the “Rasa” in the Gundicha Ghara, where the Deities stay for a week during the Ratha Yatra.  Rasa is Lord Krishna’s leela (divine play) with the gopis in Vrindavan. Rasa is observed on the last three days of the Deities’ stay in Gundicha Ghar. Ignoring details, Gaudiya Vaishnavas view Jagannath as Krishna, and for them, Gundicha Ghar is Vrindavan. But no Agyanmala is given for the Rasa, and Lord Madanamohana is not there. So, Rasa is not part of the Temple's ritual system.  

Lakshmi in the Rai Damodara Besha and Puja (the local tradition resisting the “classical” tradition)

In a local tale, goddess Lakshmi shares her spouse, Lord Jagannath, with his newly married wife, Rai. Some consider Rai a colloquial term for “Radha”. They call the besha “Radha Damodara besha”. It is gaining acceptance increasingly. This shows the power of the classical tradition. The classical tradition assimilates the local tradition. In the local story, Rai is a servitor’s daughter whom Lord Jagannath marries as a favour to his servitor-devotee. He then advises her to please his spouse, Lakshmi, and he tells her that when pleased with her, she would offer her a boon; she must ask her to give him to her. Things happened precisely that way, and the shocked but promise-bound Lakshmi tells her that for a month, including the first 25 days in the holy month of Kartika, she would receive worship with Lord Jagannath, but should then leave him for her. In the holy month of Kartika, Jagannath specially dresses for Rai – this is called the “Rai-Damodara besha” by those who respect the local tradition - during the days she receives worship with Him.  

Like the story of Dasia Bauri Lord (Jagannath receiving his offerings directly, without the involvement of a priest), of Salabega (Lord Jagannath waiting for him in his Ratha), of Balarama Dasa (Rathas would not move until Das returns to the Ratha yatra), then Manika Gauduni, who fed him and his elder brother with curd, and the girl who sang songs from Gita Govinda in the brinjal field at night, and many others of this kind, Rai Damodara is a local story. Such stories, we suggest, should be viewed as resistance narratives against the extremely rich and predominant Jagannath myths of the classical tradition.  

Jagannath’s origins are said to be unknown. He, the relevant narratives say, was worshipped by the tribals. We consider it the most persuasive account, but we are not giving any details in support of our view. But there are always questions.  For instance, in which tribal language is there the word “Jagannath”? After being appropriated by the classical tradition, he must have come to be known as “Jagannath”. Many religions and sects have tried to own Him. Details are out of place here. He was identified as Lord Vishnu. Thus, the stories of Lord Vishnu and his Avataras (such as Vamana, Krishna, and Rama) became his stories. He had none of his own until these local stories, mentioned above, came up: thus, for example, Lord Jagannath (as Jagannath) married Rai, not (as) Krishna or Vishnu. This is important because it sheds light on the processes of “classicalization” (that is, the classical tradition trying to assimilate him) and “de-classicalization” (resisting classicalization through local tales) of Lord Jagannath. The story of Rai can also be viewed as an instance of the local tradition resisting the classical tradition. 

The Driving Out and the Invoking of a Spirit

During the Ratha Yatra, when the Deities return to Sri Mandira after a week’s stay in Gundicha Ghara, the temple is guarded by a spirit, popularly known as “Babana Bhuta (ghost named Babana)”. The day before Ratha Yatra, the followers of the highly revered Sri Chaitanya voluntarily clean the Gundicha Ghara premises, a seva (devotional service) initiated by Chaitanya Mahaprabhu (as his disciples call him) himself about five hundred years ago.  Knowing that the Deities are coming, so goes the legend, the Bhuta leaves the Gundicha Ghara. And as soon as the Deities leave, he returns to keep watch over the temple. This reflects the popular understanding of the ritual of invoking Lord Bhairabha (Bhairava) by a mantra, after the Deities leave. He is the caretaker, as Lord Lokanath is the caretaker of the treasury in the Bada Deula. Unlike the Babana Bhuta of Sarala Mahabharata, this bhuta has not figured in Odia literature, written or oral. Unlike Sarala’s bhuta, which is a malignant spirit, this is not a bhuta; despite being called as such, he is really Lord Bhairava. If this is correct, the caretaker of both Gundicha Ghara and Badadeula is the same. There is no story associated with Babana Bhuta of Gundicha Ghara. Ordinary ghosts have stories (of revenge, protection, terror, etc.) in popular imagination; Lord Shiva’s ghosts have no stories of either revenge or attachment that connect them with the world or the mortals.

Incidentally, there is a practice associated with Babana Bhuta. Traditionally, before partaking Mahaprasada in Gundicha Ghara, one takes out a little arna (rice), dal, etc. for Babana Bhuta. About 60 years ago, this was what my close friend and well-wisher, the Singhari sevaka Sri Bhagirathi Kar, who was in his early twenties, did when, after having Navami darshan, we were going to partake Mahaprasada. I asked him why he did that. He said that it was for Babana Bhuta who guards Gunchicha Ghara when Mahaprabhu is not there. “We must respectfully leave some Mahaprasada for him”, he told me.  

Agyanmala 

Agyanmala (a flower garland that symbolizes Mahaprabhu Jagannath’s permission) is connected with every ritual in which his representative deity is involved. For instance, after receiving the agyanmala from Lord Jagannath, the representative deities go for the Chandan yatra (for boating in the pond called “Narenda Puskarini”. It would not be incorrect to say that after receiving agyanmala from Lord Jagannath, goddess Lakshmi does things in and outside Gundicha Ghara, including breaking a part of his Ratha. When the Nabakalebara of the Deities is to take place, the process starts with agyanmala from the Deities. The agyanmala ritual embodies the idea that everything happens as willed by him, including his own renewal (Nabakalebara). Sridevi (a form of goddess Lakshmi) receives agyanmala from Lord Jagannath's left arm and Madana Mohana (Krishna) from the right arm for the “Rukmini harana (kidnapping of Rukmini)” ritual. This might be an expression of the concept that Lord Jagannath is both male and female. Some other rituals express it even more explicitly. The day before Krishna’s birth, Lord Jagannath is the pregnant mother. He is offered a special bhoga, containing a sour preparation, as the pregnant mother, and the following day he is the newborn Krishna. The same ritual takes place for the birth of Lord Vamana and Lord Ram also. Thus, he is the one who gives birth and also the one who takes birth. This, one might suggest, is implemented in the form of the ritual, Sri Krishna’s declaration in Srimad Bhagavad Gita that he, the Lord, is the father and the mother and the grandfather of the universe (Chapter 9, slokas 16 -17).

The Anasara Rituals (Jagannath Worship before classicalization)

The non-Brahmin Daita servitors do their seva during the Anasara rituals. In brief, during the fifteen-day-long Anasara period, the Deities remain in an enclosed area in the Temple, and apart from Daita sevakas and Patimohapatra sevaka, no one can enter that enclosed space. The Deities are supposed to be suffering from fever; such is the narrative of his leela, and only these servitors do seva (service) to the Deities. The Anasara rituals situate Jagannath worship in the pre-classical tradition.

Now, in addition to Anasara, Snana Yatra, and Ratha Yatra, the Daita servitors perform seva in some other rituals; needless to list them here, in Sri Mandira. When the Daita servitors serve the Deities, Sridevi and Bhudevi are not there with the Deities.

The performance of the rituals stops when Lord Sudarshana leaves Ratnasinhasana for a short period, but this does not happen when Sridevi and Bhudevi are not there on Ratnasinhasana. This shows how (loosely) the goddesses connect to the Deities. Unlike Sudarshana, they are not integral to the worship of Jagannath. In contrast, goddess Sridevi (or Lakshmi) is integrally connected to Lord Vishnu. The question that arises here, as in the case of the tulasi-restriction mentioned above, concerns the connection between Jagannath and Vishnu. There is another question: Is it possible that Sridevi is a later incorporation into the conceptual and ritual systems in the worship of Lord Jagannath?

There is an important ritual that reflects how rituals of different sects co-exist harmoniously. Goddess Bimala is associated with both the tantric and the Vaishnavite sects. Prasad offered to Lord Jagannath becomes “Mahaprasad only after it is offered to the goddess. This might be taken to mean that, despite being a form of Shakti (Parvati), she is a Vaishnavi. This note says nothing about how this happened. Now, on three nights (Mahasaptami to Mahanavami), she is offered non-vegetarian food (fish). That’s a tantric ritual. It conflicts with Vaishnavite belief (Vaishnavites here refer to devotees of Lord Vishnu). This conflict is resolved harmoniously in the following ritual.

On those days, Jagannath’s pahuda (sleeping) rituals take place much earlier than usual. Around midnight, the non-veg food is offered to the goddess. It is brought into the Temple surreptitiously. We skip the details of how it is done when the Temple is closed, once the Pahuda rituals are over. There are other things as well, which we skip. The following morning, before the Temple opens, the entire floor area of the Temple compound is sprinkled with limestone water, which, in ritual terms, is purifying. Then, Mahaprabhu Jagannath’s wake-up rituals take place, and mangala arati is offered to him. That is, whatever unacceptable happened was when he was asleep. This accommodation of the conflicting rituals is non-Vedic, non-Brahminical, non-Vaishnavite, and non-tantric. It then has to be a local innovation of accommodating rituals of conflicting sects, each of which has tried to appropriate Jagannath. Thus, for instance, Jagannath is Lord Vishnu for the Vaishnavites and Lord Bhairava for the Shaktas. This innovation of a ritual that accommodates sharply conflicting rituals embodies the concept of Jagannath as all-embracing. Nothing stands excluded from him. And as such, he is the container of contradictions, and being the container of contradictions,  he transcends all contradictions.

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

A SCHOLARLY APPRAISAL OF PROF B. N. PATNAIK'S ESSAY "THE END OF THE STORY OF BABARAPURI"

 

Dr. Babuli Naik
Associate Professor
Department of English
Motilal Nehru College
University of Delhi
Email: bnaik@mln.du.ac.in

 

Prof. B.N. Patnaik’s essay is a thoughtful and intellectually stimulating engagement with a relatively underexplored episode of the Sarala Mahabharata. It combines literary interpretation, philosophical reflection, and socio-cultural analysis in a manner characteristic of a scholar deeply conversant with both textual traditions and contemporary hermeneutic concerns. At the same time, certain aspects of the argument invite critical scrutiny. A scholarly appraisal may therefore proceed by considering the article’s strengths, interpretive strategies, theoretical implications, and limitations.

1. The Significance of Recovering a Marginal Narrative

One of the essay’s greatest strengths is its recovery of the Babarapuri episode, a narrative largely absent from mainstream discussions of the Mahabharata tradition. By foregrounding a story unique to the Sarala Mahabharata, Professor Patnaik highlights the creativity of regional epic traditions and their capacity to generate meanings absent from the Sanskrit canonical text.

The article implicitly challenges the assumption that regional retellings merely reproduce inherited narratives. Instead, Babarapuri emerges as an instance of imaginative textual innovation. Krishna's invention of a city and its destruction functions as a rhetorical device rather than a recollection of historical or mythic memory. Patnaik's observation that Krishna appears to create the city and its history "in the court itself" is particularly insightful, as it shifts attention from narrative content to narrative performance.

From a literary perspective, Babarapuri resembles what modern narratologists might call a "parable" or an "embedded allegory”, a story embedded within another to illuminate a moral, political, or existential truth.

2. Krishna as Storyteller and Hermeneutic Problem

The essay's most sophisticated contribution is its discussion of Krishna's communicative intention. Professor Patnaik asks whether the story is:

• a prediction of inevitable destruction, or
• a warning designed to alter future conduct.

This distinction is not merely literary but philosophical. It invokes the classical tension between determinism and agency, and between fate and ethical responsibility.

The discussion recalls major debates in hermeneutics, especially those associated with thinkers such as Wilhelm Dilthey, Hans-Georg Gadamer, and Paul Ricoeur. Meaning depends partly on authorial intention, yet that intention is often inaccessible.

Professor Patnaik wisely notes that the problem becomes even more complex when the speaker is Krishna. The traditional conception of Krishna as an avatar renders his intentions fundamentally inscrutable, leaving ordinary hermeneutic methods inadequate.

The essay's conclusion that the "prediction" interpretation is more consistent with Krishna's avataric role in the Sarala Mahabharata is plausible, though not entirely persuasive. One could argue that the very act of diplomatic intervention presupposes the possibility of change. Why negotiate if the outcome is fixed? Krishna's mission itself seems to imply residual human agency. The text may therefore sustain both readings simultaneously, creating a productive ambiguity rather than demanding a definitive choice.

3. Fear as a Social and Psychological Force

The most original section of the essay is arguably its interpretation of Kokuaa.

Professor Patnaik moves beyond mythological explanation and treats Kokuaa as a symbol of fear. This reading transforms the episode from a moral tale into a profound meditation on collective psychology.

Several features support his interpretation.

• Nobody has actually seen Kokuaa;
• descriptions of it vary wildly;
• fear spreads through rumour rather than through direct experience;
• Social collapse results not from an external enemy but from internal panic.

The analysis here is strikingly modern. It anticipates insights from crowd psychology, moral panic theory, and social constructionism.

One is reminded of Gustave Le Bon’s work on crowd behaviour or of contemporary studies on misinformation and mass hysteria. Kokuaa functions much like an imaginary threat, whose power derives from collective belief rather than from objective reality.

The destruction of Babarapuri thus becomes an allegory of self-destruction fuelled by fear. The city does not die because it is attacked, but because its inhabitants internalise terror.

This interpretation is particularly relevant in contemporary societies characterised by rumour-driven politics, media-induced anxieties, and digitally amplified fears.

4. The Sociological Reading of Family and Kinship

Professor Patnaik's final argument concerns family, lineage, and social cohesion. He suggests that Babarapuri's unrestricted sexual practices prevent the formation of enduring family structures, leaving the population without emotional bonds. Consequently, when a crisis strikes, no care network exists to preserve social order.

This reading reflects a classic sociological insight: social institutions foster solidarities that enable collective survival.

The argument is internally coherent. However, it is also the most debatable point in the essay.

Several questions arise:

1. Does the narrative itself explicitly establish a causal link between sexual freedom and social collapse?
2. Is the interpretation shaped more by traditional normative assumptions than by textual evidence?
3. Could alternative forms of social organisation exist outside lineage-based structures?

Contemporary anthropology would likely challenge the notion that stable social bonds necessarily depend on conventional family arrangements. Many societies build durable solidarities through institutions beyond kinship.

Therefore, while Patnaik's interpretation is consistent with the ethical framework of the epic tradition, it should perhaps be regarded as one possible reading rather than the definitive account of Babarapuri's destruction.

5. Political Philosophy of the Narrative

The article also contains an implicit political theory.

The destruction of Babarapuri shows that civilisations are often undone by internal contradictions rather than by external enemies. Krishna explicitly tells Duryodhana that the Kauravas will perish not because of foreign invasion but because of arrogance, greed, and folly.

This theme resonates strongly with many historical analyses of civilisational decline. From ancient empires to modern nation-states, internal fragmentation is often more destructive than external threats.

Professor Patnaik correctly identifies this dimension, though he does not develop it in depth. One could fruitfully connect the episode to broader traditions of political thought on hubris, moral decay, and self-destruction.

6. Methodological Observations

From a scholarly standpoint, the essay draws on several interpretive approaches:

• textual analysis,
• philosophical reflection,
• psychological interpretation,
• sociological speculation.

Its interdisciplinary richness is one of its strengths. Yet this strength also creates methodological tensions.

At times, the essay moves seamlessly from textual observation to sociological conclusion without fully articulating the intermediate steps. For example, the discussion of family structure relies heavily on inference rather than on explicit textual evidence.

Similarly, the shift from literary narrative to psychological theory would benefit from engagement with established conceptual frameworks.

Nevertheless, because the piece is clearly intended as a reflective essay rather than a strictly academic article, such movements are understandable and often intellectually productive.

 

 

Overall Assessment

Prof. Patnaik's essay is a learned and reflective meditation on a neglected episode in the Sarala Mahabharata. Its principal achievement is to reveal the philosophical depth of the Babarapuri narrative and to show that even a seemingly minor story can illuminate enduring questions about fear, destiny, social cohesion, and political decline.

The essay is particularly successful in:

• highlighting the narrative ingenuity of the Sarala Mahabharata;
• exploring the hermeneutic problem of Krishna's intention;
• interpreting Kokuaa as a symbolic embodiment of collective fear;
• connecting mythological narrative with universal human concerns.

Its principal limitation is the tendency to move from textual description to normative sociological conclusions without sufficient critical distance. The argument concerning family, sexuality, and social collapse is suggestive but not fully substantiated and would benefit from engagement with alternative anthropological perspectives.

In sum, the article exemplifies a humanistic mode of scholarship that treats epic literature not as a relic of the past but as a living resource for reflecting on contemporary human experience. Its greatest contribution is perhaps a reminder that societies often perish not from the force of external enemies but from internal fears, divisions, and failures, a lesson as relevant today as it was in Krishna's imagined city of Babarapuri.

 

THE END OF THE STORY OF BABARAPURI

 

In “Sarala Mahabharata”, on Yudhisthira’s request, Lord Krishna went to Duryodhana to negotiate peace between the Kauravas and their cousin Pandavas, who had a shared childhood, grew up with the same values, and were educated under the same preceptor. He went to his royal court to meet Duryodhana, the Kaurava king. Far from being accorded the traditional courtesies due to an emissary, he faced humiliation in his court. After standing for a long time outside the court waiting to be allowed to enter, he was made to wait a long time before being offered a seat in the court. He told Duryodhana that his kingdom would meet the same fate as Babarapuri.

 

No one in the court had heard of the city. The wise Bhishma requested Krishna to tell them about the city. No one had heard of the city because Krishna created it and its story in the court itself. That is how I understand the episode in Sarala Mahabharata. Bhandeswara (“the king of cheats”) was the king there, and Baibhanda (roughly, “crazy cheat”), his minister. The naked Andia, whose hair was unkempt, was the presiding deity of the city. It was a city where life was the very opposite of what was regarded as “civilized” in those days.

 

For instance, works on cheating were respected and read. Cheats and liars were honoured, and the honest were killed. Men and women moved naked in that city, and when they wore something, they wore it to cover only their heads. Sex was uninhibited. People had sex whenever they liked, wherever they liked and with whosoever they liked, unconcerned even about whether they had blood or any social relations with them. It was a very prosperous city. It had no enemies. We will not say anything more about life in the city, because our interest is in its destruction.

 

One day, all of a sudden, a weird thing happened. A strange voice said that Kokuaa had arrived. In no time, kokuaa fear engulfed the city. People stayed at home, not venturing out even during the daytime. Rumours about Kokuaa spread all over the city. Some said they had seen the terrible creature and that it had seven eyes; others said it had a huge body and its head touched the sky. Some said other frightening things. None had really seen this creature. Unable to bear intense fear and high tension, one day, people came out and fought among themselves on the streets like mad.  They started killing, and soon there was no one alive. The city was dead.

 

“This is the story of Babarapuri”, Krishna told Bhishma in the Kaurava court. Duryodhana’s kingdom was like Babarapuri, he added. The arrogant Kauravas would be destroyed the way Babarapuri was, Krishna said. No enemy from outside would kill them; their arrogance, greed and foolishness would.

 

What was Krishna’s message? Was the narrative a way of telling the Kauravas what was to come? That is, is that a prediction? In that case, that was destiny. Unalterable. There was no room for human agency. Or, was it a warning? In that case, if the right action is taken, the result would be different; if Duryodhana accommodated the Pandavas’ demand, then the consequences for Hastinapura would not be the same as for Babarapuri. Between the prediction and the warning interpretations, which would be the correct meaning of what Krishna had said? The meaning of his act, namely, telling the story, was his message. Now, to arrive at the meaning of what the speaker said, it is necessary to know his intention. To fathom the intention of ordinary mortals in an act of communication is impossible, be it verbal or non-verbal. But we need to do it, and what we end up with is an assumption, and with that, we try to make sense of the speaker’s utterance. But Krishna’s case is different. Inscrutable are his words and doings, as goes the ancient wisdom. So, we are not inclined to engage in the futile attempt to work out the Avatara’s intentions. In our opinion, between the two meanings, the “prediction” meaning would be the correct one, taking into account Krishna’s Avataric purpose as conceptualised in the Sarala Mahabharata.  

 

If Krishna was telling Duryodhana and his court about what was to come, it made absolutely no impact on King Duryodhana and his brothers. If he was telling them that the worst could be averted if they changed their attitude towards the Pandavas and treated them as their own cousins, and were ready to help them live in dignity. Duryodhana seemed to have read Krishna’s words in this sense, that is, as a warning. He responded to Krishna’s words that his kingdom was like Babarapuri by asking him why he had come. Let us leave the matter of Krishna and Duryodhana here.

 

The story can be read as an explication of fear. Fear to be experienced needs an “expression” in some form, material or non-material. Kokua was just that. Its source was unknown, and it was not a physical entity; if it were so, the description of its physical features would not have varied so much. Kokua was an individual mental construction. The conflicting descriptions intensified the individual and the collective fear. Frenzied fear gives rise to great tension, and overwhelming fear thrives in such tension. This is what could be a reasonable description of what happened in Babarapuri. Unable to bear the consuming tension, as the people of the city came out of their homes and talked, each differing from the other, there would have been the clash of ego, which, in the fitting condition created by fear and tension, expressed itself in violent action.

 

As mentioned above, sex was uninhibited in Babarapuri. The partner could be anybody. The urge satisfied, they left – went their own way. Under such a situation, there would be a population, but no parivar (family), so no kula (lineage). Where there is no family and no lineage, there is no tender relationship of bonding, caring, nurturing, protecting, concern and affection. A loveless population, where the world of an individual is the individual himself, is bound to perish under its own weight.

 

If those who belong to a family and have a lineage refuse to honour kula dharma (family commitments), like Duryodhana, who was unwilling to help his cousins to live a life of dignity after they had suffered for a long twelve years in the forest, would perish. Through the story of Babarapuri, was Krishna telling Duryodhana this, as well?

 

CRITICAL ANALYSIS OF PROFESSOR B.N.PATNAIK'S POST "KRISHNA'S LAST DECEIT"

 

Dr. Babuli Naik
Associate Professor
Department of English
Motilal Nehru College
University of Delhi
Email: bnaik@mln.du.ac.in

1. Introduction: The Problem of Deceit in Sarala’s Krishna

The blog offers a bold and provocative reading of Krishna in Sarala Mahabharata. It does not present Krishna merely as the divine guide, the protector of dharma, or the compassionate friend of Arjuna. Instead, it places deceit at the centre of Krishna’s character and asks us to think seriously about the ethical unease surrounding his actions. The discussion begins by reminding us that Krishna often uses deceit in Sarala’s epic. He helps bring about the Kurukshetra war by making demands that Duryodhana cannot accept. He advises the use of unfair methods in the killing of Drona, Karna, Duryodhana, and Jayadratha. He also causes the destruction of Jujutsu, the last surviving son of Dhritarashtra, despite the Pandavas’ moral duty to protect him. The blog, therefore, refuses to soften Krishna’s conduct into easy piety. It asks a difficult question: if deceit appears repeatedly in Krishna’s actions, how should we understand his final deceit at the moment of death?

2. Krishna’s Last Deceit: Why the Final Act Matters

The phrase “last deceit” is crucial because the blog treats Krishna’s final act not as a casual episode but as a deeply meaningful moment. A last act carries symbolic weight. It gathers a character’s whole life into one final gesture. In this case, Krishna’s last deceit is special for several reasons. It leads directly to his own death. Its victim is Arjuna, the person closest to him. It also differs from his earlier acts of deception because, this time, Krishna seems to act primarily for himself. Earlier, his deceit could be defended as necessary for the Pandavas, for dharma, or for the cosmic purpose of alleviating the earth's burden. But here, the immediate concern appears to be Krishna’s own departure from the mortal world.

This makes the episode morally unsettling. Wounded by Jara’s arrow, Krishna asks Arjuna to come near him. Arjuna refuses to touch him because Sahadeva has warned him not to. Krishna then appeals to emotion, memory, friendship, obligation, and gratitude. When Arjuna still resists, Krishna asks him at least to extend his bow. Arjuna agrees. Krishna touches the bow and dies. On the surface, the scene appears tender and tragic. Beneath the surface, however, the blog detects manipulation. Krishna knows why Arjuna is refusing. He also knows how to overcome that refusal. The final touch is therefore secured through persuasion that borders on deceit.

 

 

3. Arjuna as Friend, Victim, and Instrument

The most painful aspect of this episode is that the deceived person is Arjuna. Krishna and Arjuna share one of the most intimate relationships in the Mahabharata tradition. They are friends and guides, charioteers and warriors, divine speakers and human listeners. The Bhagavad Gita itself arises from this relationship. In Sarala’s version, however, this sacred friendship becomes morally complicated at the end. Arjuna does not realise that Krishna is deceiving him. He hears the voice of a dying friend seeking comfort and cannot easily suspect manipulation in such a situation.

The blog rightly notes that deceit is hard to detect because it does not always leave visible marks. A false appeal may sound exactly like a sincere one. Krishna’s words sound natural because a dying person may genuinely ask for the touch of a beloved friend. His reminder of what he has done for Arjuna also sounds emotionally plausible. This is what makes the scene disturbing. Arjuna is not foolish. He has seen Krishna deceive others before. Yet he cannot imagine that he himself would be the target of such deceit. The episode, therefore, exposes a painful truth about intimacy. We are often most vulnerable to those we trust most deeply.

4. The Ethics of Divine Manipulation

A major strength of the blog is its willingness to examine the ethical ambiguity of Krishna’s conduct. It does not quickly excuse him in the name of divinity. It first allows the discomfort to stand. If Krishna has repeatedly used deceit, the moral question cannot be avoided. Can divine purpose justify unethical means? Does the protection of dharma permit the violation of ordinary moral rules? If Krishna deceives to serve a cosmic order, does that make his deceit righteous, or does it render dharma itself morally problematic?

The blog’s argument becomes especially interesting because Krishna’s final deceit does not clearly serve a public cause. It does not save the Pandavas. It does not defeat evil. It does not prevent a greater disaster. It enables Krishna’s own departure. This is why the episode feels different from earlier battlefield strategies. The earlier deceits can be defended as tragic necessities in a violent world. The final deceit seems more private, more intimate, and more self-directed. The blog uses this difference to bring Krishna down from the easy pedestal of devotional certainty and to place him within the complex moral world of Sarala’s epic.

5. Violence, Karma, and the Irony of Krishna’s Death

The blog also reads Krishna’s death as an ironic return of violence. Krishna, who has caused and enabled so much violence, finally dies violently. He is struck by an arrow shot by Jara, though the killing is unintended. This does not imply a simple moral equivalence, because Krishna’s violence was often deliberate, whereas Jara’s act is accidental. Yet the irony remains powerful. The one who shaped the violence of Kurukshetra is not exempt from it.

This is one of the blog’s most philosophically suggestive insights. Krishna seems surprised by his suffering. He wonders whether this is what Prajapati had ordained for him. The moment reveals the avatar’s vulnerability in human form. He is divine, yet he suffers. He guides history, yet he is caught within it. He directs violence, yet he is touched by it. In this sense, Sarala’s Krishna is not a distant, untouchable deity. He is a divine being who accepts the consequences of embodiment. The blog could have developed this further through the concept of lila, but it already points to the paradox of divine vulnerability.

6. Sahadeva’s Warning and the Knowledge of the End

Sahadeva’s role is brief yet significant. He tells Arjuna not to touch Krishna, though he does not explain why. This silence is characteristic of Sahadeva across many epic traditions, where knowledge does not always become speech. He knows, or at least senses, that contact with Krishna will have a decisive consequence. Yet his warning is incomplete, offering Arjuna a rule without its rationale.

This incomplete knowledge creates the scene’s dramatic tension. Arjuna obeys the warning at first, but he does not fully grasp what he is resisting. Krishna understands more than Arjuna. He sees through Sahadeva’s warning and Arjuna’s hesitation. The episode, therefore, becomes a contest between partial and complete knowledge. Arjuna knows enough to refuse touch, but not enough to understand Krishna’s need. Krishna knows both the warning and the hidden necessity behind it. This difference in knowledge allows Krishna to deceive Arjuna.

7. The Mystery of Contact: Krishna and Arjuna as Incomplete Selves

The blog finally offers a deeper explanation that moves beyond ordinary morality. Krishna must touch Arjuna because a part of Krishna resides in Arjuna and must be withdrawn before Krishna can leave his mortal form. This is the blog's most profound interpretive move. It suggests that the Krishna-Arjuna relationship is not merely emotional, political, or pedagogical. It is ontological. Their bond touches the very structure of being.

If Krishna cannot depart without contact with Arjuna, his deceit is more than manipulation. It becomes a necessary act of completion. Krishna must gather himself back into himself. Arjuna is not merely his friend. He carries a part of Krishna’s force, presence, or divine energy. This reading gives the episode a metaphysical depth that the earlier moral reading alone cannot provide. It also explains why Krishna wants Arjuna alone, not Yudhisthira, Bhima, Nakula, or Sahadeva. The final contact is not social comfort. It is cosmic withdrawal.

8. Krishna as Man and God

The blog’s final insight is that Krishna must be seen as both man and God. Seeing him only as a man misses his divinity, and seeing him only as God misses the drama of his human life. This is the most balanced and academically valuable part of the analysis. Sarala’s Krishna cannot be reduced to either a moral trickster or an untouched divine absolute. He is both. His humanity makes his actions ethically troubling, while his divinity gives them metaphysical meaning.

This double vision is essential to understanding Krishna in Sarala Mahabharata. As a man, he deceives, suffers, persuades, manipulates, and dies. As a god, he operates within a cosmic design beyond human grasp. The blog asks us to hold both truths together. This is not easy, yet precisely that difficulty makes Sarala’s Krishna so compelling. He does not fit into simple categories of good and evil, pure and impure, or honest and deceptive. He belongs to a world where divine purpose moves through human ambiguity.

 

 

9. Strengths of the Blog

The blog's greatest strength is its courage in confronting Krishna’s moral ambiguity. It does not hide behind devotional simplification, nor does it turn every questionable act into an immediate act of divine wisdom. Instead, it allows discomfort to be the starting point for interpretation. This gives the piece intellectual seriousness.

Another strength is its close attention to narrative detail. The blog notices the small but significant movements in the episode: Jara’s grief, Yudhisthira’s permission, Sahadeva’s warning, Arjuna’s hesitation, Krishna’s emotional appeal, the extension of the bow, and the final touch. These details are not treated as decorative. They form the basis for philosophical interpretation.

The blog is also strong in its treatment of deception as a mode of communication. It recognises that deceit is not always loud or obvious. It may appear as tenderness, memory, emotional appeal, or even friendship. This makes the analysis psychologically astute and humanly convincing.

10. Areas That Could Be Developed Further

A more extended academic version of the blog could develop several points further. First, it could distinguish more clearly between Vyasa’s Krishna and Sarala’s Krishna. The blog is clearly concerned with the Sarala Mahabharata, but a comparative frame would make the distinctiveness of Sarala’s version more evident. Second, the concept of deceit could be examined more philosophically. Is deceit always unethical, or can it be a tool of divine necessity? Is Krishna’s deception a moral flaw, a strategic instrument, or part of avataric play?

Third, the blog could explore the relationship between deceit and lila. If Krishna is the divine actor, his actions may belong to a larger theatre of cosmic play. Yet this should not erase the pain of those deceived. A strong academic reading would hold both together: the cosmic scale of Krishna’s actions and the human cost of his methods. Fourth, Arjuna’s loss of power after Krishna’s death deserves fuller treatment. It suggests that Arjuna’s heroism was never entirely his own. His strength was sustained by Krishna’s presence. This has major implications for understanding agency in the epic.

11. Humanising the Reading: The Pain of the Last Moment

What makes the episode deeply moving is that it is not only about theology or deceit. It is also about the final moment between two friends. Krishna is dying. Arjuna is grieving. Both are caught between love, obedience, fear, and destiny. Krishna wants contact. Arjuna wants to obey the warning. Neither is emotionally free. The scene is painful because it turns friendship into a site of uncertainty. Arjuna cannot know whether he is being faithful or cruel. Krishna cannot depart without drawing Arjuna into the final act.

This human dimension is essential. Without it, the episode would be nothing more than a theological puzzle. With it, the episode takes a tragic turn. The divine friend must deceive the human friend to complete his own departure. The human friend becomes the medium of that departure, unaware of his role. Sarala’s genius lies in crafting a scene where affection and manipulation, divinity and helplessness, and intimacy and cosmic necessity coexist.

12. Conclusion: Deceit, Divinity, and the Mystery of Krishna

The blog offers a powerful reading of Krishna’s final act in Sarala Mahabharata. Its central achievement is showing that Krishna’s deceit cannot be dismissed as a minor narrative device. It is integral to the very structure of his character in Sarala’s epic. He is the divine strategist whose actions disturb ordinary morality. He is the friend who deceives the friend he loves most. He is the avatar who suffers a violent death. He is the ultimate knower who cannot be deceived by Arjuna’s excuses. He is also the dying figure who needs contact to become complete.

The blog’s lasting value lies in refusing to simplify Krishna. It does not reduce him to a mere villain of deceit or a mere god beyond judgment. It asks us to see him in his full paradox. Krishna’s final deceit is morally troubling, emotionally painful, and metaphysically necessary. In that complexity lies the greatness of Sarala’s vision. The episode reminds us that the divine, when it enters human history, does not remain untouched by ambiguity. It acts, suffers, deceives, loves, and departs. Krishna’s final act is therefore not merely an act of deceit. It is also an act of withdrawal, completion, and mystery.