A NOTE ON SOME LESSER-KNOWN RITUALS AND PRACTICES IN SRI JAGANNATH TEMPLE

 This note 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 Srimandira, and some say that “Sri” here refers to goddess Lakshmi. The note is about the significance of these rituals and practices.  

 

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

There are many Lakshmi-centred texts 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, Sri 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 her caring nature. She is the caring 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 texts mentioned is Lakshmi jealous, not even in Srimad Bhagavata.

 In this context, the following practice in the Temple is interesting. It is about 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 goddess Lakshmi (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 would wear the leaf on his head, and the tulasi leaf would be indispensable for his worship. In popular belief, Tulasi is his spouse.

Every night in the last besha (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. Incidentally, for many months, in the same besha, the Deities wear 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), and sometimes they are purely of tulsi leaves with no flowers and are long, so they touch the “Ratnasimhasana”, the mandapa on which he sits. On one side of him is the goddess Shridevi, a form of the goddess Lakshmi( Bhudevi on the other). The tulsi leaves touch her, but that is acceptable. Now, it conflicts with the removal of tulasi leaves from Lord Jaganath’s garland before it is offered to goddess Lakshmi. But 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.

Interestingly, it 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 Tulasithere on the Ratnasimhasana used in any ritual, including the 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 on the Ratnasimhasana, raises questions about conceptualizing Lord Jagannath as a form of Lord Vishnu. 

Rukmini’s (treated as a form of 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.

Lakshmi in the Rai Damodara Besha and Puja (the local tradition resisting the “great” 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”.  This shows the power of the great tradition. The great tradition assimilates the small tradition. In the local story, Rai is a servitor’s daughter whom Lord Jagannath marries as a favour to his 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 might suggest, “de-classicalize” the Jagannatha myths and throw light on the de-classicalization process of Jagannath worship. (The most recent example of this process involves the non-touching of the Deities.)

Jagannath’s origins are unknown. He, the relevant narratives say, was worshipped by the tribals. We consider it the most persuasive account, but it requires details. For instance, in which tribal language is there the word “Jagannath”? He must have been “Brahminized” or “Hinduized”, and surely only then did he come to be known as “Jagannath”. Many religions and sects have tried to appropriate 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, Lord Jagannath (as Jagannath) married Rai, not (as) Krishna or Vishnu. This is important because it sheds light on the process of “classicalization” (the Sanatana dharma – centric great tradition assimilating him) and “de-classicalization” (through local tales forming part of the repertoire of his stories) of Lord Jagannath. The story of Rai can also be viewed as the local tradition resisting the great 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 a small temple called “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 greatly revered Sri Chaitanya voluntarily clean the Gundicha Ghara premises, a seva (devotional service) initiated by Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu 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, the Bhuta 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, then the caretaker of both temples of Jagannath (Gundicha Ghara and the Great Temple) is the same, and for either, there is no story. Ordinary ghosts have stories associated with them (of revenge, protection, terror, etc.) in popular imagination; on the other hand, Lord Shiva’s ghosts have no stories of either revenge or attachment that connect them with the world or the mortals.

 

Agyanmala 

Agyanmala (a flower garland that symbolizes Mahaprabhu Jagannath’s permission) is associated with every ritual in which a deity, who represents him, is involved. For instance, after receiving the agyanmala from Lord Jagannath, the representative deities go for the Chandan yatra. After receiving agyanmala from Lord Jagannath, goddess Lakshmi breaks 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 suggests a concept of Lord Jagannath: everything happens as per his wish, 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 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 (the non-Brahminical features in Jagannath worship)

The Daita servitors, the non-bramins, participate in the Anasara rituals. During the fifteen-day-long Anasara period, the Deities stay 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 leela (divine play), and only these servitors perform service to the Deities. In addition to Anasara and Ratha Yatra, the Daita servitors perform seva in some other rituals in Sri Mandira. When the Daita servitors serve the Deities, Sridevi and Bhudevi are not there with the Deities. Now, the rituals stop when Lord Sudarshana leaves the Ratnasinhasana (the mandapa on which the Deities are seated in the garva griha or sanctum sanctorum) for a short period, but this does not happen when Sridevi and Bhudevi are not there on the Ratnasinhasana. This shows how (loosely) the goddesses connect to the Deities. Unlike Sudarshana, they are not integral to the concept 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, is the nature of the relation 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. Prsasad offered to Jagannath becomes “Mahaprasad (literally, “great food”)” 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 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. That is, whatever unacceptable happened, happened 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 tried to appropriate Jagannath. Thus, for instance, Jagannath is Lord Vishnu for the Vaishnavites and Maha Bhirava for the Shaktas. This innovation embodies the concept of Jagannath as all-embracing. As such, he is the container of contradictions, and as such, he transcends the 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.

 

CRITICAL ANALYSIS OF PROFESSOR B. N. PATNAIK'S BLOG POST ON "YUDHISTHIRA IN SARALA MAHABHARATA"

 

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

1. Introduction: Yudhisthira and the Moral Centre of the Epic

The blog offers a thoughtful, morally sensitive reading of Yudhisthira in Sarala Mahabharata. Its central concern is not merely to retell an episode from the epic but to understand why Yudhisthira holds an exceptional place in Sarala’s moral imagination. The discussion opens with a striking episode from the Karna Parva, in which Draupadi appears in a terrifying form after Dussasana’s killing. She is no longer merely the humiliated queen seeking justice. She becomes an embodiment of death, rage, and cosmic destruction. Her declaration that she would destroy almost everyone, sparing only Yudhisthira, becomes the blog's central interpretive moment. This exception is not accidental. It suggests that Yudhisthira is protected not by physical strength, political authority, or divine favour alone, but by his deep identification with dharma. The blog, therefore, shifts the focus from heroic violence to ethical endurance and from the spectacle of war to the silent survival of moral truth.

2. Draupadi as the Goddess of Death and Destruction

One of the blog's most powerful aspects is its treatment of Draupadi. In this episode, she appears in a form that disrupts the familiar image of Draupadi as wife, queen, and victim of injustice. Her licking of Dussasana’s blood and her desire to devour the Pandavas and Krishna’s clan push her beyond ordinary human emotion. She becomes a symbolic figure of destructive energy. Her anger is not merely personal. It is the accumulated force of humiliation, violation, and moral disorder. Sarala’s imagination transforms Draupadi’s wounded dignity into a terrifying metaphysical presence.

This reading is important because it allows us to see Draupadi not merely as an angry woman, but as the embodiment of a moral wound that has become cosmic. Her rage is the rage of violated justice. Her destructive desire reveals what happens when dharma is wounded beyond repair. Yet even in this terrifying form, she spares Yudhisthira. This act gives the blog its philosophical depth. If Draupadi represents death, her refusal to touch Yudhisthira means that death itself recognises something deathless in him. That deathless principle is dharma.

 

 

3. Why Yudhisthira Is Spared

The question at the heart of the blog is simple yet profound: why does Draupadi spare Yudhisthira? The answer lies in the blog’s understanding of Yudhisthira as the earthly embodiment of dharma. He is not spared because he is the eldest Pandava. He is not spared because he is a king. He is not spared because he is protected by Krishna. He is spared because his life, despite its failures and sufferings, is dedicated to dharma in thought, word, and deed.

The blog’s argument gains philosophical depth when it asks how dharma can die. Yudhisthira is mortal, yet the principle he represents is not. In Sarala’s vision, he becomes more than a character, a moral principle in human form. His survival is therefore symbolic, suggesting dharma’s victory over death. It also suggests that true dharma is not merely ritual, law, kingship, or social duty. Rather, it is compassion, truthfulness, restraint, empathy, and responsibility toward others.

4. Yudhisthira’s Compassion as True Dharma

The blog is particularly strong in showing that Yudhisthira’s greatness lies in compassion. He is often misunderstood as weak because he does not fit the conventional model of heroic masculinity. He does not rejoice in war. He does not celebrate the humiliation of his enemies. He does not treat victory as a mark of moral innocence. Even after all the suffering Duryodhana has caused, he continues to see him not only as an enemy but also as a relative. When Bhima insults and kicks the dying Duryodhana, Yudhisthira is deeply disturbed. He speaks to Duryodhana with the tenderness of an elder brother addressing a younger one who has gone astray.

This is where the blog offers a significant reinterpretation of Yudhisthira. His compassion is not a political weakness but an ethical strength. He knows the cost of violence and understands that victory won through destruction cannot erase grief. His refusal to become king after the war shows that he cannot separate political success from moral responsibility. For him, kingship is not glory but a burden. This makes his character deeply tragic and human.

5. The Loneliness of Dharma

A major insight of the blog is its emphasis on Yudhisthira’s loneliness. This loneliness is not merely emotional. It is ethical and philosophical. He is surrounded by brothers, a wife, allies, and divine support, yet he remains alone in his deepest moral convictions. His mother does not fully understand his compassion. His brothers often find his generosity toward the Kauravas impractical. Draupadi desires war when he seeks peace. Krishna reveres him but does not always follow his wishes.

This creates a painful irony. Yudhisthira is honoured as the embodiment of dharma, yet he is seldom obeyed. He is respected, but not always trusted. He is morally central, yet practically isolated. The blog captures this condition with sensitivity. It suggests that a person committed to dharma may often find himself alone, especially in a world governed by ambition, revenge, and power. Yudhisthira’s loneliness, therefore, becomes the loneliness of moral consciousness itself.

6. Krishna, Divine Strategy, and Moral Ambiguity

The blog’s treatment of Krishna is intellectually provocative. Krishna bows to Yudhisthira and shows him reverence, yet he also acts in ways that contradict Yudhisthira’s deepest wish for peace. When Yudhisthira sends Krishna as his emissary to avert war, Krishna’s actions ultimately make war unavoidable. From a worldly point of view, this may appear to be betrayal. From a divine perspective, it may be part of a larger cosmic design.

This tension is one of the blog's most complex aspects. It shows that the epic world does not offer simple moral answers. Krishna embodies divine purpose, yet that purpose does not always seem gentle from a human perspective. Yudhisthira embodies moral transparency, while Krishna embodies strategic necessity. The blog could have developed this contrast further, but its insight is valuable. It shows that dharma in the epic does not operate in a pure, uncomplicated world. It must pass through strategy, violence, sorrow, and ambiguity.

 

7. Draupadi’s Rage and the Question of Gender

While the blog offers a powerful account of Draupadi as the goddess of destruction, it could have explored more deeply the gendered meaning of her rage. Draupadi’s anger does not arise in a vacuum. It stems from humiliation, public violation, and the failure of male authority to protect her dignity. Her destructive form can therefore be read not only as death but also as a fierce indictment of patriarchal violence.

If Yudhisthira represents compassion as dharma, Draupadi may embody wounded justice as another form of dharma. The blog privileges Yudhisthira’s compassionate ethics, but a fuller academic reading may ask whether righteous anger also has a place in restoring moral order. Is dharma only forgiveness and empathy, or can it also include fierce resistance to injustice? This question does not weaken the blog. Rather, it opens a broader field of interpretation.

8. Yudhisthira and the Ethics of Power

The blog makes an important point that dharma needs the support of power. Without power, dharma may remain ineffective. Yudhisthira needs Krishna and his brothers. Yet power also brings danger. It can protect dharma, but it can also distort it. The war is fought in the name of justice, yet it leaves behind enormous destruction. This creates one of the epic's deepest paradoxes.

Yudhisthira stands at the centre of this paradox. He needs power to restore moral order, yet he is wounded by the violence required to achieve it. His discomfort after victory shows he does not mistake success for righteousness. In this sense, he is not a triumphant king but a tragic ethical figure. He wins the kingdom, yet he loses the ease of the soul. The blog captures this tragic dimension with considerable maturity.

 

 

 

9. Sarala’s Vernacular Reimagining of Yudhisthira

The blog also suggests, even if indirectly, that Sarala Mahabharata is not merely a retelling of Vyasa’s epic. It is a creative Odia reimagining of the Mahabharata tradition. Sarala gives familiar characters new emotional, theological, and cultural meanings. In this version, Yudhisthira assumes particular importance as a figure through whom dharma is humanised. He is not presented only as a king or a son of Dharma. He is shown as a man who suffers because he feels too deeply.

This is where the blog fits into the broader study of vernacular Mahabharatas. Regional epics do not merely translate Sanskrit narratives. They reinterpret them within local ethical worlds. In Sarala’s imagination, Yudhisthira becomes the bearer of a deeply compassionate dharma. This dharma is not abstract. It is lived through personal relationships, grief, responsibility, and moral self-questioning.

10. Strengths of the Blog

The blog’s main strength lies in its moral clarity and interpretive sensitivity. It does not reduce Yudhisthira to a weak or passive figure. Instead, it portrays him as a difficult, lonely embodiment of dharma. It also treats the episode of Draupadi’s destructive form with symbolic seriousness. The blog is strongest when it links narrative details to broader philosophical questions. Why does death spare Yudhisthira? What does it mean for dharma to survive after war? Can compassion be stronger than violence? These questions lend the blog academic value.

Another strength is its human tone. The blog does not glorify war. It does not present victory as uncomplicated. It recognises sorrow, guilt, loneliness, and moral burden. This makes the reading emotionally compelling. It helps us see Yudhisthira not as a remote epic figure but as a deeply human character who bears the unbearable weight of dharma in a violent world.

11. Areas That Need Further Development

For a more rigorous academic analysis, the blog could further develop certain areas. First, it could distinguish more clearly between Vyasa’s Mahabharata and Sarala’s Odia retelling. This would clarify what is unique about Sarala’s portrayal of Yudhisthira. Second, the blog could engage more deeply with the concept of dharma. Dharma is treated mainly as compassion, truth, and moral responsibility, but it also encompasses duty, social order, kingship, and cosmic balance. A fuller analysis would examine these multiple layers.

Third, the blog could expand its treatment of Draupadi. Her rage deserves a more sustained, gender-sensitive reading. She is not only destructive; she is also a voice for justice. Finally, the blog could examine the tension between Krishna’s divine strategy and Yudhisthira’s ethical innocence in greater depth. This would sharpen the analysis philosophically.

 

 

 

12. Conclusion: Dharma, Compassion, and the Victory Over Death

The blog offers a compelling reading of Yudhisthira as the figure through whom Sarala’s epic imagines dharma’s victory over death. Its finest insight is that Yudhisthira’s greatness lies not in kingship, warfare, or masculine aggression, but in compassion. He is great because he feels others’ suffering, including that of his enemies. He is great because he cannot celebrate a victory bought with death. He is great because he understands that dharma without compassion becomes empty.

In Sarala’s moral universe, death may claim warriors, clans, heroes, and even divine protectors, but it cannot claim Yudhisthira. This is not because Yudhisthira escapes human suffering. On the contrary, he suffers more deeply because he sees more clearly. He survives because the dharma he embodies must endure. Through him, Sarala seems to suggest that compassion is not a decorative virtue added to dharma. It is the very heart of dharma. The blog’s lasting value lies in bringing this truth to the fore with sensitivity, seriousness, and moral force.