नारायणं नमस्कृत्य नरं चैव नरोत्तमम्
देवीं सरस्वतीं चैव ततो जयम् उदीरयेत्
महाभरत
Mahābharata
The Intentions of the Author
In considering the intentions of Vyāsa, and the meaning of the story of Nala and Damayanti, we can look to the subsequent commentators and even to the imitators of his work.
The poet Śrī Harṣa, working in the 12th Century, asserts in his Naiṣadhīya the story of Nala and Damayanti as found in the Mahābhārata is really an allegory for the soul’s search for Divinity. Damayanti’s search for her soul-mate, Nala, ends when she chooses the human Nala amid the perfection of the gods. It has been suggested that this is an analogy for the Search for Śrī Kṛṣṇa.
If this reading is correct, what do we make of the second part of the story, where Nala falls under the influence of Kali?
Poets and dramatists generally prefer the first part of the story. It has a beginning, a middle and an end and is complete as a romantic tale with a happy ending.
The second part of the legend is really a completely different story. In this part we also have the theme of a search, but this time Nala searches for Damayanti, while Damayanti continues to search for Nala.
The theme of search is one that unites both halves of the story. It may also be considered that if the finite is searching for the infinite, the infinite is incomplete without the finite. So, just as the finite searches out the infinite, the infinite also searches for the finites. Just as the soul is involved in the Search for Śrī Kṛṣṇa, so is the Absolute engaged in a loving search for his lost servant. Both maintain their identities, neither is merged into the other. But perhaps the search of Nala for Damayanti is a another metaphor for the soul’s search for completeness.
For further insight into the allegorical meanings of Vyāsa’s work, we may look again to the Naiṣadhīya of Śrī Harṣa, which is probably the best retelling of the story in Sanskrit verse. As Kalidāsa expands the ideas found in Śakuntala, Śrī Harṣa is responsible for creating a poetic work based on the Nala story of Mahābhārata, or Nalopadhyaya.
Writing in the 16th Century, the Vaiṣṇava poet and commentator Nārāyaṇa examines the allegorical significance of the Naiṣadhiya of Śrī Harṣa, seeing Vaiṣṇava ideas throughout, where the erotic principle between Nala and Damayanti represents the bhakti principle. Unfortunately, his analysis is not systematic; he does not extend the allegory to include the entire poem. Nārāyaṇa however, does point out that Śrī Harṣa was a follower of Rāma, since the invocation of Naiṣadhīya includes an invocation to Rāma.
According to his version, the story may be read as an allegory where Nala represents Divinity and Damayanti is the soul aspiring to reunite with Divinity. It is suggested that Nala represents Nara or Narayaṇa, when various verses refer to him in adulatory language as if he were a god or even the highest God. These are veiled references to bhakti. Nowhere in the Mahābhārata does Vyāsa refer directly to bhakti as the Supreme Erotic Principle. And yet perhaps the story of Nala and Damayanti may be read allegorically in this light.
While the 16th century commentator and poet Narayaṇa shies from an explicit or systematic interpretation of allegory in the story of Nala and Damayanti, Rāmāvatara Sharma (1877-1929) a celebrated scholar of Benares composed a Sanskrit drama called Dhīra-Naiṣadham based on the Naiṣadhīya. Sharma considered the verses of the Naiṣadhīya as sacred mantras. Others have seen Vedantic interpretations in the text.
For example, the golden swan who communicates Nala’s love for Damayanti is seen to represent the Paramatma, who resides within the hearts of advanced souls and who tries to communicate through our good intelligence the love that God has for us. Just as the Paramatma is trying to guide us to Divine Love through our good intelligence, the golden swan leads to the union between Nala and Damayanti, or between the truth-seeker and the divine truth. The communication between the golden swan and Nala and Damayanti represents the path by which a soul comes in connection with divine truth.
Real divine life begins when one comes in connection with a swanlike soul or messenger who conveys divine reality to us. Just as the swan messenger brings love to Nala and Damayanti, the guru principle affords an ordinary soul a glimpse into the truth of the Divine World.
Of course, Bhaktivedanta Swāmī eschews allegorical readings and demands that we must consider the text of Mahābhārata as self-explanatory or As It Is. On the other hand, if we take it that Vyāsa himself is a Vaiṣṇava, may curiosities of Mahābhārata fall into place and we are able to find meaning even in sections of the work that are apparently secular or mundane.
The virtuosity of Vyāsa may be seen as a supernatural gift. And so, even in “mundane” passages a deeper meaning may be read by those intent on diving deeper into the work. As legend has it the Mahābhārata was dictated by Vyāsa to Ganesh on the condition that he spoke continuously without stopping. Vyāsa gave the elephant-headed god his own condition: He must not write a line unless he understood it completely. While Ganesh contemplated the profound meaning of a particular verse, Vyāsa had more time to compose, so the story goes. And so we find much mystery in the Sanskrit verses. Just as Ganesh himself paused to sift through the hyperbole of a given statement or to consider an allegory, so may we readers, thousands of years later ponder the internal meaning of a line whatever its external textual significance.
In the second part of the story, the soul is bewildered by Kali and falls under his influence. He takes part in gambling, loses his kingdom, and is converted into a hideous dwarf. Gradually he is purified by his trials and becomes free from Kali’s influence. Finally he engages once again in his quest for Damayanti and is reunited with her.
The various Sanskrit commentators from the 12th century on have dedicated thousands of verses to exploring the allegory in this story. I have no such poetic power. My point here is in defense of Vyāsa: while it is said that many things in Mahābhārata are mundane fairy tales or trifling legends, it is my assertion that a deeper current of reality runs through the entire work. Entire traditions in Indian poetry and drama have derived from the work. As such it is difficult to ascribe purely mundane motives to its composition.
Vyāsa is everywhere a truth-seeker. His Sanskrit is often restrained. But some scholars, who have found his style easy to read mistake simplicity for childishness. They prefer the arch Kalidasa or the ornament of the later poets. A first-year Sanskrit student can read and translate the Bhagavad-Gītā. The work of Vyāsa is then considered “for beginners,” since his simplicity is so easily understood. Kalidasa is for advanced readers, they think. But such a facile interpretation of the material misses the point. Vyāsa is great exactly because his ideas are clear. Where Valmiki is grandiose, Vyāsa is austere. His work is fine and severe with few extra words or expressions. His writing is economic, sparse, and modern.
The Bhagavad-Gītā opens simply. Where he might speak thousands of ornate words of oratory, Dhṛtaraṣṭra asks merely, “What did my sons and the Paṇḍavas do at the holy place of Kurukṣetra?”
It’s hard to set the scene with a greater economy of language. And while great poets rise and fall on the basis of their ornamentation, Vyāsa’s great strength is in his deep intellect and simplicity of style. His great ideas do not depend on style. And yet nowhere is his restraint more in evidence than when he deals with the supernatural. While his stories are often magical, his treatment of divinity is grounded in reality. He gives a glimpse into the world of miracles and divinity as if it were a commonplace.
Nowhere is this better appreciated than in the teachings of Kṛṣṇa in Bhagavad-Gītā. While we are encouraged to view the text as sacred, it eludes easy understanding. The original Sanskrit is only 700 verses; and yet thousands upon thousands of words of commentary have been written in discussion of those simple Sanskrit verses.
And Vyāsa’s power of story-telling is nowhere in greater evidence than in the story or Nala and Damayanti, or Savitri, or Śakuntala. Without the constant digressions that often weary the reader, these poems reflect the style, diction, and personality of his thought.
The story of Nala has much charm, and yet here we may find the soul of a noble rishi shining forth even as he tells an ancient tale. We can feel the sympathy of the poet for the quiet greenery of the sacred river that once flowed by the foothills of the Hindu Kush. We can follow him as he walks on the path, his leathery feet hardened by the sharp stones of the river bed. Nala’s story is not populated by Gandharvas or Rakṣasas, there are no supernatural giants. A sad Naga prince transforms a prince into an ugly dwarf. Golden swan messengers bring news of love and delight. And yet these supernatural elements, while full of wonder, are told in an austere style. As soon as the magical elements appear, they are gone and we go on with life’s struggle. He limits the magical to a few strokes of his pen. This economy is what converts the poem into an epic, whose allegory is worthy of serious discussion, and not as a fairy tale as it is sometimes rendered by enthusiastic grandmothers charming their babes with a bedtime tale.
I hope my retelling has not been so severe as to make mundane what is sublime; I hope I have been able to preserve the beauty and strangeness of this ancient story.
If the story of Nala and Damayanti invites allegorical interpretation, the story of Savitri goes even further down that path.
Many poets have imagined Death; few could give us Savitri. Savitri is not only a chaste woman whose love saves her husband from a premature death; Savitri is daugher of the Gayatri mantra herself, delivering the soul from Death. The allegory has been explored in depth in the poem Savitri by Sri Aurobindo, who dedicated many years to its exposition and who founded a Yoga School of his own, based on the teachings he discovered there.
But returning to Nala and Damayanti: the first half of the story places the search for truth squarely on the shoulders of Dayanti who is forced to choose the human-like Nala from amongst the superhuman gods, Indra the god of rain, Vayu the wind-god, Agni the fire-god, and Death Himself, Lord Yamaraja.
Damayanti chooses Nala. It has been said that this might be an allegory for the search for Śrī Krṣṇa and that given to choose between the SuperHuman Divine or Aiśvarya and the human divine, true bhakti opts for the human conception. A more intimate relation with divinity leaves behind the opulence and power of the Fatherhood of Godhead for the simplicity and beauty of the Sonhood of Godhead as seen in Nanda and Yashoda. The highest realized souls are not interested in God the Father. They want to know about the Sonhood of Godhead.
As Raghupati Upadhyaya once said, (Padyavali 126) shrutim apare smritim itare bhaaratam anye bhajantu bhava-bhitaah aham iha nandam vande yasyalinde param brahma
“Many truth-seekers want liberation from material existence. They worship God the Father. Let them. Many worship the śruti and the smṛti with all their philosophical musings and religious rituals. But God Himself, in the form of baby Kṛṣṇa is crawling in the courtyard of Nanda Mahārāja as his son. I am interested in the Sonhood of God. What did Nanda Mahārāja do, that God plays as his Son?”
Raghupati Upadhyaya, Padyavali 126
The highest realized souls enjoy an intimate relationship with Godhead. Evidence of this is found in Vṛndāvana. When the residents of Vṛndāvana were challenged by the raingod Indra to give up their love of Kṛṣṇa and worship him, they sided with Kṛṣṇa. Indra inundated Vṛṇdāvana, but Kṛṣṇa picked up a mountain, Govardhan Hill, and protected them. The conclusion is that beauty is above power, or that the natural beauty of Vrindaban is superior to the forced opulence of the gods.
But Vyāsa, with his typical economy of style, had only alluded to the supremacy of beauty and the Kṛṣṇa conception. In the interest of preserving the confidentiality of this high conception, he had erred on the side of austerity.
And so, after having composed the Mahābhārata, Vyāsa found that his work had referred to the Kṛṣṇa conception only in a veiled way. He realized that many superficial readers would misinterpret. They could not understand how Kṛṣṇa could be the Supreme Personality of Godhead. It was time to go deeper. With this he went to Nārada for guidance and was encouraged by the spiritual master of the demigods to compose the Bhāgavat.
In the second verse (SB 1.1.2)m of that great work, we find:
dharmaḥ projjhita-kativo ‘tra paramo nirmatsarānāṃ satām
vedyaṃ vāstavam atra vastu śivadaṃ tāpa-trayonmūlanam
śrīmād-bhāgavate mahā-muni-kṛte kiṃ vā parair īśvaraḥ
sadyo hṛdy avarudhyate ’tra kṛtibhiḥ śuśrūṣubhis tat-kṣanāt
धर्मः प्रोज्झित-कैतिवो ‘त्र परमो निर्मत्सराणां सतां
वेद्यं वास्तवम् अत्र वस्तु शिवदं ताप-त्रयोन्मूलनम्
श्रीमाद्-भागवते महा-मुनि-कृते किं वा परैर् ईश्वरः
सद्यो हृद्य् अवरुध्यते ’त्र कृतिभिः शुश्रूषुभिस् तत्-क्षनात्
“Leaving behind external dharma, society consciousness, and materialistic religion, this Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam gives the highest truth: Pure-hearted truth-seekers will understand it completely. This truth is reality, free from illusion and will benefit all. Understanding this will free you from the three-fold miseries of material nature.
This book was composed by Vyāsa when he was fully realized as a Mahamuni. This book is all one needs for complete understanding of Divine Reality. Who ever reads this book or hears its message will arrive at the truth within his heart.”
As my initial premise for this article was to discuss the author of Mahābhārta and his intentions, it is important to understand his later work. His frustration with the misinterpretations of Mahābhārata led Vyāsa to write the Bhāgavata Purana, which is a further extension of his thought. Bhaktivedānta Swāmi remarks, “The history of the Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam is also very glorious. It was compiled by Śrī Vyāsadeva after he had attained maturity in transcendental knowledge. He wrote this under the instructions o Śrī Nāradajī, his spiritual master. Vyāsadeva compiled all the Vedic literatures, containing the four divisions of the Vedas, the Vedānta-sūtras (or the Brahma-sūtras), the Purāṇas, the Mahābhārata, and so on. But nevertheless, the was not satisfied.”
“His dissatisfaction was observed by his spiritual master, and thus Nārada advised him to write on the transcendental activities of Lord Śrī Kṛṣṇa. These transcendental activities are described specifically in the Tenth Canto of this work…The author of Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam says that the Lord Śrī Kṛṣṇa is the origin of all creations. He is not only the creator of the universe, but the destroyer as well. …Śrī Vyāsadeva at once worships the paratattva, Śrī Kṛṣṇa, whose transcendental activities are desribed in the Tenth Canto.”
Bhaktivedānta Swāmi leaves no doubt in his commentaries that Vyāsa’s intention is always the glorification of Śrī Kṛṣṇa. It is logical to assume, then, in any attempt to interpret difficult passages in Mahābhārata Vyāsa’s intention should be kept in mind.
This verse from Bhagavatam also references dharma. But here we find a point of departure. Where Mahābhārata upholds all forms of dharma that lead to a higher goal, including, karma-yoga, jñāna and bhakti the Bhagavatam exclusively focuses on bhakti, or divine love.
The Bhagavatam, then, is clearly meant for a deeper exploration of the values first touched upon in the Mahābhārata. But since the author of Mahābharata himself is clearly a bhakta, his love for Kṛṣṇa as well as his understanding of bhakti is evident on every page and in every Sanskrit verse, as long as one has the eyes to see or the ears to hear its message.
Mahābharata
As retold by
Michael Dolan, B.V. Mahāyogi
Vyāsa: His Poetry and Message
Part Two
The Intentions of the Author
In considering the intentions of Vyāsa, and the meaning of the story of Nala and Damayanti, we can look to the subsequent commentators and even to the imitators of his work.
The poet Śrī Harṣa, working in the 12th Century, asserts in his Naiṣadhīya the story of Nala and Damayanti as found in the Mahābhārata is really an allegory for the soul’s search for Divinity. Damayanti’s search for her soul-mate, Nala, ends when she chooses the human Nala amid the perfection of the gods. It has been suggested that this is an analogy for the Search for Śrī Kṛṣṇa.
If this reading is correct, what do we make of the second part of the story, where Nala falls under the influence of Kali?
Poets and dramatists generally prefer the first part of the story. It has a beginning, a middle and an end and is complete as a romantic tale with a happy ending.
The second part of the legend is really a completely different story. In this part we also have the theme of a search, but this time Nala searches for Damayanti, while Damayanti continues to search for Nala.
The theme of search is one that unites both halves of the story. It may also be considered that if the finite is searching for the infinite, the infinite is incomplete without the finite. So, just as the finite searches out the infinite, the infinite also searches for the finites. Just as the soul is involved in the Search for Śrī Kṛṣṇa, so is the Absolute engaged in a loving search for his lost servant. Both maintain their identities, neither is merged into the other. But perhaps the search of Nala for Damayanti is a another metaphor for the soul’s search for completeness.
For further insight into the allegorical meanings of Vyāsa’s work, we may look again to the Naiṣadhīya of Śrī Harṣa, which is probably the best retelling of the story in Sanskrit verse. As Kalidāsa expands the ideas found in Śakuntala, Śrī Harṣa is responsible for creating a poetic work based on the Nala story of Mahābhārata, or Nalopadhyaya.
Writing in the 16th Century, the Vaiṣṇava poet and commentator Nārāyaṇa examines the allegorical significance of the Naiṣadhiya of Śrī Harṣa, seeing Vaiṣṇava ideas throughout, where the erotic principle between Nala and Damayanti represents the bhakti principle. Unfortunately, his analysis is not systematic; he does not extend the allegory to include the entire poem. Nārāyaṇa however, does point out that Śrī Harṣa was a follower of Rāma, since the invocation of Naiṣadhīya includes an invocation to Rāma.
According to his version, the story may be read as an allegory where Nala represents Divinity and Damayanti is the soul aspiring to reunite with Divinity. It is suggested that Nala represents Nara or Narayaṇa, when various verses refer to him in adulatory language as if he were a god or even the highest God. These are veiled references to bhakti. Nowhere in the Mahābhārata does Vyāsa refer directly to bhakti as the Supreme Erotic Principle. And yet perhaps the story of Nala and Damayanti may be read allegorically in this light.
While the 16th century commentator and poet Narayaṇa shies from an explicit or systematic interpretation of allegory in the story of Nala and Damayanti, Rāmāvatara Sharma (1877-1929) a celebrated scholar of Benares composed a Sanskrit drama called Dhīra-Naiṣadham based on the Naiṣadhīya. Sharma considered the verses of the Naiṣadhīya as sacred mantras. Others have seen Vedantic interpretations in the text.
For example, the golden swan who communicates Nala’s love for Damayanti is seen to represent the Paramatma, who resides within the hearts of advanced souls and who tries to communicate through our good intelligence the love that God has for us. Just as the Paramatma is trying to guide us to Divine Love through our good intelligence, the golden swan leads to the union between Nala and Damayanti, or between the truth-seeker and the divine truth. The communication between the golden swan and Nala and Damayanti represents the path by which a soul comes in connection with divine truth.
Real divine life begins when one comes in connection with a swanlike soul or messenger who conveys divine reality to us. Just as the swan messenger brings love to Nala and Damayanti, the guru principle affords an ordinary soul a glimpse into the truth of the Divine World.
Of course, Bhaktivedanta Swāmī eschews allegorical readings and demands that we must consider the text of Mahābhārata as self-explanatory or As It Is. On the other hand, if we take it that Vyāsa himself is a Vaiṣṇava, may curiosities of Mahābhārata fall into place and we are able to find meaning even in sections of the work that are apparently secular or mundane.
The virtuosity of Vyāsa may be seen as a supernatural gift. And so, even in “mundane” passages a deeper meaning may be read by those intent on diving deeper into the work. As legend has it the Mahābhārata was dictated by Vyāsa to Ganesh on the condition that he spoke continuously without stopping. Vyāsa gave the elephant-headed god his own condition: He must not write a line unless he understood it completely. While Ganesh contemplated the profound meaning of a particular verse, Vyāsa had more time to compose, so the story goes. And so we find much mystery in the Sanskrit verses. Just as Ganesh himself paused to sift through the hyperbole of a given statement or to consider an allegory, so may we readers, thousands of years later ponder the internal meaning of a line whatever its external textual significance.
In the second part of the story, the soul is bewildered by Kali and falls under his influence. He takes part in gambling, loses his kingdom, and is converted into a hideous dwarf. Gradually he is purified by his trials and becomes free from Kali’s influence. Finally he engages once again in his quest for Damayanti and is reunited with her.
The various Sanskrit commentators from the 12th century on have dedicated thousands of verses to exploring the allegory in this story. I have no such poetic power. My point here is in defense of Vyāsa: while it is said that many things in Mahābhārata are mundane fairy tales or trifling legends, it is my assertion that a deeper current of reality runs through the entire work. Entire traditions in Indian poetry and drama have derived from the work. As such it is difficult to ascribe purely mundane motives to its composition.
Vyāsa is everywhere a truth-seeker. His Sanskrit is often restrained. But some scholars, who have found his style easy to read mistake simplicity for childishness. They prefer the arch Kalidasa or the ornament of the later poets. A first-year Sanskrit student can read and translate the Bhagavad-Gītā. The work of Vyāsa is then considered “for beginners,” since his simplicity is so easily understood. Kalidasa is for advanced readers, they think. But such a facile interpretation of the material misses the point. Vyāsa is great exactly because his ideas are clear. Where Valmiki is grandiose, Vyāsa is austere. His work is fine and severe with few extra words or expressions. His writing is economic, sparse, and modern.
The Bhagavad-Gītā opens simply. Where he might speak thousands of ornate words of oratory, Dhṛtaraṣṭra asks merely, “What did my sons and the Paṇḍavas do at the holy place of Kurukṣetra?”
It’s hard to set the scene with a greater economy of language. And while great poets rise and fall on the basis of their ornamentation, Vyāsa’s great strength is in his deep intellect and simplicity of style. His great ideas do not depend on style. And yet nowhere is his restraint more in evidence than when he deals with the supernatural. While his stories are often magical, his treatment of divinity is grounded in reality. He gives a glimpse into the world of miracles and divinity as if it were a commonplace.
Nowhere is this better appreciated than in the teachings of Kṛṣṇa in Bhagavad-Gītā. While we are encouraged to view the text as sacred, it eludes easy understanding. The original Sanskrit is only 700 verses; and yet thousands upon thousands of words of commentary have been written in discussion of those simple Sanskrit verses.
And Vyāsa’s power of story-telling is nowhere in greater evidence than in the story or Nala and Damayanti, or Savitri, or Śakuntala. Without the constant digressions that often weary the reader, these poems reflect the style, diction, and personality of his thought.
The story of Nala has much charm, and yet here we may find the soul of a noble rishi shining forth even as he tells an ancient tale. We can feel the sympathy of the poet for the quiet greenery of the sacred river that once flowed by the foothills of the Hindu Kush. We can follow him as he walks on the path, his leathery feet hardened by the sharp stones of the river bed. Nala’s story is not populated by Gandharvas or Rakṣasas, there are no supernatural giants. A sad Naga prince transforms a prince into an ugly dwarf. Golden swan messengers bring news of love and delight. And yet these supernatural elements, while full of wonder, are told in an austere style. As soon as the magical elements appear, they are gone and we go on with life’s struggle. He limits the magical to a few strokes of his pen. This economy is what converts the poem into an epic, whose allegory is worthy of serious discussion, and not as a fairy tale as it is sometimes rendered by enthusiastic grandmothers charming their babes with a bedtime tale.
I hope my retelling has not been so severe as to make mundane what is sublime; I hope I have been able to preserve the beauty and strangeness of this ancient story.
If the story of Nala and Damayanti invites allegorical interpretation, the story of Savitri goes even further down that path.
Many poets have imagined Death; few could give us Savitri. Savitri is not only a chaste woman whose love saves her husband from a premature death; Savitri is daugher of the Gayatri mantra herself, delivering the soul from Death. The allegory has been explored in depth in the poem Savitri by Sri Aurobindo, who dedicated many years to its exposition and who founded a Yoga School of his own, based on the teachings he discovered there.
But returning to Nala and Damayanti: the first half of the story places the search for truth squarely on the shoulders of Dayanti who is forced to choose the human-like Nala from amongst the superhuman gods, Indra the god of rain, Vayu the wind-god, Agni the fire-god, and Death Himself, Lord Yamaraja.
Damayanti chooses Nala. It has been said that this might be an allegory for the search for Śrī Krṣṇa and that given to choose between the SuperHuman Divine or Aiśvarya and the human divine, true bhakti opts for the human conception. A more intimate relation with divinity leaves behind the opulence and power of the Fatherhood of Godhead for the simplicity and beauty of the Sonhood of Godhead as seen in Nanda and Yashoda. The highest realized souls are not interested in God the Father. They want to know about the Sonhood of Godhead.
As Raghupati Upadhyaya once said, (Padyavali 126) shrutim apare smritim itare bhaaratam anye bhajantu bhava-bhitaah aham iha nandam vande yasyalinde param brahma
“Many truth-seekers want liberation from material existence. They worship God the Father. Let them. Many worship the śruti and the smṛti with all their philosophical musings and religious rituals. But God Himself, in the form of baby Kṛṣṇa is crawling in the courtyard of Nanda Mahārāja as his son. I am interested in the Sonhood of God. What did Nanda Mahārāja do, that God plays as his Son?”
Raghupati Upadhyaya, Padyavali 126
The highest realized souls enjoy an intimate relationship with Godhead. Evidence of this is found in Vṛndāvana. When the residents of Vṛndāvana were challenged by the raingod Indra to give up their love of Kṛṣṇa and worship him, they sided with Kṛṣṇa. Indra inundated Vṛṇdāvana, but Kṛṣṇa picked up a mountain, Govardhan Hill, and protected them. The conclusion is that beauty is above power, or that the natural beauty of Vrindaban is superior to the forced opulence of the gods.
But Vyāsa, with his typical economy of style, had only alluded to the supremacy of beauty and the Kṛṣṇa conception. In the interest of preserving the confidentiality of this high conception, he had erred on the side of austerity.
And so, after having composed the Mahābhārata, Vyāsa found that his work had referred to the Kṛṣṇa conception only in a veiled way. He realized that many superficial readers would misinterpret. They could not understand how Kṛṣṇa could be the Supreme Personality of Godhead. It was time to go deeper. With this he went to Nārada for guidance and was encouraged by the spiritual master of the demigods to compose the Bhāgavat.
In the second verse (SB 1.1.2)m of that great work, we find:
dharmaḥ projjhita-kativo ‘tra paramo nirmatsarānāṃ satām
vedyaṃ vāstavam atra vastu śivadaṃ tāpa-trayonmūlanam
śrīmād-bhāgavate mahā-muni-kṛte kiṃ vā parair īśvaraḥ
sadyo hṛdy avarudhyate ’tra kṛtibhiḥ śuśrūṣubhis tat-kṣanāt
धर्मः प्रोज्झित-कैतिवो ‘त्र परमो निर्मत्सराणां सतां
वेद्यं वास्तवम् अत्र वस्तु शिवदं ताप-त्रयोन्मूलनम्
श्रीमाद्-भागवते महा-मुनि-कृते किं वा परैर् ईश्वरः
सद्यो हृद्य् अवरुध्यते ’त्र कृतिभिः शुश्रूषुभिस् तत्-क्षनात्
“Leaving behind external dharma, society consciousness, and materialistic religion, this Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam gives the highest truth: Pure-hearted truth-seekers will understand it completely. This truth is reality, free from illusion and will benefit all. Understanding this will free you from the three-fold miseries of material nature.
This book was composed by Vyāsa when he was fully realized as a Mahamuni. This book is all one needs for complete understanding of Divine Reality. Who ever reads this book or hears its message will arrive at the truth within his heart.”
As my initial premise for this article was to discuss the author of Mahābhārta and his intentions, it is important to understand his later work. His frustration with the misinterpretations of Mahābhārata led Vyāsa to write the Bhāgavata Purana, which is a further extension of his thought. Bhaktivedānta Swāmi remarks, “The history of the Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam is also very glorious. It was compiled by Śrī Vyāsadeva after he had attained maturity in transcendental knowledge. He wrote this under the instructions o Śrī Nāradajī, his spiritual master. Vyāsadeva compiled all the Vedic literatures, containing the four divisions of the Vedas, the Vedānta-sūtras (or the Brahma-sūtras), the Purāṇas, the Mahābhārata, and so on. But nevertheless, the was not satisfied.”
“His dissatisfaction was observed by his spiritual master, and thus Nārada advised him to write on the transcendental activities of Lord Śrī Kṛṣṇa. These transcendental activities are described specifically in the Tenth Canto of this work…The author of Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam says that the Lord Śrī Kṛṣṇa is the origin of all creations. He is not only the creator of the universe, but the destroyer as well. …Śrī Vyāsadeva at once worships the paratattva, Śrī Kṛṣṇa, whose transcendental activities are desribed in the Tenth Canto.”
Bhaktivedānta Swāmi leaves no doubt in his commentaries that Vyāsa’s intention is always the glorification of Śrī Kṛṣṇa. It is logical to assume, then, in any attempt to interpret difficult passages in Mahābhārata Vyāsa’s intention should be kept in mind.
This verse from Bhagavatam also references dharma. But here we find a point of departure. Where Mahābhārata upholds all forms of dharma that lead to a higher goal, including, karma-yoga, jñāna and bhakti the Bhagavatam exclusively focuses on bhakti, or divine love.
The Bhagavatam, then, is clearly meant for a deeper exploration of the values first touched upon in the Mahābhārata. But since the author of Mahābharata himself is clearly a bhakta, his love for Kṛṣṇa as well as his understanding of bhakti is evident on every page and in every Sanskrit verse, as long as one has the eyes to see or the ears to hear its message.
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