Vyasa and his poetry

नारायणं नमस्कृत्य नरं चैव नरोत्तमम्

 देवीं सरस्वतीं चैव ततो जयम् उदीरयेत्

महाभरत

Mahābharata

As retold by

Michael Dolan, B.V. Mahāyogi

Vyāsa: His Poetry and Message

Interpretation

A good interpretation values the intention of the author of a work, whether it be Shakespeare or Vyāsa. In discovering the meaning of Mahābharata, then, we should consider Vyāsa’s purpose.

While this is not at all an easy task, given the prolix nature of of his work, it is not impossible, given that certain themes are recurrent. 

Who was Vyāsa?

One of the problems a reader faces is ferreting out Vyāsa’s contribution to the epic. We know that there are several authors of the Mahābharata: while it is gathered together, edited, and perhaps finally narrated to Ganesh by Vyāsa, there are many different speakers. These include especially Vaishampayana at the snake sacrifice of Janamejaya and Suta or Ugrashrava, who repeats Vaishampayana’s version before the 10,000 sages gathered together in Naimisharanya forest for a sacrifice.

Astute readers such as Sri Aurobindo have noted a distinction in their style, which ranges from florid to stark. While some sections seem plain and unvarnished, others tend towards hyperbole. Certain passages betray the distinct and unmistakable style of a great epic poet. And yet other other passages such as the long-winded speeches of Bhishmadeva on ritual echo the overblown Biblical rules of Leviticus, and may have been introduced at a later date by another author.  So many inconsistencies of style assume a diverse authorship. And yet, Vyāsa’s voice speaks with such authority that we may recognize it when we hear it.

His voice is powerful, simple, and clear, and yet contains high thinking. His ideas are austere, original and noble. His imagination is neither florid nor fantastic, but strong and pure. Even when speaking of gods or demons his personalities are not incredible or fantastic, but flesh and blood. 

As an example of what I mean, let’s take a look at the traditions of Spain. 

The first great poem written in the Spanish language is El Cantar de Mio Cid, composed between 1140 and 1270 in Old Spanish. While the hero Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar is exiled unfairly he performs superhuman feats to regain his throne. And yet, while El Cid is legendary and larger than life,  his deeds as well as the atmosphere of ancient Spain are drawn realistically. There is nothing particularly magical about the landscape. Neither dragons, nor sorcerors, nor demons appear  anywhere in the work. For contrast one might look to the Arthurian legends where Merlin’s magic converted Uther Pendragon into a double of Lord Gorlois that he might seduce Lady Igraine and beget Arthur. The Arthurian legends of England are filled with dragons and holy grails. Not so the Spain of El Cid. But in short order a fantastic literature arose around the chivalric tradition. Exaggerated tales of fantasy, damsels in distress, sorcerors and dragons appeared to engage the minds of readers in Spain. An excellent example was Amadis de Gaula.

While Amadis de Gaula  by Garci Rodriguez de Montalvo was published in 1508 in Zaragoza, it belongs to an earlier tradition dating back into the 14^th century. It’s full of wizards with magical powers, giants, dragons, fair damsels and knights in shining armour.  It’s all magic and little realism. 

Cervantes turned this world on his head by creating a parody of chivalric fantasies. His parody, Don Quixote is still on the best-seller list. And much of his success is due to his having discovered magical realism, a style more real than magic. He began by parodying the style of Fantasy popular even today in works by Ursula Le Guinn or George R.R. Martin’s Game of Thrones. And yet, while laughing at Amadis de Gaula, Cervantes created a much more solid character in that of the Quixote, a man who loses his brains from reading too much and chases windmills. And yet there are no giants and dragons in the Quixote. While Cervantes’ work is full of magic, it gives us a stark picture of reality. So much so that he is considered the first author to write in the style of magic realism.

But if we look further back in time, we must consider Vyāsa as the first author to write in the tradition of Magical Realism.  His epic poetry mentions flying machines for example, but does so in passing, as if airplanes were a commonplace of ancient India. Where the Ramayana’s ten-headed Ravana is a ghastly monster, Vyāsa’s Kartavirya Arjuna by contrast seems to be a real man who suffers from a genetic disorder that causes him to have twenty arms. Vyāsa is never fascinated by the unusual supernatural elements in his work; his realism supercedes the magic. Where Indra competes for Damayanti he loses to a mere mortal.  His supernatural power is to no avail against a woman’s fancy.

And yet certain sections of Mahābhārata clearly read as if written by another hand, more garish, more in the style of the Ramayana, more“Valmikian.” Certain of these Valmikian passages seem less inspired, more poetic, almost as if an imitator of Vyāsa is copping his style and inserting his own interpolations.  

The personality and style of a writer are unmistakable. My own guru used to give the example of Aurobindo. When he was in hiding from arrest by the British Government, he wrote some pieces for a newspaper under a pseudonym. The newspaper editor was arrested for abetting a fugitive. On the witness stand, the prosecutor confronted the editor with a copy of the newspaper. He denied knowing Aurobindo Ghose. But when the prosecutor read the article aloud, the judge agreed it was written in the unmistakable style of Aurobindo. “Here is Mr. Ghose!” said the prosecutor. A pseudonym could not hide his style. 

To a trained reader Shakespeare is as distinct from Marlowe as Cervantes is from Garcia Marquez. In the same way, Vyāsa has a peculiar and inimitable style which shines through the narrative. He writes without mannerism. Unlike the work of a Kalidas, a Shakespeare, or Luis de Gongora, he avoids flourishes and exaggerations. 

His style is almost bare. In today’s parlance it would be almost hard-boiled. In this sense, the poetry of Vyāsa is closer to the writing of Raymond Chandler than to Shakespeare. This gives him an actuality that isn’t found in Kalidasa who loved metaphors and florid description. Raymond Chandler wrote as if pain hurt and life mattered, and so did Vyāsa. 

Vyāsa nowhere attempts to be artistic or to cow us down with his erudition, but is so empathic of the human condition as to be divine in his compassion.

Still Vyāsa, unlike Dante’s Virgil, is capable of lifting us up to the throne of God. Homer offers no such reward. His gods are venal and selfish; his heroes are crafty Greeks interested in spoils, riches, and lovers. Vyāsa’s message comes from beyond this world without denying the world’s existence. Even the worst villain of Mahābhārata, Duryodhana, is not without charm. Above all, Vyāsa is honest; an incredible quality for an epic poem. He shows us the foibles of his heroes: Bhima is gluttonous and violent, Yudhisthira dry and bound by his own formulas of dharma, Arjuna proud, Draupadi fireborn and hot-tempered. All the characters in the Mahābharata could have stepped from the pages of a modern novel. Critics are so surprised by this characteristic of Mahābhārata that they are convinced it could not enjoy the antiquity it does. It must have been produced at a later date than over 3000 years ago by virtue of its modern style, they reason. This is further testimony to the greatness of Vyāsa.

And yet Vyāsa’s task was much greater than either Dante or Homer. Where Homer’s Iliad chronicles an episode in the legendary Trojan War, Vyāsa’s epic not only details the important events of the Kurukshetra war, but spans the lifetimes of its heroes, even explaining their former lives. Vyāsa narrates the details of the political conflicts leading to the war and includes numerous minor tales peripheral to the main story. 

Apart from its value as an epic poem, the Mahābharata is a historical document outlining the conflicts of an ancient world, its ethos, ritual, concepts of duty, and quotidian practices. 

And yet the real power of Mahābharata is in the very conclusions drawn by Vyāsa as pertaining to dharma. These conclusions belie his intentions and illuminate any allegorical interpretations that might be placed on his work.

By closely examining Vyāsa’s style and entering into the spirit of his work, we may gather an informed view of his thought. 

His Sanskrit is terse and unadorned, but his thought is deep. Without the pomp of Kalidasa, even his romantic stories like Shakuntala, Nala and Damayanti, and Savitri are innocent and sublime. If Kalidasa’s poetry is a magic fountain Vyāsa is a cool mountain brook, satisfying in the summer heat. 

And the themes that characterize Vyāsa have special power even thousands of years later. He is everywhere concerned with dharma. And yet he is capable of fine distinctions in its application. He knows that there is and always will be both civil and spiritual dharma.

Individuals are responsible to the demands of society according to Vyāsa. As such, social dharma  is important and should be observed. But above the ordinary laws of society, each individual has the right and the responsibility to seek a higher salvation. In this sense dharma becomes spiritual. 

Vyāsa is not moralistic. The Mahābharata is not a  fable with an easy moral. Many of the stories found within its pages ask us deep questions and leave us to contemplate the solutions. 

And yet Vyāsa has much to say on practical ethics, the just rule of kings, the idea of a society with righteousness, purity, and unselfish work done in dedication. His moral position is subtle. He does not outline a set of rules to be followed, but asks us to develop a higher set of values that correspond to a deeper awareness of spiritual reality.

His idea of sannyasa as outlined in Bhagavad-Gita is telling. Na karmanām anarambhātma naiṣkarmyam purusho shrute..“Not by avoiding action does a man become free from karma, nor by renunciation does he achieve perfection..” We don’t become perfect by running away from our duty. Renouncing the world and escaping duty is not something that Vyāsa values, for all the saints and sages that appear in Mahābharata.  Real renunciation means working in a spirit of nonattachment in dedication to the Supreme. Vyāsa identifies Krishna as the Supreme, not only in the Bhagavad-Gita, but also in the Vishnu-sahasra-nama, found in the teachings of Bhishma, spoken from a bed of arrows where he has fallen, waiting to die. 

Keeping this in mind, it is evident that Mahābhārata is in the end a deeply Vaishnava text. No credible evidence has ever been cited to refute the idea that Bhagavad-Gita was authored by Vyāsa himself. Its style is congruent with the style of the poet whose muscular Sanskrit is found in the greatest lines of Mahābharata. 

Keeping to the literal meaning of his words as well as the context provided by a close analysis of both his style and content, one must come to the conclusion that Vyāsa recognised  and worshipped Kṛṣṇa as God Himself. 

Vyāsa's Intention

A proper interpretation whether literal or allegorical of Vyāsa’s intention must take this into consideration. Vyāsa’s ethical and spiritual point of view in terms of dharma has a definite stamp. He outlines the need for social morality as well as a kind of higher ethic of the soul. This higher ethic calls for surrender, leaving behind mundane considerations of sin and virtue. The ideal of surrender is given by Kṛṣṇa in Bhagavad-Gita as sarva-dharman-parityaja, mam ekam śaraṇam vraja… “Give up all mundane concepts of dharma  and surrender to me.” The concept of surrender has been developed further by the Gaudiya school of Vaishnavism as Śaraṇagati,  notably by Bhaktivinoda Ṭhakura, his son and follower Bhaktisiddhanta Saraswati and his disciple Bhakti Rakṣaka Śrīdhar dev Goswāmi, my guru, mentor and teacher.