ALLEGORY AND INTERPRETATION
IN NALA AND DAMAYANTI
नारायणं नमस्कृत्य नरं चैव नरोत्तमम्
देवीं सरस्वतीं चैव ततो जयम् उदीरयेत्
महाभरत
Mahābharata
Mahābharata
As retold by
Michael Dolan, B.V. Mahāyogi
Nala and Damayanti
When approaching an ancient text such as Mahabharata we naturally wonder how we are to interpret its meaning.
How are we to understand the Bible or the Bhagavad-Gita? Fundamentalists insist on the textual meaning of scripture, but since the scripture was written or revealed in a foreign language we rely on translation. And yet, translation itself is a form of interpretation.
Without translation, how can we understand or discuss the ancient literature of faith which was originally written in Sanskrit, Greek, Hebrew, or Latin?
Without translation, how can we understand or discuss the ancient literature of faith which was originally written in Sanskrit, Greek, Hebrew, or Latin?
Fundamentalists, of course, take a dim view of interpretation; and yet fundamentalism is but one among many interpretations.
Fundamentalists insist that we must accept a text “AS IT IS,” and yet to explain the correct meaning of three words they often need a thousand.
Deeper thinkers compare texts, cite precedent, and look to the examples of greater readers than themselves. Their commentaries form the basis of doctrines. Doctrines are taken up by schools which treasure a particular interpretation and shelter living teachers who expound them.
Let’s take an example. In the Bible, in Book of John 1.1, we find “In the beginning was the word and the word was with God and the word was God.”
Simple enough, right? But what exactly was the word?
Was the “Word” a mantra by which God created the world?
The Greek is λογος, LOGOS. Now Logos or “word” could be taken to mean, “the word of God.” So, “In the beginning was the Word of God.” For Hindus the Word of God is found in the Vedas, for Islam it is the Koran. A Christian might want to be more specific; for Christians the word of God reveals Jesus Christ and is revealed by Him. So, it may be said that “Logos denotes the essential Word of God, Jesus Christ the Personal Wisdom and Power in Union with God.” (http://www.gospel-john.com/greek/chapter-1.html)
Of course Logos also means “Logic.” So, perhaps John here is saying that before the universe comes into being there is logic, the laws of nature. “In the beginning there was logic,” seems a logical idea.
“Logos” can also mean “the idea.” So perhaps We mean to say that idea precedes matter. “In the beginning was the Idea.”
I don’t want to belabour the reader with too many examples, but it seems clear that even so simple a sentence as “In the beginning was the word…” is subject to a wide variety of interpretations, doctrines and schools.
How then can fundamentalism exist? Even a purely textual analysis leads us into unknown waters, for there is a big difference between saying that the world began with a mantra (logos) or saying that it began with Jesus Christ; that the world began with scripture (logos) or with logic.
Which interpretation is best?
Different interpretations imply distinct teachers and lead to different consequences. If I accept the Christian interpretation of “Logos” I follow the Christian path to Jesus Christ. If I feel that logos means logic, perhaps I become a scientist. By accepting a particular teacher I belong to a school of thought that has arisen around a certain doctrinal point of view. That school has a tradition which grants it solidity.
As long as I feel strong in a certain tradition there is no need for me to do any interpretation on my own. I have my faith.
And yet, what if I am asked to think?
In the 1980s I was faced with a dilemma. I had great faith in my guru, A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, author of “Bhagavad-Gita As It Is,” and founder and teacher of the International Society for Krishna Consciousness. Given my own search for truth I found great comfort in his teachings and dedicated my life to following them. I lived simply in a yoga ashram, waking early, chanting thousands of names of God on my rosary, eating simply, and attending religious services.
We meditated on the eternal soul. We preached dharma, visited India, and worked hard to spread his teachings. But, after a when Prabhupada passed to the next world, his mission was in crisis.
We meditated on the eternal soul. We preached dharma, visited India, and worked hard to spread his teachings. But, after a when Prabhupada passed to the next world, his mission was in crisis.
My guru’s followers tried to continue his mission as before. But they were flawed vessels, unable to communicate a spiritual message at the same level. It seemed to me that where Prabhupada embodied spiritual devotion and knowledge, his students were flawed vessels. His divine message decayed into a call for loyalty. Leaders wanted to carry on the mission at all costs and prematurely set themselves up as “gurus.” The vibrant and diverse spiritual community I had known collapsed into sectarianism. Where people from Africa, Australia, India, Europe, Asia, and America had been united in an international society around Prabhupada and his teachings, they broke into factions. These schisms have been well-documented and need not be detailed here; that is not my purpose. I suppose some kind of schism or rupture into different schools is inevitable after the passing of a great spirtitual master.
Still, I was forced to choose between teachers and schools at a time when my own personal understanding of spiritual life was still fresh and green. I was quite young, having joined the movement in my early twenties.
But, returning to my theme, the bone of contention between the differing parties was the correct interpretation of our teacher’s message. Since he had insisted in a fundamentalist approach to certain scriptures, it became difficult for his followers to sustain his method. They lacked tools to interpret the ancient teachings of Bhagavad-Gita and Srimad-Bhagavatam or their modern application by Prabhupada’s own mentor, Bhaktisiddhanta.
The new leaders hardly had their feet wet in terms of grasping the great and perennial wisdom of India. This was in the 1980s, I’m sure everyone concerned is far more erudite and spiritually realized today than they were so long ago.
Lightning doesn’t often strike twice, so my personal crisis of conscience may be rare. And yet, it seems, whenever an important guru establishes a great school his followers have shown a certain capacity for rupture.
The new leaders made it clear that dissent was unacceptable; yet at the same time they were unsure of their own points of view. Few had the required flexibility to act as sycophants to the new leaders and the society my guru had created was left in ashes.
In the midst of this crisis I went to India and sought shelter at the feet of another mentor. In fact, he had helped my own teacher. He was a kind of teacher of teachers who had retired to live on the banks of the Ganges. His name was Shridhar Maharaja. He had seen similar schisms in India in the 1930s with the mission of his own guru, Bhaktisiddhanta.
What surprised me about Shridhar Maharaja was his openness. He the kind of guru who poses as a king with bodyguards; he was an unpretentious teacher. People came to visit him with questions, but he rarely went out from his own humble place of worship. His small rooms with a terrace overlooking the Ganges were shelter enough. In the mornings and afternoons he would sit with his friends and a few students and they would talk about what was on their mind, philosophically. They were invited to “think,” along with their teacher, not merely to learn the scriptures by rote.
Someone would pose a question. Shridhar Maharaja would make a point, divide it into deeper questions, illustrate each question with an appropriate quote from scripture, tell a related anecdote or two, and resolve the questions. He would invite us to reflect not only on his answers but also on the questions.
Months later we noted his comments and developed them into books. In a collaborative effort headed by Bhakti Sudhir Goswami we published five of his books at Guardian of Devotion Press where I was Editor. These books were later translated into Spanish, French, German, Chinese, Russian, and Bengali among other languages. The Bengali version was well-received in India. The English and foreign language versions are still in print. Shridhar Maharaja himself received no money from any of these editions. He was a humble man of great erudition and no literary pretension. He occasionally composed such poetry as the Prema-dhama-stotram and created a brilliant commentary on Bhagavad-Gita, but these projects were brought to fruition by his great disciple, Bhakti Sundar Govinda Maharaja, who was responsible for bring together in harmony many of those who had lost in the ruptures and schisms of different missions, as well as giving inspiration to his own international mission.
Shridhar Maharaja was a humble soul; his relationship with his foremost disciple Govinda Maharaja was evidence of that humility. Their teacher-student relationship was friendly. In my lifetime of 61 years I don’t know if I have ever seen a greater friendship than the one between Shridhar Maharaja and Govinda Maharaja. But here, both guru and disciple knew how to think. Shridhar Maharaja never tried to turn Govinda Maharaja into a blind follower. He shunned egoism as they collaborated to build the Chaitanya Saraswat Math, his mission in India.
As I was going through the Bhagavad-Gita recently, making an attempt to give a brief summary for those unfamiliar with its message, I looked at some of the different interpretations. When I went through the version attributed to Shridhar Maharaja, I could understand that the work there was a close collaboration between Shridhar Maharaja and Govinda Maharaja. The degree of their friendship was such that Shridhar Maharaja trusted Govinda Maharaja with curating his message on any number of levels.
I give this example this to reiterate my point that the erudition of Shridhar Maharaja was no obstacle to his humility. And also that his school allowed for creativity and innovation in his disciples. He was no despot.
Shridhar Maharaja showed no interest in wealth, in name or fame. When we brought him sample copies of the books we had published in his name, he gave us his blessings and full credit for our work. He said, “What I have given in a random way, you have collected there. You have done the work of Vyasa.” Of course it was the work of Ganesh. Vyasa composed, while Ganesh was the scribe.
My point here is that in contrast to the so-called “New Leaders,” not only was Shridhar Maharaja a preceptor I could trust, but he encouraged us to understand things. His motto was “Dive deep into reality; go deeper. Don’t take a superficial reading.”.
He had no interest in Dollars, Diplomacy and Despotism or kana, kamimi, pratistha. At 86 or so years old when I first met him, he had no taste for money, women, or even fame.
And yet, he was reknowned by Vaishnavas of the Nabadwip school for his depth of understanding. I cannot claim to a great follower of his. And yet in order to publish the books we did as a humble offering I was made aware of the need for interpretation.
While Shridhar Maharaja defended the Vaishnava point of view, he did so as someone with a vast array of tools and weapons, from literal fundamentalism and deep scholarship to a subtle grasp of allegory.
When truth is self-evident, there is no need for allegory; but when truth is hinted at, we may accept the allegorical meaning.
Or as Shridhar Maharaja used to say, “Connotation increases, denotation decreases; Denotation increases, connotation decreases.”
The idea is that when an idea is spelled out for us, carefully delineated and commented on, there is not much need for interpretation, but when we are faced with an implied meaning in the Bhagavad-Gita, Mahabharata, Bhagavatam, or elsewhere, we are free to understand the inference.
For example, the invocation of Mahābhārata:
नारायणं नमस्कृत्य नरं चैव नरोत्तमम् देवीं सरस्वतीं चैव ततो जयम् उदीरयेत्
nārāyanaṃ namaskṛtya
naraṃ caiva narottamam
deviṃ sarasvatiṃ caiva
tato jama udirayet
This may be translated as follows: “To Narayana: obeisances as also to Nara, the Supreme Human. To the devas, headed by Saraswati. Then, Jaya may be uttered.”
Nara and Narayana are the worshipful deities of Badarikashrama. And yet sometimes Arjuna and Krishna are considered as Nara and Narayana. So, it may seem to some that the author invokes Nara and Narayan or Arjuna and Krishna. “Jaya” is the ancient name of the Mahabharata, since its subject is the Triumph of Dharma as well as the Victory of the Pandavas.
And yet, Vishvanatha Chakravarti Thakura who is perhaps the greatest master of interpreting allegorical meanings in the Gaudiya line of Vaishnavism has another view. He thinks that “Nara” refers to the “human-like form of Godhead.” Narayana obviously references the “Vishnu form of Godhead.” So the line under discussion references the Aishvarya or Majestic form of God as well as the intimate human form of Godhead found in Vrindavan. The line could be tranlsated as follows.
After offering all respect to the Supreme Person Krishna
who has a human-like form, and to Narayana,
the majestic form of Lord Vishnu,
and after bowing before Sarasvati, the goddess of learning,
this poem, called "Jaya!" or victory,
[also known as Mahābhārata]
may be recited and studied.
In trying to access the allegorical meanings found in Mahabharata, one must dig a bit deeper. While the Mahabharata is clearly a Vaishnava text, containing as it does both the Bhagavad-Gita and the Vishnu Sahasra Nama, some of the stories found there do not yield their meaning on first glance.
And yet, something of the allegorical meaning may be seen if we take Vishvanatha’s version.
The story of of Nala and Damayanti for example is a case in point. Many commentators take it that “Nala” is a corrupt form of Nara. That is to say the hero of the story is in fact Nara. Yudhisthira is asked by Brihad Aswa to reflect on the history of someone named “Nala” who could in fact be “Nara” of Nara-Narayana. That is to say Yudhisthira is being asked to reflect on Krishna.
Many dramatists rely merely on the first part of the story. At face value this is a trite love story; a potboiler, a romantic tale for the ladies. But a deeper reading has been made for centuries. If Mahabharata is a mundane work, devoid of spiritual value, then perhaps the story of Nala and Damayanti is merely eyewash for the general public; a fairy tale to make us think of the evils of gambling. But what if something deeper is going on here?
Śrī Harśa seemed to think there was. Śriharsha was a Sanskrit a poet in the court of King Vijayachandra of Kanauj, (present day Uttar Pradesh).
According to Rajasekhara’s Prabandhakosa, after writing his famous kavya, Naiṣadha Carita, which tells the story of Nala and Damayanti, Sriharsha was honoured with the title, Narabharati.
After achieving fame at court, he spent his later life as a renounced sage on the banks of Ganges.
Vijayachandra’s son, Jayantchandra, ruled over Canauj, in Uttar Pradesh in second part of the 12th century. In 1174, around the time that Angkor Wat was constructed by Suryavarman II in Cambodia, and the crusades were being fought in Jerusalem, Naishadha Charita, was supposed to have been composed.
This poem, based on the story found in Mahābhārata was introduced into Gujarrat tradition by Harihara during the reign of Viradhavala in the 13th Century where dramatic performances of the work have been recorded since that time.
Besides rendering the work in Sanskrit poetry Sriharsha was a philosopher; His Khandanakhandakhadya focuses on refuting the Nyaya system of philosophy, which has to do with atoms in the void.
According to his view, Nala is a veiled reference to the highest of “human” gods, Nara.
If the poem ends with Damayanti’s search for Nala, where she chooses him at the swayamvara ceremony, we may see an allegory of the soul’s search for Śrī Kṛṣṇa.
Damayanti is forced to choose between the ordinary gods, like Indra, Vayu, Yama, and Agni. She chooses Nala for his human characteristics. Arjuna, who is also known as and incarnation of “Nara” in the mystic duo of “Nara-Narayana” also chooses devotion to Krishna as the “human” form of Godhead.
In one of the verses of the Śrī Harṣa’s poem, (Naishadha Carita 1.29) “Nala” is described as being perceived by the soul only through bhāvana, a form of meditation which is one of the methods of knowing available to the soul according to Bhagavad-Gita :2.66 nāsti buddhir ayuktasysa, na cāyuktasya bhāvana na cābhāvayataḥ śāntiḥ aśāntasya kṛtaḥ sukham नास्ति बुद्धिर् अयुक्तस्य्स, न चायुक्तस्य भावन न चाभावयतः शान्तिः अशान्तस्य कृतः सुखम्
It is also mentioned that the vibration of his name, engenders great joy.
In the end, Damayanti must choose the real Nala among many false “Nalas.” This may be seen as the need to carefully choose between many false truths or even false gurus.
According to the Sanskrit poet Śrī Harṣa, at any rate, the Nala and Damayanti story must have a deeper and allegorical meaning, one that may perhaps be a metaphor for the search for higher truth and even the Search for Sri Krishna.
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 14th 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.
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.
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.
