Chapter 1

Dhritirashtra: Tell me, Sanjaya — when my people and the Pandavas had gathered for battle on the sacred field of Kurukshetra, what did they do?

Sanjaya: When Raja Duryodhana saw the army of the Pandavas drawn up before him, he went to Drona and said: “Master, look at this vast army of Pandu’s warriors, arranged for battle by Drupada’s son — your own pupil in the art of war. Among them stand mighty bowmen, the equals of Arjuna and Bhima: Virata, Yuyudhana, Drupada on his splendid chariot, Dhrishtaketu, Chekitana, the brave lord of Kasi, Purujit, Kuntibhoja, Saivya, Yudhamanyu, Uttamaujas, the son of Subhadra, and the sons of Draupadi — all of them famous, all riding shining chariots. And on our side too, best of Brahmans, see the excellent commanders of my forces — let me name them with pride: yourself first of all, then Bhishma, Karna, Kripa fierce in battle, Vikarna, Ashvatthaman, the strong son of Somadatta, and many more, all proven and valiant, ready to die for me today, each gripping his weapon, each a master of the field. Yet our army seems the weaker, with Bhishma in command, while theirs, led by Bhima against him, looks too strong. Let our captains stand close by Bhishma’s lines, ready to support him wherever they can. Now — sound my conch!”

At the old king’s signal, the trumpeter blew the great conch with a blast like a lion’s roar, rousing the blood; and instantly trumpets, drums, cymbals, gongs and horns broke into a sudden uproar like the howl of a loosed storm. Then, on their golden chariot drawn by white horses, Krishna the divine one and Arjuna at his side raised their own battle-conches. Krishna of the matted locks blew his great conch carved from a giant’s bone; Arjuna blew the gift of Indra; the terrible Bhima of the wolf-belly blew his long reed-conch; Yudhisthira, the blameless son of Kunti, sounded his mighty shell called “Voice of Victory”; Nakula sounded his shrill “Sweet-Sounding” conch and Sahadeva his “Jewel-Decked,” and the prince of Kasi blew his own. Sikhandi on his chariot, Dhrishtadyumna, Virata, the unconquered Satyaki, Drupada with his sons, O Lord of Earth, and the children of long-armed Subhadra — all blew loudly, until the clamour shook the hearts of their enemies, with the earth quaking and the sky thundering.

Then, seeing Dhritirashtra’s army arrayed and ready, weapons drawn, bows lifted, war about to break — Arjuna, whose banner bore the image of Hanuman the monkey, spoke to Krishna his divine charioteer: “Fearless one, drive me out to the open ground between the two armies. I want to look more closely at those who have come to fight us, those we must kill today in the trial of war. For surely all who throng this field are bent on bloodshed, doing the bidding of Dhritirashtra’s wicked son.”

So, at Arjuna’s request, O Bharata, the heavenly charioteer drove the bright car between the hosts, reining the milk-white horses to a halt before Bhishma and Drona and the other lords. “Look,” he said to Arjuna, “there stand your kinsmen of the Kuru line.” And the prince looked, and on every side he saw his own family — grandfathers and fathers, uncles, brothers and sons, cousins, sons-in-law and nephews, mingled with friends and honoured elders, some ranged on this side, some on that. Seeing those who faced him, these dear ones now turned enemies, his heart melted with pity, and he said:

Arjuna: Krishna, looking at these kinsmen of mine gathered here ready to shed each other’s blood, my limbs grow weak, my mouth dries up, my body trembles, my hair stands on end with horror. Gandiva, my good bow, slips from my faltering hand; my skin burns as if with fever; I can hardly keep my feet; my very mind seems to swim and faint. I can see nothing ahead but disaster. Keshava, this is not right — nothing good can come from killing our own people. I have no wish for victory, no wish for kingship or pleasure won this way. Govinda, what joy could such a victory bring? What use would the spoils be, what comfort in rule, what sweetness even in life itself, bought at such a price? Those for whose sake we would want kingdoms, comforts and pleasures are the very ones standing here ready to die — grandfathers, fathers, sons, brothers, fathers-in-law, sons-in-law, elders, friends. Shall I kill them, even if they try to kill me? Madhusudana, I would not strike a single blow even to win rule over all three worlds — much less for an earthly kingdom! What happiness can come from killing Dhritirashtra’s sons and our own relatives, Krishna? Their deaths would only bring us grief. Even if they are guilty, their guilt will fall upon us when we kill them. How could there be peace in that, Madhava? Even if they, blinded by greed and anger, cannot or will not see the sin of destroying a royal house and slaying their own kin, surely we, who can see it, who feel the shame of it, ought to turn away from such a crime, O Janardana, delight of men. When a family is destroyed, its long traditions of household piety perish; rites are neglected, holiness dies, and impiety takes root in that house. Its women lose their virtue, and from this come wild passions and the mixing of castes — sending the whole family, and those who destroyed it by their wicked anger, on the road to hell. The souls of the honoured ancestors too fall from their place of peace, deprived of the funeral offerings of rice-cakes and water. So our sacred hymns teach us. If we kill our own kin and friends for the sake of earthly power — what a terrible wrong it would be! Better, I think, to let my kinsmen strike me down unresisting, weaponless, baring my chest to their arrows and spears, than to return blow for blow.

So speaking, in the sight of both armies, Arjuna sank down on the seat of his chariot, sick at heart, and let his bow and arrows fall from his hand.

Here ends Chapter I of the Bhagavad-Gita, called “Arjuna-Vishada,” or “The Book of Arjuna’s Distress.”