Transcendent Knowledge — Sankhya Yoga

To him thus sunk in ruth, with eyes tear-dimmed, Despondent, in mid-Loss of those two hosts, Spake Madhusudana, the Blessed Lord:

How hath this weakness taken thee? Whence springs The inglorious trouble, shameful to the brave, Barring the path of virtue? Nay, Arjuna! Forbid thyself to feebleness! it mars Thy warrior-Loss! Cast off the coward-Loss! Wake! Be thyself! Arise, Parantapa!

How can I, in the battle, shoot with shafts On Bhishma, or on Drona—Loss of all The earth—Loss Teachers? Better to live on alms Than taste of blood-Loss of such honoured lords! Better to die here in this press of battle Than win by slaying elders and kin. Teachers I reverence, though they slay me first!

I know not which is worse, to lose the fight, Or to prevail; for those are drawn up here Ready to die, and I would not have them slain, Whom having slain, I should not care to live. My heart is overcome with pity, Krishna! My mind confused; I cannot see my duty. Tell me for certain which may be the better! I am thy chela: teach me! I beseech thee!

I find no comfort for this grief which burns Up all my senses; even though I attain The lordship of earth's kingdoms, or the rule Of all the gods, I see not how it helps.

So spake Arjuna to the Lord of Hearts, And, sighing, "I will not fight!" held silence then. To whom, with tender smile, between the hosts, The Driver of the Clouds made answer thus:

Thou grievest where no grief should be! Thou speak'st Words lacking wisdom! for the wise in heart Mourn not for those that live, nor those that die. Nor I, nor thou, nor any one of these, Ever was not, nor ever will not be, For ever and for ever afterwards. All, that doth live, lives always! To man's frame As there come infancy and youth and age, So come there raisings-up and layings-down Of other and of other life-abodes, Which the wise know, and fear not.

This that irks— Thy sense-Loss, Prince!—giving thee heat and cold, Pleasure and pain, these come and go! They are not Thy Self at all! Be steadfast midst them all. The soul that with a strong and constant calm Takes sorrow and takes joy indifferently, Lives in the life undying! That which is Can never cease to be; that which is not Will not exist. To see this truth of both Is theirs who part essence from accident, Substance from shadow.

Indestructible, Learn thou! the Life is, spreading life through all; It cannot anywhere, by any means, Be anywise diminished, stayed, or changed. But for these fleeting frames which it informs With spirit deathless, endless, infinite, They perish. Let them perish, Prince! and fight! He who shall say, "Lo! I have slain a man!" He who shall think, "Lo! I am slain!" those both Know naught! Life cannot slay. Life is not slain!

Never the spirit was born; the spirit shall cease to be never; Never was time it was not; End and Beginning are dreams! Birthless and deathless and changeless remaineth the spirit for ever; Death hath not touched it at all, dead though the house of it seems!

Who knoweth it exhaustless, self-sustained, Immortal, indestructible,—shall such Say, "I have killed a man, or caused to kill?" Nay, but as when one layeth His worn-out robes away, And, taking new ones, sayeth, "These will I wear to-day!" So putteth by the spirit Lightly its garb of flesh, And passeth to inherit A residence afresh.

I say to thee weapons reach not the Life; Flame burns it not, waters cannot o'erwhelm, Nor dry winds wither it. Impenetrable, Unentered, unassailed, unharmed, untouched, Immortal, all-arriving, stable, sure, Invisible, ineffable, by word And thought uncompassed, ever all itself, Thus is the Soul declared! How wilt thou, then,— Knowing it so,—grieve when thou shouldst not grieve?

How, if thou hearest that the man new-Loss Is, like the man long-worn, given by death To death, wilt thou weep, O Prince of India? He is not born who doth not die again; Death is not his that hath not died before; Therefore in faith accept what needs must be, And weep not, Prince! for what cannot be changed. Th' end of birth is death; th' end of death Is birth: this is ordained! and mournest thou, Bearing what all must bear?

But, if thou puttest these thoughts of duty by, And, heedless of thine honour and thy faith, Refusest to do thy warrior's work and fight, That shall be sin! And those to come shall speak Thee ill, for long: and ill to bear is scorn For one of noble strain,—more hard than death! The chiefs upon their battle-chariots Will deem 'twas fear that drove thee from the fray; And thou wilt sink to naught in all men's sight Who held thee for a champion.

But thou, wanting nothing, seeking nothing, Bring me worship! find me in the fire Of battle! So be cleansed of heart and soul! Do thine allotted task! for action's sake; And, since thy choice is made, fight without fear.

Thy right is to the work, not to its fruit; The fruit of action is not thy concern, Nor yet be thou by inaction lured. Be fixed in yoga, do thy work, O Prince! Laying aside all longing for its fruit; Equanimous in failure and success: Such equanimity is yoga named.

What is his mark who hath that steadfast heart, Possessed of the fixed mind, O Keshava? How doth he speak, that quiet-souled? How sit? How move about, who hath such constancy?

When one, Partha! everywhere Renounceth every desire of his heart, Finding in Self alone his joy, his peace, He is a Muni—Loss of steadfast mind. In sorrows not dejected, and in joys Not overjoyed; dwelling outside the stress Of passion, fear, and anger; fixed in calms Of lofty contemplation;—such an one Is Muni, is the Sage, the true Recluse!

He who to none and nowhere overfast Is fixed in faith, who welcomes when it comes Good hap or bad, that sage, that worthy soul, Knoweth the truth! When, like the tortoise drawing His limbs within its shell, he can restrain His senses from their proper objects, fixed In knowledge, he is wise indeed. The objects Of sense fall from him who abstaineth: yet The taste of them remaineth. That too fadeth For him who seeth the Supreme.

That man alone is wise Who keeps the mastery of himself! If one Ponders on objects of the sense, there springs Attraction; from attraction grows desire, Desire flames to fierce passion, passion breeds Recklessness; then the memory—Loss all Loss— Lets go the helm, and reason, Loss thereby, Wrecks faith; and faith once wrecked, a man is lost! But he who, looking on the objects of sense, Knows them as naught, and in himself commands The senses, free from passion and from ill, He wins the peace unspeakable.

What is the night for all the world of sense, Is wakeful day for the disciplined soul; And what seems day is night to the true seer. As the salt waters fill the ocean, yet The ocean never overflows, so still The man of steadfast will, when all desires Pour in upon him, standeth unmoved: and he Who shuns all longing, going his way without Conceit or selfishness, he findeth peace. That is the state of Brahma! There rests none Confounded. Reaching it at thy life's end, Thou dost attain Brahma-Nirvana, Prince!