विवेचन सारांश

Arjuna's Inner Conflict: Understanding the Deep Struggle and the Awakening of the Soul in the Bhagavad Gītā

The true greatness of noble souls is seen in their ability to maintain equanimity, to see beyond enmity and kinship alike. Arjuna, too, possesses this virtue. Even though those on the opposing side have wronged him, he does not perceive them as mere adversaries but as his own people. This is why he is often referred to as Anagha, one whose mind remains untainted.

This purity of heart is precisely why Arjuna was chosen to receive the wisdom of the Bhagavad Gītā. His mind was clear, free from personal bias, allowing him to perceive reality with sincerity. Yet, the grief he experiences now grips him completely—Kṛpayā Parayāviṣṭaḥ—overcome by sorrow, he is drowned in sympathy for those he must fight. The intensity of his emotions finds voice in his words:

Arjuna Uvāca
Dṛṣṭvemaṁ Svajanaṁ Kṛṣṇa Yuyutsuṁ Samupasthitam

Even after all the mistreatment at the hands of Duryodhana and Dhṛtarāṣṭra, he still refers to them as Svajana, his own people. This sentiment is remarkable. In today's times, even small disputes over property can turn family members into adversaries, making it impossible for them to acknowledge one another with affection. Yet, Arjuna, despite the magnitude of the betrayal he has endured, still sees those before him as his own.

Realizing that he must engage in battle against them, a profound shift occurs within him. His emotions begin to overpower his strength. This is an important moment, demonstrating how the mind and body are deeply interconnected. A weakened mind not only affects one's thoughts—it manifests physically as well. As his emotions overwhelm him, Arjuna finds himself devoid of the strength he once possessed. The upcoming ślokas further explore how his mental turmoil directly impacts his physical capabilities.

Thus, this chapter serves as a gateway to a deeper understanding. It does not merely set the stage for the Bhagavad Gītā but highlights the fundamental struggle of the human mind—the battle between duty and emotion, righteousness and attachment, strength and vulnerability.

Arjuna, standing on the battlefield of Kurukshetra, begins to experience overwhelming distress. His gātrāṇi (limbs) start to sīdanti (collapse), unable to support him. The strength that once defined him as a warrior is slipping away. His mukha (mouth) becomes pariśuṣyati (completely dry), making it impossible to speak. A deep vepathuḥ (tremor) overtakes his śarīra (body), much like the uncontrollable shivering experienced in a high fever. Romaharṣaḥ (horripilation) grips him—his hair stands on end, reflecting his intense anxiety and turmoil.

Arjuna, the wielder of the divine bow Gāṇḍīva, finds it slipping from his hastāt (hands)—an unimaginable occurrence for a warrior of his stature. The very weapon that he has held with unmatched skill and reverence now feels unbearably heavy. His tvak (skin) is paridahyate (burning), consumed by an inner fire fueled by his emotional agony.

His manaḥ (mind) begins to bhrāmati (whirl in confusion), unable to remain stable. The one who stood unshaken in celestial battles now finds himself incapable of even standing upright (na ca śaknomyavasthātum). If a warrior of his caliber can experience such a collapse, it illustrates how fear and mental weakness can completely incapacitate even the strongest individuals.

These two shlokas (1.29 and 1.30) highlight the undeniable connection between mental resilience and physical capability. Arjuna, the greatest warrior of his time, is not just any ordinary fighter—he has spent years mastering divine weaponry, acquiring knowledge from celestial realms, and achieving unparalleled skill in battle. Yet, even he is rendered powerless when faced with inner conflict.

This is the same Arjuna who spent five years in Svarga Loka, learning extraordinary vidyās at the behest of Indradeva. He fought and defeated the Nivātakavacas, a demonic force that even the Devas could not vanquish. Alone, he discovered their hidden dwelling, waged war against them, and emerged victorious. Not only this, he once battled none other than Bhagavān Mahādeva himself, seeking the powerful Pāśupata Astra. Even when stripped of weapons, he did not surrender—he picked up mere stones and trees to fight. Such was the resolve of Arjuna.

Yet, on the battlefield of Kurukshetra, the sight of his own kin lined up against him shatters his composure. His gātrāṇi sīdanti, his mukha pariśuṣyati, his śarīra trembles, and his manaḥ bhrāmati. The physical symptoms of his distress reveal a profound truth: no matter how strong one may be, a wavering mind can render the most formidable warrior helpless.

This is a lesson not just for warriors but for everyone. If fear and doubt can cripple someone as great as Arjuna, what about ordinary people? How often do we let fear take hold of us, making us feel incapable, unworthy, or paralyzed by our thoughts? Mental strength is not just important—it is everything. Without it, even the greatest of capabilities become useless.

Standing amidst the warriors of both sides, Arjuna questions—What good can come from harming my own people? These are not just soldiers; they are his relatives, his beloved elders, his dear friends. How can any victory be worth their suffering? This inner turmoil is what truly shakes him, and through him, the Bhagavad Gītā teaches an eternal truth: before conquering the external battlefield, one must first master the war within.

Arjuna, standing on the battlefield, perceives omens that appear inauspicious and foreboding. He does not see any welfare (śreyaṣ) in engaging in this battle, especially when it involves the destruction of his own kin. The repetition of the term "svajana" (own people) highlights his deep emotional turmoil—he does not see them as mere warriors of the opposing side but as his own blood, his family. The word "āhave" explicitly conveys the grim reality of the battlefield, making his dilemma even more poignant.

A striking aspect of Arjuna's thought process is his unwavering focus on śreyaṣ—the greater good. His mind is not merely concerned with what is easy or profitable but rather what is righteous and beneficial in the long run. This quality of his thinking is evident even in the third chapter, where he consistently seeks actions that lead to noble outcomes. The essence of śreyaṣ can be categorized into two forms: dṛṣṭa (“visible”) and adṛṣṭa (“invisible”). The visible śreyaṣ refers to immediate and tangible benefits, such as winning a war and gaining a kingdom. The invisible śreyaṣ, however, is far more profound—it is the unseen merit one accumulates through righteous actions, leading ultimately to mokṣa (liberation). Just as individuals working in offices receive salaries as their direct reward, the householder sees the well-being of the family as an immediate gain. But beyond these, there exists the unseen benefit of karma, which manifests over time and influences one's spiritual progress.

Arjuna's predicament is unique—his dharma, as a kṣatriya, is to establish dharma by eradicating the adhārmic forces, yet he finds himself turning away from it. His hesitation is reflected in the choice of words: "nimittāni ca paśyāmi" and "na ca śreyo'nupaśyāmi." The verb "paśyāmi" (I see) indicates his present understanding—he does not see any immediate benefit in waging war. The verb "anupaśyāmi," on the other hand, extends his perception into the future—he foresees no long-term welfare arising from this battle either. His reluctance, therefore, is not a momentary impulse but a well-considered position based on both present and future consequences.

An interesting phrase in this verse is "viparītāni Keśava." The name Keśava itself carries profound meaning—it is derived from "Ka" (Brahmā), "Iśa" (Mahādeva), and "Va" (Ananda), signifying the one who brings joy to both Brahmā and Śiva. Yet, Arjuna subtly expresses his despair, questioning why Keśava, who is a source of joy for the universe, is placing him in such deep sorrow. This indirect lamentation reveals the depths of his anguish—if Bhagavān bestows joy upon all, why is He making Arjuna bear such a terrible burden?

The essence of Arjuna’s conflict is not whether he can achieve victory—he is certain of that. His concern is about what follows the victory. "Paśyāmi"—he sees the battle as an instrument of destruction, and "anupaśyāmi"—he envisions a future devoid of any real purpose or fulfillment. In his heart, he questions—what is the true worth of a kingdom gained through such devastation? The thought of a world built upon the ruin of his own kin brings him no satisfaction, no desire to move forward.

In this verse, Arjuna expresses a profound rejection of worldly achievements. 

He states unequivocally that he has no desire for victory, no longing for a kingdom, and no interest in material pleasures. The very idea of triumph in this battle holds no value for him. The concept of conquering his foes and claiming sovereignty feels utterly meaningless.

Arjuna questions the purpose of such a rule, asking—kiṃ no rājyena govinda—“Of what use is this kingdom to us?” What meaning does wealth, power, and even life itself hold when the price of attaining them is the destruction of one’s own kin? He further questions—kiṃ bhogairjīvitena vā—what is the worth of life and its pleasures when those for whom one seeks them will no longer be there to share in that joy?

This reflection touches upon a universal truth—why does one strive for success? Why does one seek prosperity? It is, after all, for loved ones, for those who bring meaning to life. The true joy of wealth and victory lies in sharing them with one’s own people. Without them, all accomplishments become hollow, devoid of true fulfillment.

Arjuna’s words reveal the depth of his emotional turmoil. He does not merely hesitate due to fear or uncertainty; he fundamentally questions the very purpose of ambition, of striving for greatness, when it comes at the cost of irreparable loss. His inner conflict is not just about the battle before him, but about the very essence of human pursuit and the ultimate meaning of life itself.

For whom do we desire the kingdom, the pleasures, or happiness? The very people who are now positioned for battle, facing certain death, are those whom we wish to protect and fight for. These people are dear to us, yet they stand on the battlefield, ready to give up their lives and wealth. The question arises: What good is victory if the people we cherish are not there to share in it? Victory and wealth hold no true value if we cannot enjoy them with those we love.

This thought echoes in the heart of a person who strives not for personal glory alone, but for the collective good. Consider this analogy: Imagine constructing a grand house for yourself, but when it's built, you realize the joy of ownership is incomplete without sharing it with others. Whether it’s a new home or a simple renovation, there’s a longing to invite others to witness the fruits of one’s effort. Without sharing our success with loved ones, what use is it?

The desire for victory or success is tied not just to personal ambition but to the hope of sharing those triumphs with those we hold dear. The warriors standing before one another, ready to face each other in this battle, are not just opponents. Among them are the elders, teachers, friends, and even kin. This victory, should it come at the cost of their lives, seems hollow. The purpose of the struggle fades when the ones we cherish are no longer there to enjoy the fruits of that success.

Thus, the idea of victory—be it for wealth, power, or status—loses its meaning if those we wish to protect are left behind. The battle becomes a mere contest of survival, devoid of the joy of sharing the spoils. Without them, the very reason for striving fades away.

All the teachers, fathers, sons, and grandfathers, maternal uncles, father-in-laws, grandsons, brothers, and relatives—each of them is dear to the one who fights in this war. These are not merely distant figures; they are the ones for whom everything is being sacrificed, the ones for whom the battle is fought.

In life, there is a deep connection that transcends individual glory. For a warrior, his honor and success are not his alone; they reflect the collective spirit of his family, his teachers, and his society. Consider this: A child dreams of becoming an IAS officer, working tirelessly to pass the exams. On the day the child succeeds, they are elated—not just for themselves, but for the happiness of their parents. Yet, what happens if, in that moment of success, the child learns that their father is no longer there to share it? The joy of the achievement is overshadowed by the absence of the one for whom it was all done. The question arises—what value does this success hold if it cannot be shared with loved ones?

This sentiment is echoed by those who face a similar dilemma in this battle. The victory in this war, the wealth, the glory—none of it holds meaning if the loved ones are not there to witness and share it. It is not just a personal victory; it is meant to uplift everyone around. This is why, even in the field of battle, one does not only fight for individual success but for the happiness and well-being of others.

Human beings inherently seek recognition and success not only for themselves but for the people they care about. When a cricket player performs, it is not just his family who celebrates; the entire nation rejoices with him. Similarly, when a leader like Modi does something great, it is not just his family that shares the joy, but the entire country. The sense of collective happiness is what makes success truly meaningful.

Similarly, when a soldier returns after a victorious battle, it is not only his family who celebrates; the entire village, the entire city, rejoices. It is this shared sense of victory, the joy of others, that gives true value to success. This is the essence of victory—it is not merely a personal achievement, but a collective one, shared by all those who matter.
In the same way, the warriors on the battlefield, who are ready to face each other, have their own loved ones—teachers, fathers, sons, and relatives. The victory in this battle holds no meaning if those loved ones are lost in the process. The thought of taking life in this war, of killing the very people for whom one fights, seems unbearable. The idea of achieving victory at such a cost is deeply troubling, for it leaves the warrior wondering: What is the point of such a victory? It is not a victory that the warrior desires, for it brings with it the pain of loss, not the joy of triumph.

The realization dawns—this is not a victory worth pursuing. It is not a victory that brings happiness, for it would leave behind an empty void where the loved ones once stood. The desire for victory fades when one realizes that the true purpose of success is to share it with those who matter, and without them, it is of no use.

At this point, Arjuna expresses his inner turmoil, stating that he does not wish to kill those who stand before him in battle, even though they are the enemy. He knows the gravity of the situation, but his heart is torn. He speaks with confidence, yet there is an underlying sense of struggle in his words. All the while, Bhagavān remains silent, simply listening.

Arjuna, deeply troubled, tries to convey his feelings once again, but he senses that Bhagavān is not convinced by his words. Though Arjuna has voiced his reluctance, his inner turmoil is still evident. Bhagavān does not respond, but stands there, silently absorbing Arjuna's emotions, offering no words of comfort or rebuttal.

Arjuna's gaze meets Bhagavān’s, understanding that his dear friend is not moved by his reasoning. He feels the need to offer a more profound explanation, but even as he speaks, he knows that Bhagavān is not yet convinced. The silence between them speaks volumes, and Arjuna feels the weight of his words—though he expresses his reluctance, his arguments seem insufficient to sway Bhagavān’s silent judgment.

As Arjuna continues, he realizes that simply speaking about his feelings is not enough. Bhagavān stands unmoving, with folded hands, offering no judgment, but only listening, as if to say, “What you speak does not quite make sense.” Still, Arjuna, with determination, continues to try explaining, knowing that his reasoning must go deeper, as he seeks to justify his hesitation.

Despite his best efforts, the understanding between the two remains unspoken. Arjuna knows that there is more to his dilemma than just words—his emotions are complex, and his struggle is not easily articulated. And so, as Bhagavān stands silently, Arjuna seeks a way to explain further, hoping for some clarity in his heart, yet aware that Bhagavān’s silence reflects something deeper than simple words can convey.

Arjuna continues to grapple with the complexity of the situation, reflecting deeply on the consequences of killing the sons of Dhritarashtra. He questions the joy or satisfaction they would gain by slaying those who are essentially their own kin. Arjuna admits that these are sinners, having created a legacy of negative karma, but is troubled by the idea of killing them. His thoughts reveal the conflict between duty and personal emotion, as he acknowledges the atrocities committed by the Kauravas, yet wonders about the righteousness of his actions.

In these discussions, there is a clear awareness of the wrongdoings, particularly the bad deeds committed by the Kauravas over the years, which Arjuna himself admits. Despite their faults, he wrestles with the notion that by killing them, he may be incurring even greater sin. This sentiment emerges from his understanding that their actions—whether it be their cruelty or deceit—qualify them as "ātātāyin," those who are worthy of punishment according to scripture.

Arjuna tries to explain that their actions have been nothing short of violent and sinful. He recalls how they had plotted to kill the Pandavas during their exile by setting their house on fire, among other cruel schemes. The memory of these past betrayals and attempts on their lives weighs heavily on Arjuna, yet he is still conflicted about the consequences of taking their lives.

This dilemma leads him to think about the term ātātāyin more deeply, turning to the scriptures for clarity. In the Vashistha Smriti, there is a specific definition of what constitutes an ātātāyin. The text outlines six categories of such individuals, with the first being someone who sets fire to another's house. This, Arjuna realizes, applies directly to the Kauravas' actions during the Lakshagraha incident, where they attempted to burn the Pandavas alive by setting their palace on fire.

He recalls how the Pandavas, with the help of Vidura, had managed to escape through a secret tunnel just as the palace was set ablaze. The Kauravas' cruelty in these actions makes them fall squarely into the category of ātātāyin. Moreover, the second characteristic of an ātātāyin is someone who attempts to poison another. Arjuna recollects how, as children, the Kauravas attempted to poison Bhima, throwing him into a river, where he was nearly drowned. However, Bhima was saved by a serpent named Aryaka, who recognized him and nourished him back to health with a special elixir. This act of cruelty also classifies the Kauravas as ātātāyins.

The next category involves those who loot or take away the wealth or property of others, which the Kauravas did when they took the kingdom away from the Pandavas through deceit and force. The other characteristic concerns those who abduct others, a crime that can be seen in their treatment of women and the many instances of kidnapping during the conflict.

Arjuna's argument grows stronger as he identifies how the Kauravas meet all six categories of ātātāyins—they have not only wronged the Pandavas in every possible way but have also ignored the wisdom of the scriptures. He recalls a verse from the Manusmriti that states: "gurvān bālavat brāhmaṇam vā bahutām ātātāyan māyāntam hanyā deva-vicāryan." This verse clarifies that if an ātātāyin is killed, there is no sin incurred, as their actions have already violated dharma and disrupted the order of society.

Despite the clarity in the scriptures, Arjuna cannot ignore his personal attachment to those involved. He sees them as his family—his own kin—and this creates a deep internal conflict. His emotional pull makes him question the righteousness of killing his relatives, even though they are clearly the perpetrators of great evil. This complexity of duty versus emotion fills his heart with confusion and grief.

Arjuna’s reflections bring him to the realization that, despite everything, these individuals—his own kin—are deserving of punishment according to dharma. However, the anguish of carrying out such an act weighs heavily on him. He concludes that even though they have been cruel and sinful, killing them is not a simple solution. The weight of this decision is more than just a matter of justice; it touches the deepest part of his heart.

Arjuna is filled with deep conflict as he contemplates the idea of killing the sons of Dhritarashtra. He cannot fathom how he could bring himself to destroy his own relatives, his kin. He questions how anyone could find happiness after such a tragedy. Killing his own family, even if they are wrongdoers, would only lead to misery. How could one possibly be happy after such an act? Arjuna reflects on the situation with a profound sense of moral turmoil, knowing that even the Kauravas have their place in his family tree, however wicked they may be.

The verses reveal Arjuna’s profound internal struggle, as he refers to the Kauravas as his svajana—his own people—emphasizing the strong connection he feels towards them despite their actions. However, he also recognizes that, in his heart, the Kauravas are different from his true family, the Pāṇḍavas, whom he consistently regards as his own kin, his svabāndhavan. This distinction makes the situation even more poignant, as the family he would destroy is intertwined with his own.

The Kauravas, blinded by greed and selfish desires, fail to see the consequences of their actions. They cannot recognize the destruction they are causing—not just to the Pandavas, but to their own family, their lineage, and society. Their minds are clouded by lobha (greed), preventing them from seeing the harm they are perpetuating. They fail to understand that the destruction of the family, of their own kin, leads to the downfall of their entire lineage and society.

The kulakṣaya (destruction of the family) caused by such actions brings forth dire consequences, not just for the individuals involved, but for the entire societal structure. Additionally, the mitradroha (betrayal of friends) deepens the sin, for they betray those who once stood by them. Their failure to perceive these grave wrongs reveals the extent of their blindness to righteousness.

In contrast, Arjuna is aware of these truths. He sees the doṣa (flaw) in their reasoning and understands the immense damage that will be caused by their actions. However, the Kauravas, because of their ignorance and blinded minds, cannot see this truth. This is the key distinction—Arjuna’s ability to recognize the consequences, while the Kauravas remain oblivious to the larger picture.

Arjuna's words paint a stark contrast between his moral understanding and the Kauravas' blindness. While they are wrapped up in their own desires, Arjuna reflects on the larger repercussions, seeing the path ahead as one of destruction and suffering. The anguish that comes with killing his relatives weighs heavily on him, but his awareness of the consequences guides his soul.

Arjuna’s realization emphasizes that in the face of overwhelming greed and ignorance, it is often the righteous who can see the truth, even when others cannot. His moral clarity is what differentiates him from those who are blinded by their passions, leading him to question the righteousness of his duty and the true meaning of family and loyalty.

The session concludes with a reflective note on Arjuna’s state of mind, showcasing his struggle to balance duty with personal attachment, and the philosophical depths of his moral conflict.

Om Śrī Krishnaarpanamastu

Lalit Ji:
Q: As humans, are we in a position to categorize someone as an "Atatai" (aggressor) or "Yati" (pure)? In the case of the Pandavas and Kauravas, were they entitled to decide who is an aggressor in a dharmic war? Ultimately, isn't it karma that decides?
A: We are not the ones to decide who is an "Atatai." It is based on karma, not the actions of others. The Pandavas acted with purity, while Duryodhana's actions were deliberate and not fated. Karma decides a person's character and actions, not others' judgments. The Kauravas' actions, especially Duryodhana's, were not due to fate but deliberate choices.


Kiran Ji:
Q: Why was there a fight, and why were there arms and communications? Wasn't that sinful?
A: It is not that simple. You cannot just make a statement saying it is not sinful. There are a lot of historical factors behind it. We must see what the Mahabharata says. Some basic stories and lessons can guide us. Don't watch TV serials, read the original texts. If you don’t have time, listen to Swami Ji's Mahabharata Katha, and you will understand the finer details. This battle was justified, and it was very evident that it had to be fought. According to Lord Buddha, we should not kill even non-living things, even small animals, and even mosquitoes. We should not harm them. But sinners should be killed. I have studied the Bhagavad Gītā, not Buddha’s ideology, but based on Gītā, we must act. The Kṣatriyas have the responsibility to protect society when there is Adharma. For example, if someone comes to invade and says, “I am a Buddha; I will not fight,” then the entire enemy army will come and capture the country. Would that be justified? No, it is not justified. We are not talking about killing mosquitoes but about killing sinners, as a normal human being must.


Lakshyavedh Ji:
Q: How did Karna become a Kaurava?
A: Karna did not become a Kaurava. He was a friend of the Kauravas, but he did not become a Kaurava. The Kauravas are 100 brothers, and they also have their friends. Their uncle, Shakuni Mama, was among the friends of the Kauravas. Karna was their best friend. 


Vrinda Ji:
Q: You had mentioned the six points related to sins. Can you state them?
A: Sure! The six points are:

The session concluded with prayers and chanting Hanuman Chalisa.