विवेचन सारांश

Arjuna Confronts His Own People and Is Overwhelmed by Compassion

Bhagavān places the chariot directly in front of Pitāmaha Bhīṣma and Ācārya Droṇa, the foremost figures among all assembled warriors.

The verse uses the phrase( mahīkṣitām.

Thus, mahīkṣitām signifies kings, rulers of the earth.

In other words, Bhagavān positions the chariot: In front of Bhīṣma, the grandsire of the Kuru dynasty, In front of Droṇa, the revered teacher of both Pāṇḍavas and Kauravas, And before all the great kings and eminent warriors assembled on the battlefield.

This is not a random placement. It is deliberate, precise, and deeply symbolic. Bhagavān brings Arjuna to stand face to face with those whom he reveres most, elders, teachers, protectors, and benefactors.

Having positioned the supreme chariot (rathottamam) between the two armies and directly before Bhīṣma and Droṇa, Bhagavān then speaks to Arjuna. The text says uvāca, He said. Not “Śrī Bhagavān uvāca”, but simply uvāca, because Sañjaya is narrating Bhagavān’s actions and words to Dhṛtarāṣṭra. Formal instruction has still not begun.

Bhagavān addresses Arjuna as Pārtha the son of Pṛthā and says: paśyaitān ṣamavetānkurūniti. “Behold, O Pārtha. Look at these Kurus, assembled here.”

Once Bhagavān placed the chariot directly before Pitāmaha Bhīṣma, Ācārya Droṇa, and all the great rulers of the earth, and asked Arjuna to look, Sañjaya now describes to Dhṛtarāṣṭra what Arjuna actually saw.
This is the moment where Arjuna’s inner vision begins to change.

“Tatra” – At That Very Place
The verse begins with “tatra”, there, at that very spot. That precise location is important: Right in front of Bhīṣma and Droṇa, Right between the two armies, At the threshold of irreversible war. apaśyat is a verb in the past tense; he saw.

So Sañjaya is saying: “There, at that place, Pārtha saw…”

What Did Arjuna See?
Pārtha (Arjuna) looked—and what he saw was not merely an army. He saw relationships. He saw his own people.

1. Pitṝn — The Elders
Pitṝn does not mean only one’s father. It includes father, uncles, paternal relatives, maternal relatives, all elder figures of the family lineage. Arjuna saw all his elders standing there, ready for war.

2. Pītāmahān — Grandfathers and Great-Grandfathers
Pitāmaha means grandfather, Prapitāmaha means great-grandfather. Arjuna saw the entire ancestral line of his own kula, including Bhīṣma, the grandsire whom he dearly loved and revered. These were not strangers, these were the very people who had protected and nurtured him.

3. Ācāryān — His Teachers
Arjuna saw his Ācāryas, foremost among them Ācārya Droṇa. Droṇa was: The teacher who had imparted the sacred science of archery, The one who had shaped Arjuna into the greatest archer of his age, A guru to whom Arjuna owed his entire martial excellence. Now that very teacher stood before him as an opponent.

4. Mātulān — Maternal Uncles
Arjuna saw his mātulas, maternal uncles, those connected by bonds of affection and protection.

5. Bhrātṝn — Brothers
He saw brothers, some bound by blood, some by loyalty, some by shared upbringing.

6. Putrān and Pautrān — Sons and Grandsons
He saw: 

In this assembly, someone was a father, someone a son, someone a grandfather, someone a grandson. The battlefield was filled not with enemies, but with generations of the same families facing one another.

7. Sakhīn — Friends
Finally, Arjuna saw friends. Friends stood on both sides: Friends who had once laughed together, Friends who had shared food, learning, and trust, Friends now standing with weapons raised against one another.

The Horror of a Civil War
This was not a war between strangers or distant kingdoms. This was āp­ta-svajana-yuddha, a war among one’s own people. Guru versus disciple, Grandfather versus grandson, Uncle versus nephew, Friend versus friend. Arjuna saw that everyone was bound to everyone else in some way.

The question silently arises: Is such a war ever righteous? War always brings destruction. Both sides suffer loss. Victory itself becomes hollow. Yet this war had reached the point of inevitability. Everyone had already assembled. Weapons were raised. Retreat was no longer possible.

The Turning Point Begins
Until now, Arjuna was a warrior, alert, confident, and determined. But the moment he truly saw, not soldiers, but relationships, something within him shifted.

Sañjaya has only described what Arjuna saw. What happens within Arjuna as a result of this vision, how his heart reacts, how his strength begins to waver, how sorrow slowly takes hold, that will be revealed next. This is the threshold where Arjuna the warrior begins to transform into Arjuna the seeker.

Continuing the narration, Sañjaya now reveals something even more profound, Arjuna does not see only elders, teachers, sons, and friends. He also sees those who are bound by subtle yet powerful bonds of goodwill and benevolence.

Śvaśurān – Fathers-in-Law. Arjuna sees his śvaśuras standing there, figures connected through marriage, respect, and social duty. These are not merely relatives by law; they are elders who command honor and reverence. They too are standing with weapons, ready for battle.

Suḥṛdaḥ – True Well-Wishers. The word suḥṛd is extremely significant. A mitra (friend) is someone with whom there is mutual friendship, I am friendly to you, and you are friendly to me. But suḥṛd means something far deeper: One who wishes well, regardless of whether that goodwill is returned. One who seeks another’s true benefit (hita), not personal gain. A suḥṛd may remain a well-wisher even if: Friendship is not acknowledged, Affection is not reciprocated, Or even if the other person remains indifferent. And the supreme Suḥṛd of all beings is Bhagavān. Whether anyone loves HIM or not, whether anyone befriends HIM or not, HE always wills the good of all. Thus, when the text says suḥṛdaḥ, it indicates genuine well-wishers, people who truly cared for one another. And Arjuna sees that even such well-wishers are standing here, ready to fight.

Ubhayor Api – On Both Sides, In both armies, On both sides. This is crucial.

When Arjuna carefully reviewed those standing before him on the battlefield, this act of seeing was no longer superficial; it was deep and contemplative. As described by Sañjaya, tānsamīkṣya sa kaunteyaḥ, sarvānbandhūnavasthitān, that son of Kuntī, having closely observed all his own people standing there, fully prepared for war, underwent a profound inner change. These were not enemies in Arjuna’s perception; they were bandhu, his own relatives and well-wishers, firmly positioned and ready to fight.

At that moment, “kṛpayā parayāviṣṭo, supreme, overwhelming compassion entered his heart. This was not ordinary sympathy but an intense, all-consuming compassion that completely possessed him. As a result, Arjuna became viṣīdanni, overwhelmed by viṣāda, a state far deeper than mere sorrow or grief. Viṣāda is such extreme inner anguish that it paralyzes the intellect, obscures one’s sense of duty, and makes a person incapable of deciding what ought to be done. Thus, being submerged in this condition, viṣīdannidamabravīt, Arjuna spoke these words.

Saint Jñāneśvara Mahārāja explains this transformation with a powerful metaphor. Arjuna’s natural disposition is that of a vīra, a heroic warrior. This heroic disposition is compared to a noble, radiant, self-respecting wife. When uncontrolled compassion entered Arjuna’s heart, it was as if another presence intruded into the household; the heroic disposition felt insulted and departed. Jñāneśvara Mahārāja expresses this beautifully in his ovis:

The mind became utterly disturbed; compassion entered uninvited, and feeling dishonored, the heroic nature left. He further explains:

Just as a dignified woman of noble lineage cannot tolerate such an insult and leaves with her radiance intact, Arjuna’s vīra-vṛtti withdrew the moment compassion dominated him. Courage dissolved, and emotional collapse took its place.

In this state of deep viṣāda, Arjuna finally speaks. Addressing Bhagavān, he says: dṛṣṭvemaṃ svajanaṃ kṛṣṇa, yuyutsuṃ samupasthitam, having seen these very own people, O Kṛṣṇa, standing here eager to fight. He then describes the inexplicable changes overtaking him

Arjuna now begins to describe, in his own words, the alarming changes taking place within him. He says, sīdanti mama gātrāṇi, HIS gātrāṇi, HIS bodily limbs, seem to be giving way. The word gātra refers to the physical limbs and organs of the body. Arjuna feels as though HIS arms and legs are melting, losing their strength and support. Just as a human being, when suddenly confronted with a terrifying or unbearable situation, feels that the power has drained out of HIS hands and feet, Arjuna experiences a similar collapse. The warrior who once wielded the mighty Gāṇḍīva bow with effortless strength now feels that HIS very limbs are failing HIM.

He then says, “mukhaṃ ca pariśuṣyati”, HIS mouth and throat are drying up completely. The term pariśuṣyati indicates total dryness, from every side. This is not mere thirst; it is the physical expression of intense inner turmoil. When the mind is overwhelmed by fear, shock, or grief, the body mirrors that disturbance. Arjuna’s speech falters, HIS throat tightens, and HIS mouth becomes dry.

Arjuna continues, vepathuśca śarīre me, HIS entire body begins to tremble. Vepathu means violent shaking or trembling. HIS hands shake, HIS legs tremble, and HIS whole body quivers uncontrollably. This trembling is not due to cold or physical exhaustion; it arises from the collapse of inner steadiness. Along with this, romaharṣaśca jāyate, HIS hair stands on end. Goosebumps appear all over HIS body. This romaharṣa is another classic sign of overwhelming emotional shock, when the nervous system itself seems to rebel.

Arjuna continues describing the terrifying transformation overtaking him. He says that HIS body is trembling and HIS hair is standing on end, gāṇḍīvaṃ sraṃsate hastāt. HIS entire being is shaken; goosebumps rise all over HIS body, and an involuntary shudder passes through HIM. Then HE confesses something even more shocking: gāṇḍīvaṃ sraṃsate hastāt, the Gāṇḍīva, HIS beloved and legendary bow, is slipping from HIS hands. This is not an ordinary statement. A peerless archer, known throughout the three worlds for HIS mastery of archery, is saying that HE cannot even hold HIS own bow. The weapon that defines HIS identity as a warrior refuses to stay in HIS grasp. Along with this, tVākcaiva paridahyate, HIS skin feels as though it is burning from all sides. This is not physical fire but the sensation of intense inner conflict, anxiety, and mental torment manifesting through the body. He further admits, na ca śaknomyavasthātuṃ, HE is unable to remain standing. Just moments ago, HE was standing upright, bow raised, eager to assess worthy opponents; now HE cannot even maintain HIS posture. Finally, HE says, bhRāmatīva ca me manaḥ, HIS mind is whirling in confusion, unable to think clearly, unable to decide anything. Everything appears blurred; nothing makes sense anymore.

Arjuna Himself points to the cause of this sudden collapse: dṛṣṭvemaṃ svajanaṃ kṛṣṇa, having seen HIS own people, O Kṛṣṇa. It is not fear of death, not doubt about victory, not lack of skill. It is the sight of HIS svajana, HIS own relatives and well-wishers, standing ready for mutual destruction. In a single moment, the warrior who confidently declared that HE wished to see who was worthy to fight HIM has completely changed. HIS limbs feel as if they are melting, HIS throat has dried up, HIS body trembles, HIS bow slips away, and HIS mind spins helplessly. This dramatic shift shows how quickly inner attachment can overpower even the strongest resolve.

Saint Jñāneśvara Mahārāja emphasizes that it is essential to understand who Arjuna truly is, before underestimating this collapse.

This is not an ordinary soldier. This is the Arjuna who defeated even Bhagavān Śiva when HE came disguised as a hunter to test HIM, an episode remembered in the words. This is the Arjuna who destroyed the fearsome Nivātakavaca demons. Such a warrior, who could subdue gods and annihilate mighty demons, becomes utterly helpless in a single moment, caught in the grip of attachment.

To explain this paradox, Jñāneśvara Mahārāja gives an incomparable metaphor. He says that a bhramara, a powerful black bee, can bore through even dry, hard wood. Yet, when that same bee enters a lotus to drink nectar and becomes absorbed in its fragrance, sunset comes, the petals close, and the lotus turns into a bud. That bee, which could pierce dry wood, cannot tear through the soft lotus petals to escape. Even if it dies there, it does not break free. He says:

And further:

The teaching is profound: affection for one’s own people appears soft and gentle, but it is extraordinarily difficult to cut through. Attachment (sneha) seems tender, yet it binds more strongly than iron. Arjuna, who could destroy the fiercest enemies, is rendered powerless by love for HIS own people. HIS strength drains away, HIS courage collapses, and HIS heroic nature is eclipsed by compassion mixed with attachment. This is the true meaning of Arjuna Viṣāda Yoga, the moment when even the greatest human strength fails, making space for the need of higher wisdom. Only after this inner devastation does Arjuna begin to steady himself slightly and turn toward Bhagavān, Paramātmā, seeking guidance. What Arjuna says next marks the transition from breakdown to surrender.

Arjuna says, “Nimittāni paśyāmi viparītāni Keśava”, O Keshava, I see all signs turning unfavorable. On this battlefield, the indications appearing before me are not auspicious; it feels as though something inauspicious and destructive is about to happen. So many of my own relatives are gathered here, and if this war takes place, everything will turn upside down. Therefore, Arjuna says that he does not perceive any good or positive outcome in these circumstances.

He further says, “Na ca śreyo ’nupaśyāmi hatvā sva-janam āhave”, in this battlefield, by killing my own kinsmen, I do not see any welfare or benefit for anyone. In Arjuna’s understanding, war does not bring true good to anyone; both sides inevitably suffer loss. When the opposing forces are equal in strength, the destruction is even greater. From this perspective, is Arjuna’s statement wrong? Whose welfare is truly achieved through war?

At this stage, it is important to understand Arjuna’s position and state of mind. Bhagavan’s teachings in the Gita come later; first, we must grasp Arjuna’s inner turmoil. What Arjuna is expressing here is his honest realization that by killing his own people, he cannot see any real good or well-being resulting for anyone.

At this stage, Arjuna’s language undergoes a sudden and profound transformation, revealing a complete inner collapse. He declares, “Na kāṅkṣe vijayaṁ Kṛṣṇa na ca rājyaṁ sukhāni ca”, he no longer desires victory, nor the kingdom, nor the pleasures that come with it. Such words do not arise from a balanced or healthy state of mind; they reflect the speech of a person overwhelmed by deep despair. Victory is naturally desirable to all, but when a person falls into severe emotional distress, even success appears meaningless. Arjuna’s refusal of victory, power, and happiness shows that he has slipped into an avasāda–like state, where motivation itself dissolves. He then goes further and asks, “Kiṁ no rājyena Govinda kiṁ bhogair jīvitena vā”, O Govinda, what use is a kingdom to us, what use are enjoyments, and what use is even life itself? Here, Arjuna questions the very value of living, a clear sign of extreme inner turmoil. Such thoughts, where life itself appears pointless and death seems preferable, are characteristic of a deeply depressed, almost suicidal mental state. This is the same Arjuna who had conquered mighty warriors and destroyed formidable enemies like the Nivātakavacas, yet in a single moment of moha born from attachment to his own people, his strength, clarity, and will have collapsed. His body trembles, his bow slips from his hand, his mind becomes confused, and now even life feels burdensome. This moment captures the depth of Arjuna’s human breakdown, which forms the essential foundation of the Bhagavad Gītā: only after this complete exhaustion of his own understanding does Arjuna become capable of receiving the wisdom that Bhagavān, as Paramātma, is about to impart.

Arjuna continues his reflection by saying: “Yeṣām arthe kāṅkṣitaṁ no rājyaṁ bhogāḥ sukhāni ca”, those for whose sake this kingdom, these pleasures, and these comforts appear desirable, those for whose benefit such power and prosperity are sought, are the very ones who now stand assembled on this battlefield. They are yuddhe sthitāḥ, standing ready for war, and war means coming with one’s life placed on the palm of the hand. The very people for whom the desire for sovereignty, enjoyment, and happiness arises have come here prepared to renounce their lives, prāṇān tyaktvā dhanāni ca. In war, it is not only life that is lost; there is also immense destruction of wealth, resources, and accumulated prosperity. Above all, it is the loss of living beings that is inevitable, especially the loss of the young. Not the aged or the weak, but youthful warriors, strong and valiant, step onto the battlefield, and it is they who are compelled to sacrifice their lives. Seeing this, Arjuna’s mind is seized by a piercing question: those for whom all this is desired are themselves ready to abandon both life and wealth; if they themselves do not seek these gains, then for whom is this war to be fought, for whom is this kingdom to be won, and for whom are these pleasures to be pursued?

Arjuna observes and recounts to Bhagavān, just as Sanjaya had narrated to Dhṛtarāṣṭra. He notices that all his own relatives and elders are present on the battlefield, ready for war. He sees pitarah, his fathers and forefathers, standing before him. He sees mātulāḥ, his maternal uncles, śaśurāḥ, his fathers-in-law, pautrāḥ, his grandsons or young heirs, and śālāḥ/śālakaḥ, extended relatives connected through marriage or other family ties. The battlefield is filled with ācāryas, including his revered teacher Droṇācārya, standing directly before him. Alongside them are the disciples of various teachers, some of whom are Arjuna’s own students, while some are teachers for others.

Arjuna sees his pitarah, putrāḥ, and pitāmahāḥ, his forefathers and grandfathers, gathered for combat. The mātulāḥ, śaśurāḥ, and pautrāḥ, uncles, fathers-in-law, and grandsons, are all present. Even śālaka-sambandha, relations like brothers-in-law, co-brothers, or sons-in-law, have assembled here. Every possible family connection is represented on the battlefield: fathers, sons, grandfathers, uncles, nephews, teachers, students, in-laws, and extended relatives.

In other words, Arjuna sees that everyone he cares for, everyone tied to him by blood, lineage, or affection, has come to fight and potentially die in this battle. The entire army is composed not of strangers, but of svajana, close relations bound to him by love, respect, and familial duty. This realization overwhelms Arjuna, because the very people for whose happiness, protection, or glory he might have fought in any other circumstance are now standing directly against him, ready to shed their own blood and take life. It is the presence of all these near and dear ones, fathers, teachers, brothers, nephews, uncles, in-laws, and students alike, that plunges Arjuna into the deepest anguish of mind and heart.

Arjuna now speaks with firm resolve to Bhagavān, addressing Him as Madhusūdana. He says: “Etān na hantum icchāmi”, I do not wish to kill them. By etān, he means all those standing before him: his own relatives, elders, teachers, and loved ones. He declares that he does not wish to kill them under any circumstance. Even if he himself were to die, he would still not raise his weapons against them. Such thoughts arise intensely in his mind: it would be better if I myself were to die than to kill these close relations.

Addressing Bhagavān as Madhusūdana, the One who slew the demon Madhu, Arjuna acknowledges Bhagavān’s divine power and past acts of destruction performed for the protection of righteousness. Yet he makes a clear distinction: You destroyed a demon, Arjuna implies, but these are not demons; these are my own people. Therefore, he says, I cannot kill them.

He then takes his argument to its extreme limit. “Api trailokya-rājyasya hetoḥ kim nu mahī-kṛte”, even if sovereignty over the three worlds were offered to him, even if he were promised rulership over heaven, earth, and the intermediate realm, he would still not kill them. If he would not fight even for the kingdom of the three worlds, then what to speak of fighting for this small, earthly kingdom of Mahī, for the throne of Hastināpura? For such a limited gain, how could he even consider this slaughter?

Here, Arjuna’s mental transformation becomes unmistakably clear. The same warrior who moments earlier had sounded the conch, lifted his bow, and declared that he wished to see who was worthy to fight against him, now undergoes a complete reversal of heart. Upon seeing his own people, compassion floods his inner being. Karunā-rasa overwhelms him so deeply that his former heroic resolve collapses. From this compassion arises his declaration: Let me die if necessary, but I will not kill them.

He asks implicitly: What is truly to be gained by killing one’s own people? What benefit, what righteousness, what meaning could arise from such an act? Thus, Arjuna’s mind becomes fixed in this conviction, no kingdom, not even the sovereignty of the three worlds, can justify the killing of his own kin.

Arjuna now speaks with deep emotional intensity to Bhagavān, addressing Him as Janārdana, the Sustainer and Guide of all beings. He says in clear words: “Nihatya dhārtarāṣṭrān naḥ kā prītiḥ syāt, Janārdana, what joy, what happiness could ever come to us by killing the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra? What satisfaction, what inner peace could possibly arise from such an act? Arjuna feels that no true pleasure can result from the destruction of one’s own relatives. On the contrary, he believes that only sin would accrue to them. Therefore he says, “Pāpam evāśrayed asmān, hatvāitān ātatāyinaḥ”, even by killing these ātatāyins, we would incur only sin; sin alone would cling to us.

Here, Arjuna introduces the term ātatāyin. An ātatāyin is one who commits extreme violence, one who attempts to kill another with weapons, administers poison, sets fire to destroy life, steals another’s wealth or land, or abducts and violates another’s wife. According to the śāstric definition, anyone who commits even one of these acts is called an ātatāyin. From this standpoint, the actions of Duryodhana and Duḥśāsana clearly fall into all these categories: they seized the Pāṇḍavas’ kingdom, looted their wealth, humiliated and attempted to disrobe Draupadī, plotted to kill Bhīma with poison, tried to burn the Pāṇḍavas alive in the lac house, and repeatedly attempted their violent destruction. By every standard, they qualify as ātatāyins.

Yet, despite this, Arjuna’s mind, overwhelmed by intense compassion and attachment, argues otherwise. He feels, “Even if they are wrongdoers, they are still my own people. By killing them, will we not ourselves become sinners?” His heart is so filled with karuṇā (compassion) and moha (delusion born of attachment) that he cannot see beyond the immediate emotional reality. In such a state, he questions whether it is right to punish even those who have committed grave injustice, especially when they are bound to him by blood and relationship.

This way of thinking is not unique to Arjuna; it reflects a very human dilemma. Even today, people sometimes argue that violent offenders or terrorists should not be punished because “they are our own,” “they belong to our land,” or “they are part of our society.” Arjuna’s state of mind mirrors this inner conflict. When compassion overwhelms discernment, even justice appears cruel. When attachment dominates, even righteous action feels sinful.

The example given is powerful: if a judge were to see his own son brought before him as a criminal deserving the highest punishment, the judge’s mind might waver. Though justice demands impartiality, attachment clouds judgment. That is why one who dispenses justice is never supposed to judge cases involving his own relatives. Arjuna, however, is placed in an impossible situation, he is forced to confront and fight his own elders, teachers, relatives, and loved ones on the battlefield itself.

Thus, Arjuna’s refusal is not born of cowardice, but of overwhelming compassion mixed with delusion. He repeatedly declares: “I do not desire victory, I do not desire kingdom, I do not desire pleasure. If they kill me, so be it, but I will not kill them.” This is the depth of his transformation. The same warrior who moments earlier lifted his bow and sounded the conch, now feels that even living has no value if it comes at the cost of killing his own people.

At this stage, Arjuna is completely viṣāda-grasta, overcome by sorrow and moral confusion. His arguments may sound noble, compassionate, and even convincing, and there is no fault in understanding them sympathetically. The purpose here is not yet to judge Arjuna’s reasoning, but to clearly understand his mental and emotional state. The teachings of the Bhagavad Gītā that follow will address this confusion, correct his understanding, and reveal the higher path of dharma, jñāna, and karma as taught by Bhagavān Himself.

With this contemplation on Arjuna’s inner turmoil and compassion, the reflection rests at the feet of Bhagavān.

Om Tat Sat
Śrī Kṛṣṇārpaṇam Astu

Vyjyanti ji 
Question: Sometimes when we want to take a decision, we write down the pros and cons, but both sides seem equally strong. Others tell us, ‘Do what feels right to you.’ At that time, the mind feels confused, when thinking of the pros, they feel right; when thinking of the cons, they also feel right. How should one take a decision in such a situation?”
Answer: This is a very good and important question. To answer it deeply, one needs to study the Bhagavad Gītā, because the Gītā awakens viveka (discriminative wisdom), which helps us take the right decisions.
This exact situation arises for Arjuna as well. His problem is not choosing between right and wrong, but choosing between two duties. Protecting his own people feels like a duty, and fighting the war also feels like a duty. When two duties clash, a dwandva (inner conflict) is created. The question then becomes: which duty should be performed?
In Arjuna’s case, Bhagavān Śrī Kṛṣṇa Himself is present to guide him. For us, the guiding light is the Bhagavad Gītā, which is described as Jayatu Jayatu Gita Vāṅmaya Kṛṣṇa Murti, Paramātmā Himself in the form of divine words.
Until the Gītā becomes fully internalized, there is a simple and powerful practice: Sit before Bhagavān, before a form you love and trust. Offer a prayer and honestly say, “I am not capable of taking this decision. Please show me the right path.” Then calmly reflect. As contemplation deepens, one clear inner direction eventually emerges. That clarity should be accepted as Bhagavān’s guidance.
Once the decision is taken in this spirit, it should be surrendered to HIM. The results, whatever they may be, are also HIS. Do not repeatedly doubt or rethink the decision afterward. This surrender itself is Karma Yoga.
The Gītā teaches that every action is entrusted to us by Bhagavān. This human life is given by HIM, and through it, HE wishes certain actions to be done. When duties are performed as an offering to HIM, clarity gradually arises on its own.
Therefore, never let go of the hand of the Bhagavad Gītā, or rather, place your hand firmly in HERS. SHE will never let go.

Padmini ji
Question: “Why is the body called jaḍa (inert)? The word jaḍa is usually used for things that have no life, so why is the body described that way?”
Answer: The body is called jaḍa because, by itself, it has no consciousness. When the jīvātmā (living consciousness) is associated with the body, the body appears alive and active. But when consciousness departs, the same body remains exactly as it was, eyes, ears, nose, and mouth are all present, yet it cannot function.
This is why, at the time of death, people say, “The body is still here, but the person is no longer present.” What remains is called a dead body. In that state, the body is clearly jaḍa.
So, the body is not conscious on its own. All movement and activity happen only due to the presence of cetana (consciousness). The material part of the body is always inert; it only appears alive because of consciousness. When body and consciousness are understood separately, it becomes clear that the body itself is jaḍa.

The discourse concluded with a prārthanā (prayer) at the padakamala (lotus feet) of Śrī Hari, followed by the recitation of the Hanumān Chalisa.