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A History of Indian Literature v1.c9.s6: Fables, Parables and Moral Narratives in the Mahābhārata

A History of Indian Literature v1.c9.s6

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English

Fables, Parables and Moral Narratives in the Mahābhārata

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³ A selection of moral narratives, especially out of Book XII, from the Mahābhārata, is given in French translation by A. *Roussel*, Légendes Morales de l'Inde empruntées au Bhagavata Purāṇa et au Mahabharata traduites du Sanskrit. (*Les littératures populaires* t. 38 et 39). Paris 1900. On fables and parables s. *Oldenberg*, Das Mahābhārata, pp. 66 ff.

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These Itihāsa-Saṃvādas, as we may call those discourses clothed in the form of narratives (saṃvāda), for the greater part no longer belong to the brahmanical legend-poetry, but to what, for lack of a better expression, we have called Ascetic poetry.⁴ The latter is clearly distinguishable from the brahmanical poetry connected with the ancient legends of the gods, which are already forgotten to a considerable extent among the people; it is far more closely related to the *popular* literature of fables and fairy-tales, partly because it draws upon the latter, and partly because it approaches it as closely as possible. And while the brahmanical legends, like the brahmanical Itihāsa-Saṃvādas, serve the special interests of the priests and teach a narrow priestly morality, reaching its climax in the sacrificial service and in the worship of the Brahmans (more than of the gods), the ascetic poetry rises to a general morality of mankind, which teaches, above all, love towards all beings and renunciation of the world. Traces of this literature are first to be found in the Upaniṣads, but later just as much in the Mahābhārata and in some Purāṇas, as in the sacred texts of the Buddhists and the Jainas. Therefore it is not to be wondered at, that in these different literatures we often meet with the same legends of saints and the same maxims of wisdom and ethics, often literally the same.

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⁴ See M. *Winternitz* in *Calcutta Review*, Oct. 1923, pp. 1 ff.

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The oldest Indian fables are to be found, indeed, already in the actual epic, and they serve for the inculcation of rules of *Nīti*, *i.e.* worldly wisdom, as well as of *Dharma* or morality. Thus a minister advises Dhṛtarāṣṭra to deal with the Pāṇḍavas in a similar manner as a certain jackal, who utilised his four friends, a tiger, a mouse, a wolf and an ichneumon, for the purpose of obtaining his prey, but then cunningly got rid of them, so that the prey remained for him alone.¹ In another place Śiśupāla compares Bhīṣma with that old hypocritical flamingo, which always talked only of morality and enjoyed the confidence of all its fellow-birds, so that they all entrusted it with the keeping of their eggs, until they discover too late, that the flamingo eats the eggs. Delightful also is the fable of the treacherous cat, which Ulūka, in the name of Duryodhana, relates to Yudhiṣṭhira, at whom it is aimed. With uplifted arms the cat performs severe austerities on the bank of the Ganges; and he is ostensibly so pious and good that not only the birds worship him, but even the mice entrust themselves to his protection. He declares himself willing to protect them, but says that in consequence of his asceticism he is so weak that he cannot move. Therefore the mice must carry him to the river—where he devours them and grows fat.² The wise Vidura, into whose mouth many wise sayings are placed, also knows many fables. Thus he advises Dhṛtarāṣṭra not to pursue the Pāṇḍavas out of self-interest, that it may not befall him as it befell the king who, out of greed, killed the birds which disgorged gold, so that he then had neither birds nor gold.¹ In order to bring about peace, he also relates the fable of the birds which flew up with the net which had been thrown out by the fowler, but finally fell into the hands of the fowler, because they began to quarrel with one another.²

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¹ I, 140. On similar fables, *cf.* Th. *Benfey*, Pantschatantra I, pp. 472 f.

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² II, 41; V, 160. Such fables, in which animals appear as hypocritical ascetics, are not at all rare in Indian fable literature, *cf.* Th. *Benfey*, l. c., I, pp. 177 f., 352; and M. *Bloomfield*, JAOS. 44, 1924, pp. 202 ff.

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¹ II, 62. Related to this is the fairy-tale of Suvarṇaṣṭhīvin (*i.e.*, "he who drops gold out of his mouth"), the son of King Sṛñjaya. The latter had desired a son whose entire evacuations should be gold. The wish is fulfilled, and the gold accumulates in his palace. But finally the son is kidnapped by robbers (dasyus) and murdered, and all the gold vanishes. VII, 55. *Cf.* *Benfey*, l. c., I, 379.

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² V, 64. *Cf.* also the fable of the crow which desires to enter on a flying-race with the flamingo, VIII, 41, translated by *Benfey*, l. c., I, pp. 312 ff., where also other related fables are indicated.

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Most of the fables, as well as all the parables and moral narratives, are to be found in the didactic sections and in Books XII and XIII. Many of these recur in the Buddhistic and later collections of fables and fairy-tales, and some have been transmitted into European narrative literature. Thus Benfey has traced through the literature of the world a series of fables which all deal with the subject of the impossibility of friendship between cat and mouse.³

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³ XII, 111; 138; 139 (also Harivaṁśa, 20, 1117 ff.) translated and traced in other literatures by *Benfey*, l. c., I, 575 ff., 545 ff., 560 ff. Other fables of the Mahābhārata which are part of universal literature, are that of the three fishes XII, 137 (*Benfey*, l. c., I, 243 f.) and that of the saint's dog which is changed into a leopard, a tiger, an elephant, a lion, a Śarabha and finally again into a dog, XII, 116 f. (*Benfey*, l. c., I, 374 f.).

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Many a pretty parable, too, is to be found in the didactic portions of the Mahābhārata. Thus "the old Itihāsa, the conversation between the river and the ocean,"⁴ is related in order to inculcate the wise theory that it is good to stoop:

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⁴ XII, 113.

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"The ocean asks the rivers how it is that they uproot strong mighty trees and bring them to him, while they never bring the thin weak reed. Gaṅgā answers him: 'The trees stand, each in its place, firmly rooted to one spot. Because they oppose the current, they must move from their place. Not so the reed. The reed bends as soon as it sees the current

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approaching—not so the trees—and when the force of the current has passed by, it stands erect again."

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Great fame and almost universal propagation has been attained by the parable of the "Man in the well" which the wise Vidura relates to King Dhṛtarāṣṭra.¹ For its own sake as well as on account of its significance in universal literature, it deserves to be quoted in an extract and partly in translation :

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¹ XI, 5.

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A Brahman loses his way in a dense forest full of beasts of prey. In great terror he runs here and there, looking in vain for a way out. "Then he sees that the terrible forest is surrounded on all sides by traps and is embraced by both arms of a dreadful-looking woman. Great and terrible five-headed dragons, which reach up like rocks to the sky, surround this great forest." And in the middle of this forest, covered by underwood and creeping plants, there is a well. The Brahman falls into it and is caught on the intertwined branches of a creeper. "As the great fruit of a bread-fruit tree, held by its stalk, hangs down, so he hung there, feet upwards, head downwards. And yet another even greater danger threatens him there. In the middle of the well he perceived a great, mighty dragon, and at the edge of the lid of the well he saw a black, six-mouthed and twelve-footed giant elephant slowly approaching." In the branches of the tree which covered the well, swarmed all kinds of dreadful-looking bees, preparing honey. The honey drips down and is greedily drunk by the man hanging in the well. For he was not weary of existence, and did not give up hope of life, though white and black mice gnawed the tree on which he hung. The forest, so Vidura explains the metaphor to the king who was filled with pity, is the saṃsāra, existence in the world : the beasts of prey are the diseases, the hideous giantess is old age, the well is the body of beings, the dragon at the bottom of the well is time, the creepers in which the man was caught, the hope of life, the six-mouthed and twelve-footed elephant, the year with six seasons and twelve months: the mice are the days and nights, and the drops of honey are sensual enjoyments.

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There can be no doubt that this parable is a genuine Indian production of ascetic poetry. It has been called "originally Buddhistic,"¹ but it does not correspond more with the Buddhists' view of life than with that of the Jainas and of other Indian ascetic sects. However, it probably was the Buddhistic versions of the parable which paved the way for it to the West; for it penetrated into the literature of the West principally with that stream of literature which flowed to the West through the popular books "Barlaam and Joasaph" and "Kalīlah and Dimnah," which originated in *India*, but later became absolutely international. But in Germany it is most familiar through Rückert's beautiful poem "Es war ein Mann in Syrerland," whose immediate source is a Persian poem by Jelâled-dîn Rûmî.² Ernst Kuhn has traced throughout all the literatures of the world the "circulation of this truly non-sectarian parable which has served equally for the edification of Brahmans, Jainas, Buddhists, Mohammedans, Christians and Jews."³

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¹ Thus *Benfey*, l. c., I, pp. 80 ff., and *M. Haberlandt*, Der altindische Geist (Leipzig 1887), pp. 209 ff.

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² Friedrich *Rückerts Werke*, publ. by *C. Beyer*, Vol. I, pp. 104 f. The Persian poem from the second Diwan of Jelâl-ed-dîn Rûmî, translated by *Joseph v. Hammer*, Geschichte der schönen Redekünste Persiens, Vienna 1818, pp. 183. *Cf.* also *R. Boxberger*, Rückert Studien, pp. 85 f., 94 ff.

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³ In the "Festgruss an O. v. Böhtlingk," Stuttgart 1888, pp. 68-76.

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As with this parable, so with many *moral narratives* of the Mahābhārata, one might be inclined to trace them back to Buddhistic sources. On closer scrutiny, however, they could equally well have been drawn from that source of popular narratives which was alike at the disposal of Brahmans, Buddhists and other sects. Thus, for example, the stories of King Śibi not only look very Buddhistic, but, in a text belonging to the Tipiṭaka⁴ the legend is actually already related, how this self-sacrificing king tears out both his eyes in order to give them to a beggar. In the Mahābhārata the story is told in three different versions,¹ how the king cuts the flesh from his own body piecemeal and gives up his life, in order to save the life of a dove which is pursued by a hawk. This same king Śibi, however, already plays a part in the old heroic legends of Yayāti. He is one of the four pious grandsons of this king, who offer him their places in heaven and finally ascend to heaven with him.² The description, too, of the immeasurable riches and the tremendous generosity of Śibi in another place, where he is glorified as a pious sacrificer, who gives the Brahmans as many oxen as raindrops fall upon the earth, as there are stars in the sky and grains of sand in the bed of the Ganges, is distinctly brahmanical in colouring.³

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⁴ **Cariyāpiṭaka**, I, 8. *Cf.* also the Sivi-Jātaka (Jātakas ed. V. Fausböll, IV, 401 ff., No. 499) and *Benfey*, l. c., I, 388 ff.

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¹ III, 130 f; 197, XIII, 32. See *Griffith*, Idylls from the Sanskrit, pp. 123 ff. (The Suppliant Dove).

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² I, 86 and 93. *Cf.* above, p. 380.

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³ VII, 58. The legend of Śibi, too, which is related in III, 198, is quite brahmanical. Here, at the wish of a Brahman, he unhesitatingly kills his own son and—even eats him himself, because the Brahman commands it. On the other hand the narrative of King Suhotra and Śibi (III, 194) looks more Buddhistic, and, in fact, though no longer referring to Śibi, actually recurs in Buddhist literature (Jātaka No. 151). *Cf.* T. W. *Rhys Davids*, Buddhist Birth Stories, London 1880, pp. xxii-xxviii, R. O. *Francke*, WZKM. 20, 1906, pp. 320 ff.

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To the stories of self-sacrifice so popular in ascetic poetry, belongs also the touching narrative of the huntsman and the doves,⁴ which has also been included in *one* recension of the Pañcatantra.⁵ Love of one's enemy, and self-denial can hardly go further than in this "sacred, sin-destroying Itihāsa," which relates how the male dove burns himself in the fire for the wicked hunter, who has caught his beloved wife because he has no other food to offer the "guest;" how the dove follows her husband into death, and how the wicked hunter, deeply touched by the great love and self-sacrifice of the pair of doves, gives up his wild life, becomes an ascetic and finally also seeks death in the fire.¹

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⁴ XII, 143-149.

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⁵ See *Benfey*, l. c., I, pp. 365 f., II, 247 ff.

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¹ The story can hardly be Buddhistic, as Buddhism does not advise religious suicide. Other sects, *e.g.*, the Jainas, recommend it.

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Another side of ascetic morality is illustrated by the story of the pious ascetic Mudgala, who does not want to go to heaven :

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As Mudgala is so wise and pious, a messenger of the gods appears, in order to lead him up to heaven. But Mudgala is careful enough to enquire first what the heavenly life is like. The messenger of the gods then describes to him all the glories of heaven and all the bliss which there awaits the pious. Certainly, he cannot conceal the fact that this bliss is not of eternal duration. Everyone must reap the fruits of his actions. When once the *Karman* is exhausted, then one must descend again from heaven and begin a new existence. Then Mudgala will have none of such a heaven ; he devotes himself afresh to ascetic practices and finally through deep meditation (dhyānayoga) and complete indifference towards the sense-world attains to that highest place of Viṣṇu, in which alone the eternal bliss of Nirvāṇa is to be found.²

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² III, 260 f. E. *Windisch* (Festschrift Kuhn, pp. 4 f.) sees in this Mudgala the prototype of the Buddhist Maudgalyāyana who visits the heavens and hells.

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The doctrine of *Karman*, Action, which is the fate of man, the first appearance of which we observed in the Upaniṣads,³ forms the subject of many profound narratives in the Mahābhārata. One of the most beautiful is that of the Snake, Death, Fate and Action. The contents are briefly as follows :

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³ See above, pp. 258 f.

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Gautamī, an old and pious Brahman woman, one day finds her son dead. A snake has bitten him. The grim hunter Arjunaka drags the snake along by a rope and asks Gautamī how he shall kill the wicked murderer of her son. Gautamī replies that through the killing of the snake her child will not be restored to life; nor would any good arise from it; for by the killing of a living being one only burdens oneself with guilt. The hunter objects, saying that it is good to kill enemies, even as Indra

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killed Vṛtra. But Gautamī can see no good in torturing and killing enemies. Then the snake also joins in the conversation. It says that it is not to blame for the death of the boy. It was *Mṛtyu*, Death, who only employed it as his instrument. Now, while the snake and the hunter are in violent dispute as to whether the snake was to blame for the death of the child or not, the god of death, Mṛtyu, appears himself and declares that neither the snake nor he himself were to blame for the boy's death, but *Fate* (*Kāla*, “time”): for everything that happens, happens through Kāla; everything that exists, exists through Kāla. “As the clouds are driven hither and thither by the wind,” so also death is under the sway of fate. While the hunter insists on the point of view that both the snake and Mṛtyu are guilty of the child's death, *Kāla* himself appears, and declares: “Neither I nor death (Mṛtyu) nor this snake here are to blame for the death of any being, O hunter, we are not the cause. *Action* (*Karman*) it is, which has driven us to it; there is no other cause of his destruction, only through his own action was he killed . . . . . As the potter shapes out of a lump of clay everything he desires, so man attains only that fate which he has prepared for himself by his action. As light and shade are always most closely connected with each other, so also the deed and the doer are closely connected through everything which he himself has done.” Then Gautamī consoles herself with the thought that the death of her son was the necessary effect of his and her own Karman.¹

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¹ XIII, 1.

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How human beings are to behave towards *death*, is a question which Indian thinkers and poets have again and again treated in innumerable maxims, and also in many a consolatory story.² One of the most beautiful of these stories is that of the Vulture and Jackal and the Dead Child, the contents of which shall again only be briefly indicated:

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² See above, p. 313, and *Lüders* in ZDMG, 58, 1904, pp 707 ff.

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The only little son of a Brahman had died. Lamenting and weeping, the relatives carried the corpse of the little child out to the place of burial. In their grief they could not bear to part from their dead darling. Attracted by the sounds of lamentation, a vulture comes flying to the place, and explains to them how futile are all lamentations for the dead. No mortal returns to life when he has once succumbed to Kāla;¹ therefore they should return home without delay. Consoled to some extent, the mourners begin the homeward journey. Then a jackal comes towards them and reproaches them with want of love, because they leave their own child so quickly. Sadly they turn back again. Here the vulture awaits them and reproves them for their weakness. One should not mourn for the dead, but for one’s own self. This one should above all cleanse from sin, not weep for the dead; for all the weal and woe of man depends only on the Karman. “The wise man and the fool, the rich man and the poor man, they all come into the power of Kāla, with their good and bad deeds. What do you want with your mourning? Why do you complain of death?” and so on. Again the mourners turn homewards and again the jackal exhorts them not to give up their love towards their offspring; one should make efforts against fate, for it may perhaps after all still be possible to restore the child to life. Whereupon the vulture remarks: “A thousand years old am I, but I have never seen a dead person come to life again……Those who do not care for their mother and father, their relatives and friends *so long as they are alive*, commit a crime against morality. But of what benefit is your weeping to one who does not see with his eyes, who does not move and is absolutely dead?” Again and again does the vulture urge the mourners to return home, whilst the jackal tells them to return to the burial place. This is repeated several times. Vulture and jackal thereby pursue their own ends, for they are both hungry, and greedy for the corpse. At last god Śiva, urged by his wife Umā, has pity on the poor relatives and lets the child become alive again.²

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² XII, 153.

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But it is not only the morality of asceticism which finds expression in the moral narratives of the Mahābhārata. Many of them appeal to us particularly for the reason that they teach more the every-day morality which is rooted in the love between husband and wife, parents and children. One of the prettiest of these narratives is that of Cirakārin or the Youth Ponder-well,¹ who is instructed by his father to kill his mother who has sinned grievously. As he is by nature slow and considers everything at length, he delays the execution of the command, and considers from this and that point of view, whether he should carry out his father's command and burden himself with matricide, or neglect his duty to his father. While he is pondering so long, his father returns, and, as his anger has in the meantime vanished, he rejoices deeply that his son Ponder-well has, true to his name, pondered the matter so long. In the centre of this narrative, which is presented in simple popular tone with a certain humour, stands the soliloquy of the youth. In beautiful words he speaks of paternal love and filial duties, and in still more beautiful words, of maternal love:

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¹ *Kāla* is not only “time” and “fate”, but also “destiny of death.”

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¹ XII, 265, translated by *Deussen*, "Vier philosophische Texte des Mahābhāratam," pp, 437-444.

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"So long as one has a mother one is well cared for; when she is lost, one is without protection. He who enters his house with the cry 'O mother!' is oppressed by no sorrow, is undisturbed by age though he were robbed of all his wealth. Though one has sons and grandsons, even though one is full a hundred years old, when he comes to his mother he behaves like a two-year old child..... When he has lost his mother, then a man becomes old, then he becomes unhappy, then the world is empty for him. There is no cool shade like a mother, there is no refuge like a mother, there is no beloved like a mother......"

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The main point of all these narratives lies in the speeches of the characters. But I have already mentioned that many so-called *Itihāsas* are actually only short introductions and frames of didactic *dialogues*, so that we can call them *Itihāsa-saṃvādas*. Some of these dialogues rank equally with the best similar productions of the Upaniṣad-literature and of the Buddhistic literature. The saying of King *Janaka* of Videha, after he has obtained peace of mind sounds as though it had been taken from an Upaniṣad: "O, immeasurable is my wealth, for I possess nothing. Though the whole of Mithilā burn, nothing of mine burns.”[^1) And the verses of the courtesan *Piṅgalā*, who is bereft of her lover at the trysting-place, and after overcoming her grief, attains to that deep calmness of soul which has always been the highest aim of all Indian ascetic wisdom, verses which end in the words: “Calmly sleeps Piṅgalā, after she has put non-desire in the place of wishes and hopes,”[^2) recall the Buddhist nun-songs (Therīgāthā). As occasionally in the Upaniṣads,[^3) so also in the dialogues in the Mahābhārata, it is often people of despised caste and low rank, who are in the possession of the highest wisdom. Thus the Brahman Kauśika is instructed by *Dharmavyādha*, the pious hunter and dealer in meat, upon philosophy and morality, and especially about the theory that not birth, but virtuous life, makes one a Brahman.[^4) Thus also the pedlar *Tulādhāra* appears as the teacher of the brahmanical ascetic Jājali.[^5) This Itihāsa-dialogue is so important in the history of Indian ethics, that it merits being given here in extract:

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The Brahman Jājali lived as a hermit in the forest, and gave himself up to the most frightful austerities. Clothed in rags and skins, stiff with dirt, he wandered through the forest in rain and storm undertook severe fasts, and defied every inclemency of the weather. Once he stood in the forest, deep in yoga, like a wooden post, without moving. There a pair of

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[^1): XII, 178. J. *Muir* (*Metrical Translations*, p. 50) translates:

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“How vast my wealth, what joy I taste,
Who nothing own and nought desire!
Were this fair city wrapped in fire,
The flame no goods of mine would waste.”

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Mithilā is the residence of Janaka. *Cf.* *Jātaka* (ed. Fausböll), Vol. V, p. 252 (Verse 16 of the Sonakajātaka No. 529), and Vol. VI, p. 54 (No. 539). R. O. *Franke*, *WZKM*., 20, 1906, pp. 352 f. [^2): XII, 174; 178, 7 f. *Cf.* O. *Böhtlingk*, *Indische Sprüche*, Nos. 1050 f. Buddhistic parallels are quoted by R. O. *Franke*, *WZKM*., 20, 1906, pp. 346 f. [^3): See above, pp. 228 f. [^4): III, 207-216. [^5): XII, 261-264; translated by *Deussen*, “Vier philosophische Texte des Mahābhāratam,” pp. 418-435.

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birds came flying towards him, and in the hair of his head, which was dishevelled by the storm and matted with the dirt and rain, they built a nest. When the yogin noticed this, he did not stir, but remained standing immovable as a pillar, till the female bird had laid eggs in the nest on his head, till the eggs were hatched and the young birds were fledged and had flown away After this mighty feat of asceticism, Jājali, filled with pride, shouts exultingly into the forest: "I have reached the essence of all devotion." Then a heavenly voice answered him out of the regions of the air: "In devotion thou art not even equal to Tulādhāra, O Jājali, and not even this very wise Tulādhāra, who dwells in Benares, may speak of himself as thou speakest." Then Jājali becomes very disheartened, and went to Tulādhāra at Benares, to see in what manner the latter had advanced so far in devotion. Tulādhāra, however, is a pedlar in Benares, where he keeps an open shop and sells all kinds of spices, healing herbs, and so on. To the enquiry of the Brahman Jājali as to whereof his renowned devotion consists, he replies in a long speech upon morality, beginning with the words:

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"I know, O Jājali, the eternal law with all its secrets: it is known to men as the old doctrine, beneficial to all, the doctrine of *love*.¹ A manner of life which is combined with complete harmlessness, or only with slight harm, to all beings, that is the highest devotion; in accordance with this I live, O Jājali. With wood and grass which others have cut, I have built myself this hut. Red lac, lotus-root, lotus-fibres, all kinds of sweet perfumes, many kinds of juices and drinks, with the exception of intoxicating drinks, I buy and sell without deception. He, O Jājali, who is a friend of all beings and always rejoices in the well-being of all in thought, word and deed, he knows the moral law. I know neither favour nor disfavour, neither love nor hatred. I am the same towards all beings: see, Jājali, that is my vow. I have equal balances² for all beings, O Jājali……If one fears no being, and no being fears one, if one has preference for nobody and hates nobody, then he becomes united with Brahman……"

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¹ *Maitra* (in the Pāli of the Buddhists, *mettā*) means "friendship" and is the technical expression for *love towards all beings*, which differs from the Christian brotherly love in extending beyond human beings to the animals also.

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² The name of the pedlar, *Tulādhāra*, signifies: "He who holds the scales."

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Then follows a long explanation of *Ahiṃsā*, the commandment of non-violence. There is no higher law than forbearance towards all living beings. Therefore the breeding of cattle is cruel, because it involves the torturing and killing of animals. Cruel, too, is the keeping of slaves, and traffic in living creatures. Even agriculture is full of sin, for the plough wounds the earth and kills many innocent animals. Jājali objects that without agriculture and cattle-breeding people could not exist and could not find food, and that sacrifices, too, would be impossible if animals might not be killed and plants not be destroyed. Thereupon Tulādhāra replies with a long discourse upon the true sacrifice, which should be offered without the desire for reward, without priestly deception, and without the killing of living beings. Finally Tulādhāra calls on the birds which had nested in the hair of Jājali's head as witnesses for his doctrine, and they, too, confirm that the true religion consists in forbearance towards all human beings.

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The sharp contrast between the brahmanical morality and that of Indian asceticism can nowhere be so well observed as in the Dialogue between Father and Son,¹ in which the father represents the standpoint of the Brahman, and the son that of the ascetic who has severed himself from the priestly religion. The view of life represented by the son is that of the Buddhists and the Jainas,² without, however, being limited to these. It would be premature to declare the dialogue, of which a partial translation here follows, or even only single verses of it, to be "Buddhistic" or "borrowed from the Buddhists":

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¹ XII, 175, repeated in but slightly different wording in XII, 277; translated into English by *J. Muir*, Metrical Translations from Sanskrit Writers, pp. 28-32; into German by *Deussen*, "Vier philosophische Texte des Mahābhāratam," pp. 118-122.

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² Almost every verse which is uttered by the son here in the Mahābhārata could just as well occur in a Buddhistic or Jainistic text. As a matter of fact XII, 174, 7-9, does recur in the Uttarādhyayana-Sūtra (14, 21-23) of the Jainas, and XII, 174, 13 corresponds almost literally with the verses of the Buddhist Dhammapada, 47 f. A similar dialogue occurs also in the Jātaka No. 509, cf. J. *Charpentier*, ZDMG. 62, 1908, 725 ff.

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A Brahman, who took delight in learning the Veda, had an intelligent son, *Intelligent* (Medhāvin) by name. This son, who was learned in all things pertaining to salvation, morality and practical life, and saw clearly into the true nature of the world, spoke in this wise to his father, who took delight in learning the Veda:

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*Son.*

"Since soon the days of mortals end,
How ought the wise their lives to spend?

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What course should I, to duty true,
My sire, from youth to age pursue ?

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*Father.*

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"Begin thy course with study; store
The mind with holy Vedic lore.
That stage completed,—seek a wife,
And gain the fruit of wedded life,
A race of sons by rites to seal,
When thou art gone, thy spirit's weal.
Then light the sacred fires, and bring
The gods a fitting offering.
When age draws nigh, the world forsake,
Thy chosen home the forest make ;
And there, a calm, ascetic sage,
A war against thy passions wage,
That, cleansed from every earthly stain,
Thou may'st supreme perfection gain.¹

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¹ That is the brahmanical doctrine of the Āśramas, see above, pp. 232 f.

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*Son.*

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"And art thou then, my father, wise,
When thou dost such a life advise ?
What wise or thoughtful man delights
In formal studies, empty rites ?
Should such pursuits and thoughts engage
A mortal more than half his age ?
The world is ever vexed, distressed ;
The noiseless robbers never rest.

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*Father.*

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"Tell how the world is vexed, distressed ;
What noiseless robbers never rest ?
What means thy dark, alarming speech ?
In plainer words thy meaning teach.

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*Son.*

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"The world is vexed by death; decay
The frames of mortals wears away.
Dost thou not note the circling flight
Of those still robbers, day and night,
With stealthy tread which hurrying past,
Steal all our lives away at last?
When well I know how death infests
This world of woe, and never rests,
How can I still, in thoughtless mood,
Confide in future earthly good?
Since life with every night that goes,
Still shorter, and yet shorter grows,
Must not the wise perceive how vain
Are all their days that yet remain?
We, whom life's narrow bounds confine,
Like fish in shallow water, pine.

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While men on other thoughts are bent,—
Like those on gathering flowers intent,—
As lambs by wolves are snatched away,—
They fall to death a sudden prey,
Before they yet the good have gained
For which they every nerve had strained.

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No moment lose; in serious mood
Begin at once to practise good;
To-morrow's task to-day conclude;

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The evening's work complete at noon:—
No duty can be done too soon.
Who knows whom death may seize to-night?
And who shall see the morning light?
And death will never stop to ask,
If thou hast done, or not, thy task.
While yet a youth, from folly cease;
Through virtue seek for calm and peace.
So shalt thou here attain renown,
And future bliss thy lot shall crown.

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Death interrupts the futile dreams
Of men who, plunged in various schemes,
Are thinking: "This or that is done;
This still to do; that just begun."
As torrents undermine the ranks
Of stately trees that crown their banks,
And sweep them downwards to the main,
Death tears from earth those dreamers vain.

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While some are

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Fast bound by old attachment’s spell,
Men love amid their kin to dwell,
This bond the sage asunder tears;
The fool to rend it never dares.

Thou dost advise that I should please
With sacrifice the deities.
Such rites I disregard as vain;
Through these can none perfection gain.
Why sate the gods, at cruel feasts,
With flesh and blood of slaughtered beasts?
Far other sacrifices I
Will offer unremittingly;
The sacrifice of calm, of truth,
The sacrifice of peace, of ruth,
Of life serenely, purely, spent,
Of thought profound on Brahma bent.
Who offers these, may death defy,
And hope for immortality.

And then thou say’st that I should wed,
And sons should gain to tend me, dead,
By offering pious gifts, to seal,
When I am gone, my spirit’s weal.
But I shall ask no pious zeal
Of sons to guard my future weal.
No child of mine shall ever boast
His rites have saved his father’s ghost.” [^1) ]

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There is no greater treasure for the Brahman than solitude, equanimity, truth, virtue, steadfastness, mildness, uprightness, and the renunciation of all dealings. How shall treasures, relatives, or a wife, profit thee, O Brahman, as thou must die? Seek the self (the ātman) which is hidden within thee! Whither have thy ancestors, whither has thy father departed?”

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Thus this dialogue, apparently moving entirely in Buddhistic ranges of thought, leads into the ātman-theory of the

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[^1) ]: Translated by *J. Muir*, l.c.

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Vedānta, with which we became acquainted in the Upaniṣads. And this is by no means remarkable. The ancient Indian sects of ascetics hardly differed more distinctly from one another than, for instance, the various Protestant sects in Great Britain to-day. It is therefore no wonder that, in the edifying stories, dialogues and maxims of the ascetic poetry which has been embodied in the Mahābhārata, there are to be found so many thoughts which are in accord with the Upaniṣads, as well as with the sacred texts of the Buddhists and the Jainas.

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