Frame Narratives and Forked Beginnings:
Or, How to Read the Ådiparvan*
Vishwa P. Adluri
1. Intoduction
T
he Mahābhārata contains two beginnings at 1.1 and 1.4, each beginning
with the identical line lomaharṣaṇaputra ugraśravāḥ sūtaḥ paurāṇiko
naimiṣāraṇye śaunakasya kulapater dvādaśavārṣike satre (1.1.1 and 1.4.1).1 In
this paper, I demonstrate the failure of text-historical methods to provide an
adequate explanation for this feature. Arguing that it is no mere accident, but
a meaningful duplication, I show how the double beginning is integral to the
form, content, and function of the epic.
The Indian epic, the Mahābhārata, is a literary work of stunning complexity.
At its core,2 this narrative recounts the story of the vicissitudes of the Kuru
dynasty, but this story is located within a far more comprehensive literary
and philosophical program.3 The central story of a fratricidal conflict over the
throne of Hāstinapura is nothing if not a cipher for fundamental philosophical
and cosmological reflections concerning issues such as time (kāla),4 fate
(daivam),5 right action (dharma), the fulfillment of the goals of human life (the
puruṣārthas),6 the soul and the nature of consciousness,7 and the being that
transcends all becoming (Kṛṣṇa Vāsudeva).8 The complexity of this philosophical
vision places tremendous demands on the epic’s structure,9 forcing it to break
with the bounds of a simple linear narrative.10 In this paper, I analyze some
aspects of the epic’s structure, focusing especially on the first major book of the
Mahābhārata, the Ādiparvan.
I consider the frame narratives of the Ādiparvan in the next section (2.
The Frame Narratives of the Ādiparvan), before showing how the outermost
frame is split to include not one but two beginnings (3. The Double Beginning
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of the Ādiparvan). In the fourth section (Many Beginnings, Many Models), I
then analyze some earlier responses to the problem, focusing especially on
van Buitenen’s thesis of historical expansion and Oberlies’ more recent thesis
that the epic is comprised of multiple “versions” laid one on top of the other.
Section five (The Double Beginning in the Critical Edition) then examines the
evidence for the double beginning in the Critical Edition (CE), where I show
that the manuscript evidence does not support either of these historicist
models. I also discuss arguments that the CE succeeds in recovering a text that
is more archetypal than its editors could have imagined. Thus, on philological
grounds alone, we must set aside “text-historical” speculations such as
those of Oberlies and Tsuchida (on whose work Oberlies largely bases his
argument), and attempt to understand the double beginning as a meaningful
and necessary component of the epic’s narrative architecture.
In section six (Two Beginnings, Two Narrations), I begin the positive part
of the interpretation. Through a careful reading of the opening books of the
Ādiparvan, I show how Mehta and Tsuchida overlook crucial evidence that we
have not one but two Ugraśravas narrations in the epic: one beginning in the
Anukramaṇiparvan and corresponding to the first beginning, the other beginning
in the Paulomaparvan and corresponding to the second beginning. Once we
overcome “text-historical” prejudices that the Mahābhārata is a badly composed
text,11 essentially an accident of history, we are then in a position to understand
the specific function of the two beginnings. In section seven (Cosmological
and Genealogical Beginnings: The Anukramaṇi- and Paulomaparvans), I then
demonstrate how the two beginnings provide alternative ways of entering the
narrative of “becoming.” In section eight (A Fork in the Beginning: Hermeneutics
in the Pauṣyaparvan), I then focus on the space between the two beginnings. I show
how the double beginning creates a non-narrative space between the Anukramaṇiand Paulomaparvans, which allows for the text to convey its own hermeneutic
apparatus in the form of the Pauṣyaparvan. Finally, I return to Oberlies’ “onionskin” model of the epic in section nine (Return to the Problem of “Text-Historical”
“Criticism”) and then end, in section ten (Conclusion: Establishing Criteria), with
some concluding remarks on the epic as a whole.
Finally, a note on terms. The epic makes use of various terms to describe
its major sections and their subdivisions, and it is important to keep these
apart in the discussion that follows. The epic is primarily articulated into
eighteen parvans or “major books” (as van Buitenen translates). These parvans
are further divided into varying numbers of upaparvan or “minor books,” with
the upaparvans again containing a number of ākhyānas (“narratives”) and being
divided into a number of adhyāyas (“chapters”). Only the first two divisions, i.e.,
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145
the parvans and the upaparvans, are of significance to this paper. I will either
use the Sanskrit terms or, following van Buitenen’s usage, refer to them as
“major books” or “minor books.” I have tried to be as consistent as possible in
this usage, except for a few instances where it would have made for awkward
reading. In those cases, however, context makes it amply clear whether the
reference is to a “major” or a “minor” book. This paper is mainly restricted to a
discussion of the first major book, the Ādiparvan; of this book, I focus principally
on the first six minor books. The following chart lays out the eighteen parvans,
the number of upaparvans in each, and then expands on the six upaparvans of the
Ādiparvan that are central to this study.
No.
Name of parvan
(Major book)
1
Ādiparvan
(The Book of the Beginning)
Sabhāparvan
(The Book of the Assembly Hall)
Āraṇyakaparvan
(The Book of the Forest)
Virāṭaparvan
(The Book of Virāṭa)
Udyogaparvan
(The Book of the Effort)
Bhīsṃaparvan
(The Book of Bhīṣma)
Droṇaparvan
(The Book of Droṇa)
Karṇaparvan
(The Book of Karṇa)
Śalyaparvan
(The Book of Śalya)
Sauptikaparvan
(The Book of the Sleeping Warriors)
Strīparvan
(The Book of the Women)
Śāntiparvan
(The Book of the Peace)
Anuśāsanaparvan
(The Book of the Instructions)
Āśvamedhikaparvan
(The Book of the Horse Sacrifice)
Āśramavāsikaparvan
(The Book of the Hermitage)
Mausalaparvan
(The Book of the Clubs)
Mahāprasthānikaparvan
(The Book of the Great Journey)
Svargārohaṇaparvan
(The Book of the Ascent to Heaven)
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
Number of
upaparvans
(Minor books)
1-225
Upaparvans
1-6 of the Ādiparvan
1-72
1. Anukramaṇiaparvan
(The Lists of Contents)
1-298
1-67
1-197
1-117
1-173
1-69
1-64
Ugraśravas-Śaunaka dialogical level:
2. Parvasaṁgrahaparvan
(The Summaries of the Books)
3. Pauṣyaparvan
(The Book of Pauṣya)
4. Paulomaparvan
(The Book of Puloman)
5. Āstīkaparvan
(The Book of Āstīka)
1-18
Vaiśaṁpāyana-Janamejaya dialogical level:
1-27
6. Ādivaṁśāvataraṇaparvan
1-353
1-154
1-96
1-47
1-8
1-3
1-15
* All figures taken from van Buitenen 1973
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2. The Frame Narratives of the Ādiparvan
One of the most puzzling aspects of the Mahābhārata is the way some narratives
are contained within other narratives. Scholars use the words “enframing” or
“emboxment” to describe the way more remote narratives are used to convey
other narratives. At its simplest, this technique allows the epic to answer basic
questions such as “by whom was this story narrated? And to whom? Where
did this narration occur?,”12 but the use of this technique is not restricted to
providing appropriate context. Were its function merely literary, we would
not find such a complexity of narratives, each interlocking with others in
unexpected and subtle ways. Nor can a simplistic use of this principle preclude
the problem of establishing a context for the outermost narration. In a linear
narrative structure, the outermost narration must always remain open, as this
level is attributed to the omniscient narrator.13 Let us see how the Ādiparvan
addresses this problem.
According to Mahābhārata 1.53, the brahmin Vaiśaṁpāyana first recounted
the story of the bheda or conflict between the two branches of the Kuru line
in the presence of Vyāsa, the epic’s traditional author, at king Janamejaya’s
sarpasatra or snake sacrifice. Vaiśaṁpāyana’s narration in turn is placed within
a second narrative, that of how the snake sacrifice came about. The original
bheda narrative is thus itself placed within a second bheda narrative, the story
of a conflict between snakes14 and men—a conflict in which two descendants of
the Kuru line once again play a major role.15 But who recounts this narrative?
The epic tells us that the bard Ugraśravas, arriving once at the Naimiṣa forest,
came across a group of brahmin seers or ṛṣis attending Śaunaka’s twelveyear sacrificial rite and recounted the Mahābhārata at their behest. Unlike
Vaiśaṁpāyana’s narration, which begins with the specific details of the conflict
between the young Kuru princes, Ugraśravas’ narrative is more expansive. It
begins, among other things, with a story of how king Janamejaya resolved upon
the snake sacrifice in order to avenge his father Parikṣit’s death, and leads up
to the snake sacrifice at Takṣaśīlā (cf. 18.5.29) at which Vaiśaṁpāyana narrated
the Mahābhārata to the king. Vaiśaṁpāyana’s narration is thus enfolded within
a second level of narration. Ugraśravas, in recounting the Mahābhārata, actually
recounts the story he overheard at the snake sacrifice. In other words, his
narration is both a story about an earlier narration and a narration of the story
heard at this earlier narration.
The epic thus from the very beginning establishes two levels of narration:
1. Vaiśaṁpāyana’s narration of the Kuru narrative to Janamejaya in the
intervals of the snake sacrifice, and
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2. The bard Ugraśravas’ narration of the events leading up to the snake
sacrifice, the performance of the snake sacrifice, the arrival of sage Vyāsa and
his disciples at this sacrifice, and Vaiśaṁpāyana’s narration of the Mahābhārata.
One could expect this logic to continue indefinitely—if Ugraśravas’ narration
provides a setting and context for Vaiśaṁpāyana’s narration, who relates
Ugraśravas’ narration?—but Ugraśravas’ narration constitutes a final level of
narration beyond which there is no further regress.16 As readers, we first receive
the Mahābhārata from Ugraśravas17 and only subsequently become privy to
Vaiśaṁpāyana’s narration. Ugraśravas’ arrival at the Naimiṣa forest is placed in
the mouth of an omniscient and nameless narrator, who introduces Ugraśravas
to the reader as a bard accomplished in ancient lore (sūtaḥ pauraṇiko; 1.1.1)
and describes the initial exchange between the seers and the bard. Ugraśravas
then begins narrating at 1.1.20 and, except for a periodic sautir uvāca (“the bard
said”) or variants thereof to remind us who is speaking, the omniscient narrator
recedes into the background. Ugraśravas’ narration continues until 1.53, at which
point Vaiśaṁpāyana is introduced as the narrator.18 With the exception of a few
significant returns to the Ugraśravas dialogical level, the main narration remains
at the Vaiśaṁpāyana-Janamejaya dialogical level throughout. Toward the end
of the epic, the process is reversed: Vaiśaṁpāyana concludes his narration in
the final major book (the Svargārohaṇaparvan), and the narrative returns to
Ugraśravas’ narration. Ugraśravas describes the conclusion of Janamejaya’s snake
sacrifice, and, mentioning a few other details, brings the great epic to a close.19
The following outline clarifies the relationship of the frame narratives to the epic:
A. Frame level: Outer (first) frame20
Setting: Naimiṣa forest
Dialogical level: Ugraśravas -> Naimiṣeya ṛṣis
Narration of ancillary narratives (esp. the snake sacrifice)
and of Vaiśaṁpāyana’s narration of “The Mahābhārata”
B. Frame level: Inner (second) frame
Setting: Janamejaya’s sarpasatra
Dialogical level: Vaiśaṁpāyana -> Janamejaya
Narration of “The Mahābhārata”
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3. The Double Beginning of the Ādiparvan
It would thus seem as though the main purpose of the frame narratives is
to provide a plausible context for the narration of such a long epic. As C. Z.
Minkowski has argued,
the extended ritual activity of a sattra, with its cyclical daily activity and
its long breaks, during which the king as dikṣita must remain in his state of
consecration by following only elevating pursuits and speaking only true
things, provides a believable setting for the narration of an epic as long as
the Mahābhārata. From the point of view, therefore, of narrative credibility,
the sattra is a good choice for a frame story. (Minkowski 1989: 403)
However, there is more to the epic’s frame narratives than just providing
a believable setting. The Mahābhārata does not just duplicate the frame
narratives—placing Vaiśaṁpāyana’s narration at a satra within the context of
another satra—but duplicates the beginning itself. Mahābhārata 1.1 recounts
Ugraśravas’ arrival at the Naimiṣa forest21 and subsequent narration of the
epic but, three minor books later, the epic once again recounts the story of
Ugraśravas’ arrival at the Naimiṣa forest, as though nothing had gone before!
Once again, the bard greets the sages assembled at Śaunaka’s sacrificial rite and
inquires of them what they would like to hear.22 The sages ask the bard to wait
for their chieftain (kulapatir; 1.4.523) Śaunaka’s arrival and to narrate the stories
Śaunaka asks of him. Ugraśravas complies and this time his narration continues
all the way to Janamejaya’s snake sacrifice and Vaiśaṁpāyana’s arrival and
subsequent narration of the Mahābhārata at this event.
However, we would be wrong to reduce one of the beginnings to the other.
Even though the two beginnings share the same opening prose sentence—“The
Bard Ugraśravas, the son of Lomaharṣaṇa, singer of the ancient Lore, once came
to the Naimiṣa Forest, where the seers of strict vows were sitting together at the
Twelve-year Session of family chieftain Śaunaka”24—the two beginnings do not
simply replicate each other’s contents. In the first minor book, Ugraśravas begins
his narration with a benediction to the Primeval Person (ādyaṁ puruṣam) at 1.1.20
and continues with a cosmology that describes the birth of the grandfather
Prajāpati from the “large Egg” (bṛhad aṇḍam), the undecaying seed (bījam
akṣayam; 1.1.27) of all beings. The fourth minor book, in contrast, begins with a
genealogical narrative: Śaunaka, having arrived and seated himself, asks the bard
whether he too has learned the “entire stock of ancient Lore” (purāṇam akhilaṁ;
1.5.1) which his father Lomaharṣaṇa used to narrate. Then he continues, “Now
from among all the tales, I would first like to hear the one of the Descent of the
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149
Bhṛgus [vaṁśam ... bhārgavam; 1.5.3].25 Tell the tale—we are eager to hear you.”
We also cannot dismiss the first beginning as irrelevant to this narration.
Besides enclosing the all-important Lists of Contents (the Anukramaṇiparvan, the
first minor book) and the Summaries of the Books (the Parvasaṁgrahaparvan,
the second minor book), the first beginning introduces Janamejaya in the third
minor book and sets up a triad of sacrifices culminating in the great sarpasatra of
the fifth minor book.26 Although modern scholars have frequently undertaken
their critical “surgeries” on the text with the intent of smoothing out the epic’s
narrative structure,27 one cannot appreciate the meaning of the snake sacrifice
without the hermeneutic and pedagogical background provided in the first
three minor books and, especially, in the third minor book.28 In the next section,
I discuss some of the limitations of these approaches, followed by a discussion of
the double beginning itself.
The following outline clarifies the “split” in the outermost frame narrative:
A1. Frame level: Outer (first) frame
Setting: Naimiṣa forest
Dialogical level: Ugraśravas -> Naimiṣeya ṛṣis
Beginning: First (Anukramaṇiparvan)
Description of Ugraśravas’ arrival at the Naimiṣa forest; Ugraśravas
requested to narrate the epic; cosmological beginning (including
summaries) continues until the end of the Pauṣyaparvan.
A2. Frame level: Outer (first) frame
Setting: Naimiṣa forest
Dialogical level: Ugraśravas -> Śaunaka
Beginning: Second (Paulomaparvan)
Description of Ugraśravas’ arrival at the Naimiṣa; Ugraśravas requested
to narrate the epic; genealogical beginning continues until the
introduction of Vaiśaṁpāyana in the Āstīkaparvan.
4. Many Beginnings, Many Models
J. A. B. van Buitenen has argued that the Ādiparvan “illustrates to perfection all
the issues that the text as a whole raises.” “Parts of it,” he continues, “are man–
ifestly components of the main story; others are equally obviously accretions
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that have no organic relationship to the story whatever; still others are difficult
to determine one way or the other.” Citing line 1.1.50—“There are brahmins
who learn The Bhārata from Manu onward, others again from the tale of The
Book of Āstīka onward, others again from the tale of Uparicara onward”29—in
support, van Buitenen argues that “it is reasonably clear that it [i.e., the “main
story”] could hardly have begun before 1.90, and all that went before, roughly
half the entire book, was added at a later time” (van Buitenen 1973: 1). He thus
discounts not only the snake cycle, which attains a preliminary end in the
Āstīkaparvan,30 but also the genealogy of the Kuru line recounted through the
stories of Śakuntalā and Yayāti.31 Other scholars such as Oberlies have advanced
an “onion skin” model of the epic, according to which the epic is composed of a
series of “versions” that can be peeled off like the skin of an onion. Oberlies writes,
According to Mbh 1,1.50 there are “some Brahmans who learn the Bhārata
beginning with Manu, others who learn it beginning with Āstīka, and [again]
others who learn it from Uparicara on in the right way” (manvādi bhāratam kecid
āstīkādi thatāpare/ thatoparicarādy anye viprāḥ samyag adhīyate). The beginning from
“Manu” on may refer to Mbh 1,1.27ff., where the creation of the world is reported.
Āstīka and Vasu in contrast clearly target Mbh 1,3/13 and 1/57. If then this hint of
the Mahābhārata is to be understood ‘historically’ [historisch], the reference here
would be to three versions of the text. And if one compares these against the text
present to us in the critical edition, the ‘Manu-version’ would be characterized
through the fact that it ‘begins with the beginning’, the ‘Āstīka-version’ through
the fact that it lacks the outermost frame (and therewith the first dialogical level)
and the list of contents, and the ‘Vasu-version’ through the fact that it would be
without the narrations of Āstīka and (therewith without) the inner frame, that of
the ‘snake sacrifice’, (as well as without the outer frame and the first four lists of
contents). In other words, the distinguishing characteristic of these three versions
could be the absence of a frame—the ‘Manu-version’ would be that with two, the
‘Āstīka-version’ that with one frame, while such [a frame] would be completely
lacking for the ‘Vasu-version’. (Oberlies 2008: 87-88)32
Unfortunately, Oberlies never tells us his reasons for assuming that this “hint of
the Mahābhārata” is to be understood “‘historically’ [historisch].” I am unclear
whether his use of scare quotes is meant to imply neutral distancing or an ironic
use of the term, but in any case it suggests that Oberlies is himself not quite clear
about what it could possibly mean for an epic to hint “historically.”33 Does Oberlies
mean that the epic is hinting at its own historical growth? Or that we should
examine its literary form for clues (“hints”) to its history? If the former, was this
hint a deliberate historical addition? Or could the epic poets have intentionally
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manipulated the epic’s literary form to make it appear as a historical account?34 If
the latter, what guarantee is there that these “hints” actually exist given that we
possess no evidence of this history other than these texts?35
In addition to these theoretical issues, Oberlies’ insistence on a historical
interpretation is also textually problematic as it implies either textual or
historical priority of one passage over the other. The passage, however, merely
states there are brahmins who learn the Mahābhārata from this point onward
(cf. -ādi), without making any claims as to an absolute (textual or historical)
priority of one beginning over the other. The three beginnings are therefore
best understood as three distinct points to enter the narrative, rather than
as referring to the historical priority of one narrative over the other. In other
words, we have a single, continuous narrative that offers us a multiplicity of
beginnings. We may contrast Oberlies’ historicist approach with the 13th century
Vaiṣṇava philosopher Madhvācārya, who reads the same passage allegorically.
Madhvācārya writes:
The meaning of the Bhārata, in so far as it is a relation of the events with
which Śrī Kṛṣṇa and the Pāṇḍavas are connected, is āstikādi, or historical. That
interpretation by which we find lessons on virtue, divine love, and the other ten
qualities, on sacred duty and righteous practices, on character and training, on
Brahmā and the other gods, is called manvādi, or religious and moral. Thirdly,
the interpretation by which every sentence, word or syllable is shown to be
the significant name, or to be the declaration of the glories, of the Almighty
Ruler of the universe, is called auparicara or transcendental. (Cited and trans. in
Klostermaier 2007: 62)
One could, of course, dispute Madhvācārya’s suggestion on the grounds that
it leaves the ground of pure history to speak about transcendent realities
such as morality or an Almighty.36 The historical reading has the advantage
that it is accessible to everyman, and allows for a simple model of the epic’s
growth. But here, too, matters are not as simple as Oberlies’ three-stage model
suggests. The outer bheda narrative—the story of the conflict between snakes
and men—overlaps with the central bheda narrative in ways that are both
subtle and problematic.37 For example, the narrative of the bheda or “breach”
between the Kurus and the Pāṇḍavas continuously overlaps with the narrative
of the “breach” between snakes and men.38 Oberlies’ forced articulation of the
epic into an original “Vasu-version” and the later “enframed” versions cannot
account for the continuous interaction of the two bheda narratives throughout
the epic. Oberlies’ model is also unable to explain why the epic has two other
“beginnings” (viz., Mahābhārata 1.1 and 1.4) that correspond to neither of the
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beginnings of these three “versions.” In fact, the entire problem of the twin
beginnings is elided and it remains ambiguous in Oberlies’ analysis whether
Ugraśravas’ narration to Śaunaka in the Paulomaparvan belongs to the “Āstīkaversion” or to the “Manu-version.”
In order to be able to account for this second beginning, Oberlies is now
forced to interpret the Paulomaparvan as a “switch narrative”39 (Schalterzählung)
that links the “older Āstīkaparvan” (i.e., our current Pauṣyaparvan) to the
Āstīkaparvan.40 In addition to the local problem of how to fuse the Pauṣyaparvan
to the Āstīkaparvan, Oberlies also has to account for the link between his
so-called “Āstīka-version” and the “Vasu-version.”41 His solution is to interpret
the Āstīkaparvan itself as a “neck-saving narrative” (Hals(lösungs)erzählung), i.e.,
a story told in order to save someone’s life such as Scheherazade’s narration in
The Thousand and One Nights or, closer to home, Rumpelstiltskin’s riddle posed to
the miller’s daughter, which she must answer in order to rescue her first born.42
“The snake king,” writes Oberlies, “sways in the highest danger [in the sky?],
and in order to save his ‘neck’ [‘Hals’], Āstīka narrates a story [Geschichte]—the
Mahābhārata—until the life-threatening danger for Takṣaka is past.”43 The
actual problem of the double beginning gives way to a fanciful comparison to
The Thousand and One Nights and the Mahābhārata44 is reduced to the epigraphy
of an historical “king Vasu” ruler of a “golden age.”45 Besides the problem that
there is no evidence that the reference is to a historical “king Vasu” or that the
epic was necessarily built up around this historical core,46 there are also serious
logical flaws to this argument, as I demonstrate below.
The hypothesis of three distinct “versions” of the Mahābhārata, although
appealing in its simplicity, cannot account for the complexity of the text.
Crucially, Oberlies’ reconstruction either begs many of the questions it is
supposed to answer or does not answer these at all. Why does the epic refer
to a multiplicity of origins? Why does it introduce multiple beginnings—not
just from Manu or Āstīka or Uparicara onward, but also from the story of
Bhīṣma’s birth or the bheda narrative forward? Why does it duplicate the
outermost beginning using the same opening phrase both times? Why does
Śaunaka ask Ugraśravas to narrate the ancient lore in its entirety (purāṇam
akhilaṁ; 1.5.1) and does this include the material previously narrated to the
sages? Or does the first beginning enclose the second, with Ugraśravas selfconsciously narrating the story of an earlier visit to the Naimiṣa? Not only is
Oberlies’ reconstruction unable to answer these questions, but it leads to even
more puzzling questions: if Āstīka replaces Vaiśaṁpāyana as narrator in the
“Āstīka-version,” where did Āstīka hear this story from? And if he arrives at
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the sarpasatra while it is in progress and begins narrating the Mahābhārata to
Janamejaya, where are we to locate Vaiśaṁpāyana’s narration to Janamejaya?
What happens to the Vaiśaṁpāyana-Janamejaya dialogical level? Does Āstīka’s
narration refer to the “original” “Vasu-version” and, if so, is this the version
containing Vaiśaṁpāyana’s narration to Janamejaya? Where and when did
this narration occur, if not at the sarpasatra? And if Āstīka knows of this
narration, why would he repeat the same narrative to Janamejaya (albeit with
additions to make it longer)? Why does the king wish to hear the story twice?47
Oberlies’ attempted reconstruction of the Ādiparvan perfectly illustrates
the dangers of attempting to second-guess a text, especially one as carefully
composed as the Mahābhārata.48 As an alternative to this “text-historical”
approach, I propose a hermeneutic approach49 that uses the text itself to interpret
the text rather than adducing pseudo-historical considerations or employing
circular arguments.50 Before articulating this hermeneutic interpretation,
however, I first consider the evidence of the CE in the next section.
5. The Double Beginning in the Critical Edition
Scholarly criticisms of the double beginning are based on a perception of the
redactor as a sort of bricoleur who works with scraps of texts,51 either taping
one piece to the other to extend the text backward or splicing materials here
and there into the text.52 But if we set aside this prejudice for a moment and
consider the manuscript evidence as presented in the CE, a different picture
emerges. The evidence of the manuscript tradition is unambiguous: the double
beginning occurs in all the manuscripts collated for the CE (cf. Sukthankar
1933: lxxxvii). Although Mehta has argued that this “only means that” the
two beginnings “are older than the recensional ramification” (Mehta 1973:
548), this is clearly an argument ex silentio, as, in the absence of manuscript
evidence, the arguments on both sides are evenly balanced. Not only is there
no manuscript evidence that the double beginning is a later addition to the
text, but the double beginning is also clearly a central feature as it occurs in
all manuscripts of both recensions. If it were really so evident that the “two
beginnings” “smack of two different redactorial agencies” (ibid., 549), one
could expect that one of the two beginnings would have been removed long
back at some stage in the epic’s history. Yet, remarkably, within the span of
roughly 330 years covered by the manuscripts collated for the CE, not one
scribe or redactor found the double beginning a serious enough problem to
consider “correcting” it. Even Nīlakaṇṭha, whose version of the Mahābhārata
is explicitly intended as a compendium of the “best” readings, does not excise
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either of the two beginnings, perhaps indicating that he did not consider
the two beginnings as alternative readings.53 Sukthankar rightly criticizes
Vidushekhara Bhattacharya, who is perhaps the first to have drawn attention
to the “problem” of the double beginning, for his suggestion that the first
prose sentence of the Mahābhārata be “deleted from the CE, because it is
intrinsically inappropriate in the context.”54
The manuscript evidence is especially strong for the double beginning,
as about 70 manuscripts were either fully or partly examined and collated
for the CE of the Ādiparvan, and, of those, about 60 were actually used in
preparing the text.55 A number of manuscripts also preface the opening lines
of 1.4 lomaharṣaṇaputra ugraśravāḥ sūtaḥ… with sautir uvāca or variant forms,
thus explicitly forging a link between the preceding narration and the second
beginning.56 While this does not demonstrate that the two beginnings are
original,57 the onus is emphatically on the modern critic to demonstrate that
the two beginnings were combined,58 as Mehta describes it, “without any
attempt at organic combination—a strange patchwork!” (Mehta 1973: 547).
Whatever the modern critic may have to say about the seeming incongruity of
the two beginnings, the fact remains that for at least four centuries the double
beginning was not felt to be something that required “correction.”
Especially if one takes the evidence of the CE seriously, it is clear that one
requires a more sophisticated theory of the double beginning than those
proposed hitherto. I am not here concerned with the question of whether the
text as constituted in the CE is the “Ur-Mahābhārata” or the “Ur-Bhārata,” that
elusive Holy Grail of philology, although I am in agreement with Hiltebeitel that
the CE editors succeed in retrieving a text that is more thoroughly archetypal
than they could have imagined.59 Instead, I want to emphasize that, minimally,
the CE tells us something of how the Mahābhārata was read, understood,
and transmitted among a pan-Indian “reading community”60 in the last four
hundred years and that, in this entire period, the double beginning was felt to be
a necessary and meaningful component of the text. It thus cannot be attributed
either to an accident of manuscript transmission61 or to an idiosyncratic desire
to make the Mahābhārata “a veritable repository of epic tradition” (Mehta 1973:
550). In contrast to these pseudo-historical explanations, however, which rely
upon second-guessing the redactor, I argue that the fact that the poet(s) chose
to compose two beginnings must have its reasons.62 The enigma of the double
beginning thus confronts us with the problem of understanding the text as a
unified whole, from both structural and philosophical perspectives.63
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6. Two Beginnings, Two Narrations
If one sets aside these text-historical prejudices for a moment and considers
the text itself, it becomes clear that the text is not deficient with respect
to structure but, rather, carefully and purposefully constructed. The entire
Mahābhārata is arranged in 18 chapters, the Bhagavadgītā and the Nārāyaṇīya
also feature 18 chapters, 18 armies encounter each other in the Mahābhārata
battle, and the battle itself lasts 18 days.64 Further, as Oberlies already saw,
the Anugītā is composed of 36 (18 x 2) chapters, the Pāṇḍavas are exiled for 12
years, and Arjuna must spend 12 years65 alone for intruding on Yudhiṣṭhira and
Draupadī in their private quarters.66 These numeric equivalences are, of course,
only the most visible sign of careful composition or redaction, but they hint at
an interest in symmetry that can also be found, for example, in the stories of
Ruru and Jaratkāru.67 Symmetry, doubling, and repetition are crucial elements
in a narrative based on a cyclical understanding of time.68 Thus, rather than
excising one of the two beginnings as a “repetition,” I argue that we must
examine the text itself for clues on how to read the double beginning.69
The Ādiparvan, which van Buitenen considers one of the latest major books (cf.
van Buitenen 1973: xxiii), shows signs of remarkable redactorial and philosophical
activity. It is here that we must look for clues to the thematic and compositional
unity of the entire epic. The first major book is of global significance to the epic,
as we find here both a nexus of themes that are carried through the entire epic
and the entrance into the labyrinthine narrative of the remaining 17 major
books. The Ādiparvan provides the epic with the textual authority, integrity, and
coherence necessary to present a narrative of this scope. Stating its fiction that
the Vaiśaṁpāyana narrative had grown over time,70 the Ādiparvan provides a
rationale for canonizing the text in its present form by legitimizing the original
recitation at the second retelling by the bard Ugraśravas at Śaunaka’s twelve-year
sacrificial session. The opening minor books of the Ādiparvan thus authorize the
text in its redacted form, articulate a unified set of concerns, and seal off the canon
against further “expansion.” While these “expansions” of the epic have been noted,
explanations of the logic of expansion have been unsatisfactory. Ranging from
the ease of insertions into loose leaf manuscripts (cf. van Buitenen 1973: xxix) to
sophisticated theories of “embedding” texts according to the hierarchy of sacrifice
(cf. Minkowski 1989), all theories thus far provide overtly mechanical and formal
models. My analysis of the Ādiparvan, however, shows that the logic of expansion is
also philosophical. The double beginning of this major book especially cannot have
been an accident, as it demonstrates great textual self-consciousness and enables the
text to overcome the problem of positing an absolute origin in time.71 Let us see how.
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After Ugraśravas takes his place, the ṛṣis assembled at Śaunaka’s twelveyear session question him about his wanderings. The bard relates that he was
present at Janamejaya’s snake sacrifice, where he heard the Mahābhārata of
Kṛṣṇa Dvaipāyana Vyāsa. He then undertook a pilgrimage to many sacred fords
and sanctuaries, before visiting Samantapañcaka, the place where the great
battle between the Kurus and the Pāṇḍavas was fought. Having visited this “holy
place sought by the twice-born” (puṇyaṁ dvijaniṣevitam; 1.1.11), the bard sought
out Śaunaka’s hermitage in the Naimiṣa forest. The hermits, having completed
their rituals, ask the bard to relate the Mahābhārata as he heard it from Vyāsa.
The bard then clarifies the relationship of Vyāsa to the text. He recounts to
the sages that Vaiśaṁpāyana narrated the Mahābhārata at the bidding of his
teacher Vyāsa. The authority of the author and the authority of king Janamejaya
testify to the truthfulness of the recitation: both are witness to Vaiśaṁpāyana’s
recitation. The emendation of the narrator from Vyāsa to Vaiśaṁpāyana
is significant, as it separates the author and the bard while simultaneously
authorizing the retelling. Further, it separates the epic from that which is heard:
śruti. The Mahābhārata is that which is remembered: smṛti.
As Hiltebeitel has already noted, the two beginnings present us with quite
different descriptions of the same event.72 In the first beginning, Ugraśravas
is welcomed by the sages assembled at Śaunaka’s twelve-year sacrifice, who
offer him a seat. After Ugraśravas seats himself and is at ease, the sages,
addressing him as “the lotus-eyed one” (kamalapatrākṣa; 1.1.7), ask him where
he has come from and where he has whiled away his days. In response,
Ugraśravas tells the sages that he was present at “the Snake-Sacrifice of the
great-spirited royal seer Janamejaya, son of Parikṣit, where Vaiśaṁpāyana
recounted all manner of auspicious tales of events, just as they had happened,
in the presence of the king. They were tales that had first been recounted by
Kṛṣṇa Dvaipāyana.”73 The sages’ interest in Ugraśravas’ doings and wanderings
in the first beginning sharply contrasts with the second beginning, where
the sages peremptorily inform the newcomer: “Later we shall ask you, son of
Lomaharṣaṇa, and you shall relate your repertory of stories, which we shall
be eager to hear. But for the time being the reverend Śaunka is sitting in his
fire hall. He knows the clestial tales, the tales that are told of the Gods and the
Asuras, and he knows fully the stories of men, Snakes, and Gandharvas” (1.4.34). As Hiltebeitel notes, Ugraśravas “can hardly feel much esteemed” at being
told that “the reverend Śaunaka” “already knows ‘completely’ all such stories
as Ugraśravas might tell him” (Hiltebeitel 2001: 103).
Equally significant is Ugraśravas’ response: Ugraśravas’ first words in the
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entire epic relate not to the great battle, but to the retelling of that battle at
Janamejaya’s sacrifice. Ugraśravas now informs the sages that, after listening
to “these stories of manifold import that form part of The Mahābhārata,”74 he
undertook a pilgrimage to the Kurukṣetra, the site of the battle between the
Kurus and Pāṇḍavas. Ugraśravas then concludes his first speech in the epic,
asking the sages what they would like to hear narrated.
In an epic that is seemingly unafraid of redundancy, the sages now recount
back everything that Ugraśravas has narrated to them concerning the epic’s
first narration:
Tell us [they say] that ancient Lore that was related by the eminent sage
Dvaipāyana, which the Gods and brahmin seers honored when they heard
it! That divine language of the sublime Histories, in all the varieties of words
and books, the sacred Account of the Bhāratas, that language of complex
word and meaning, ruled by refinement and reinforced by all sciences, which
Vaiśaṁpāyana, at Dvaipāyana’s bidding, repeated truthfully to the satisfaction
of King Janamejaya at the king’s sacrifice. We wish to hear that Grand Collection,
now joined to the Collections of the Four Vedas, which Vyāsa the miraclemonger compiled, replete with the Law and dispelling all danger of evil!75
Van Buitenen’s translation, although generally excellent, does not quite succeed
in capturing the passage’s significance here. Hiltebeitel is much more alert to
the philosophical resonances of the Naimiṣa sages’ panegyric; he translates as
follows:
We wish to hear that wonderworker Vyāsa’s collection (saṃhitā) of the Bhārata,
the history (itihāsa), that most excellent communication (ākhyānavariṣṭha),
diversified in quarter-lines and sections (vicitrapadaparvan), with subtle meanings
combined with logic (sūkṣmārthanyāyukta) and adorned with Vedic meanings
(vedārthairbhūṣita), which Ṛṣi Vaiśaṁpāyana properly recited with delight at the
sattra of Janamejaya by Dvaipāyana’s command—holy, connected with meanings
of books (granthārthasaṁyuta), furnished with refinement (saṁskāropagata), sacred,
supported by various Śāstras (nānāśāstropabṛṁhita), equaled by the four Vedas,
productive of virtue, and dispelling of fear and sin. (1.1.16-19). (2001: 100)
Let us see how this opening passage encapsulates the audience’s intertextual
(including especially Vedic textual) interests.
Traditional Indian commentators note that the beginning of any text must
contain a maṅgalam or benediction, followed by a statement of anubandha
cātuṣṭya or the four criteria qualifying the text. These criteria are:
1. Adhikāri or the student who has fulfilled preparatory learning requirements
and thus is qualified to study the text;
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2. Viṣaya or the subject matter;
3. Prayoga or the purpose of the text; and, finally,
4. Saṁbandha or the project, i.e., the relationship between the subject matter
and the goal of the text.
Remarkably, we find all four anubandhas referred to in this passage.
1. A major limitation of the śruti tradition is that one of the qualifications
refers to the varṇa system. The epic, which is called a fifth Veda and popularly
referred to as a strī-śūdra-veda,76 overcomes this limitation, as the text itself
guides the student through aesthetic experience into the necessary competence.
Thus the “stories” of the trials of Āyoda’s students also, on a deeper level,
serves as “initiations.” This could easily be one of the tasks of the epic’s project:
suitably to cover up subtle and esoteric meanings of the Veda by hiding them
under everyone’s nose disguised as “history.” Student qualifications are not
suspended, however: the Vaiśaṁpāyana narrative occurs under the aegis
of the qualified teacher Vyāsa, and the reader-student’s qualifications are
underscored by the Naimiṣa frame, into which the Pauṣya preparatory apparatus
is inserted. The notion of the adhikāri is thus clearly in the background of the
lines: “We wish to hear that wonderworker Vyāsa’s collection (saṃhitā) of the
Bhārata… which Ṛṣi Vaiśaṁpāyana properly recited with delight at the sattra of
Janamejaya by Dvaipāyana’s command.”
2. Viṣaya is mentioned next: “Vyāsa’s collection (saṃhitā) of the Bhārata,
the history (itihāsa), that most excellent communication (ākhyānavariṣṭha),
diversified in quarter-lines and sections (vicitrapadaparvan), with subtle
meanings combined with logic (sūkṣmārthanyāyukta) and adorned with Vedic
meanings (vedārthairbhūṣita).”
3. Followed by a reference to prayoga: “productive of virtue, and dispelling
of fear and sin.” The text also claims to lead to all four goals, i.e., dharma, artha,
kāma, and mokṣa, but, of these, the first and the last are especially emphasized.
4. Finally, the sages address the saṁbandha: “… holy, connected
with meanings of books (granthārthasaṁyuta), furnished with refinement
(saṁskāropagata), sacred, supported by various Śāstras (nānāśāstropabṛṁhita),
equaled by the four Vedas.”
Every line in the first beginning is thus rich with clues to the text’s project.
But in addition to providing clues to its project, the text also contains subtle
hints of the personal connections behind the narration. Consider, for example,
the sages’ statement that “Vaiśaṁpāyana, at Dvaipāyana’s bidding, repeated
[the epic] truthfully to the satisfaction of King Janamejaya at the king’s
sacrifice.” Obviously the sages know more of this narration than they let on;
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how else could they know that Vaiśaṁpāyana repeated the epic “truthfully” and
to the king’s “satisfaction”? The important point here is to see how repetition
in the epic is never gratuitous, but always made to reinforce a message or with
subtle shifts of emphasis that nonetheless can have major effects.
Obsessed with the idea of a historical “redactor” who combined two distinct
versions of the beginning, Tsuchida and Mehta fail to consider unambiguous
evidence, as pointed out by Brodbeck,77 that there are, in fact, two Naimiṣa
narrations: the first by Ugraśravas to the ṛṣis (1.1.1-1.3.195) and the second
also by Ugraśravas but to Śaunaka rather than the sages (1.4.1-1.54.24). In the
second minor book of the Ādiparvan, the Parvasaṁgraha or the “summaries of
the books,” Ugraśravas himself refers to this earlier narration; he says “I shall
narrate to you the full story [vistaram] of The Bhārata from The Book of Puloman
onward, as it was told at Śaunaka’s Session...,”78 but he could hardly do this if
this narration were ahead of him in time.79 Van Buitenen translates vistaram
as “the full story,” perhaps because he thought there was only one Naimiṣa
recitation, but this does not do the term justice. Vistaram rather has the sense
of “I shall elaborate” or “I shall expand” and thus underscores the fact that
the narration beginning at 1.1.4 is a more elaborate recitation.80 Following this
comment, Ugraśravas then presents the summaries of the books arranged in
100 upaparvans or “minor books,” which he concludes with the words: “This
full Century of Books, which was recited by the great-spirited Vyāsa, was
later exactly so recounted by Ugraśravas, son of the Bard Lomaharṣaṇa, in the
Naimiṣa Forest, but in Eighteen Books.”81
But when was this? The Parvasaṁgraha must be referring to an earlier
recitation by Ugraśravas, if this “full Century of Books” (parvaśataṁ pūrṇaṁ)
has already been “recounted” (punaḥ ... kathitaṁ) at the time of Ugraśravas’
statement. If one takes the Parvasaṁgraha seriously, we not only have two
beginnings, but also two narrations corresponding to these two beginnings:
Ugraśravas’ outer narration, which enfolds the inner one, and an inner
narration that in turn enfolds Vaiśaṁpāyana’s narration of the Mahābhārata.
Brodbeck has also suggested that the word “gṛhapati describing Śaunaka (at
1.4:11) might distinguish the earlier satra (where Śaunaka talks with Ugraśravas)
from the (iterable) later satra (beginning 1.1) where Śaunaka is just kulapati
and not necessarily personally present.”82 I find his suggestion regarding
“iterability”83 especially valuable, as it fits in with my thesis that the reader is a
central component of the epic84 and that discussions of the text that leave the
reader’s perspective out of consideration (e.g., Tsuchida, Oberlies) are reading
the epic from the wrong end, as it were.
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7. Cosmological and Genealogical Beginnings: The Anukrama∫i- and
Paul–omaparvans
As indicated above, the second beginning does not simply replicate the contents
of the first. The first beginning is explicitly cosmological and eschatological:
it begins with a triple maṅgalācaraṇa (a prayer invoking auspiciousness) to
the god Hari, the seer Vyāsa, composer of the epic, and the “many meters”
(chandovṛttaiś; 1.1.26) of the epic,85 followed by a cosmology that has explicit
parallels to both the Hiraṇyagarbha Sūkta (ṚV 1.10.82, 1.10.121) and the Nāsadīya
Sūkta (ṚV 1.10.129) of the Ṛg Veda:
When all this was without light and unillumined and on all its sides covered by
darkness, there arose one large egg, the inexhaustible seed of all creatures. They
say that this was the great divine cause, in the beginning of the eon and that on
which it rests is revealed as the True light, the ever-lasting Brahman.86
Following the opening maṅgalācaraṇa and cosmology, the first minor book
then presents two summaries (1.1.67-94 and 1.1.95-195); the second presented
as the lamentation of a grieving king who has lost all his one hundred sons
in the great war. In 54 quatrains all ending in the same refrain—tadā nāśaṁse
vijayāya saṁjaya! “then, Saṁjaya, I lost hope of victory!”—the blind Dhṛtarāṣṭra
retrospectively recounts the events leading up to the great war. Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s
bhavagītā87 or lament of becoming sets up the basic problem of the epic as that of
the destruction of becoming; here is how he concludes his soliloquy:
Woe! Ten, I hear, have survived the war, three of ours, and seven of the Pāṇḍavas.
Eighteen armies perished in that battle, that war of the barons. Now a dullness
that is all overspread by darkness seems to permeate me. No sign of sense do I
see, Bard, my mind seems to go crazy.88
Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s after-the-fact realization provokes a sobering rejoinder from
Saṁjaya, who reminds him of the inevitability of destruction for everything
that exists in time:
All this is rooted in Time, to be or not to be, to be happy or not to be happy. Time
ripens the creatures. Time rots them. And Time again puts out the Time that
burns down the creatures. Time shrinks them and expands them again. Time
walks in all creatures, unaverted, impartial. Whatever beings there were in the
past will be in the future, whatever are busy now, they are all the creatures of
Time—know it and do not lose your sense.89
The bard’s description of the work of time is immediately followed by a eulogy
of Kṛṣna Vāsudeva, who is eulogized here as brahman or absolute being:
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In this book, Kṛṣṇa Dvaipāyana has uttered a holy Upaniṣad… And Kṛṣṇa
Vāsudeva is glorified here, the self-eternal Blessed Lord—for He is the truth and
the right and the pure and the holy. He is the eternal Brahman—the supreme
Surety, the Everlasting light of whose divine exploits the wise tell tales. From
Him begins existence that is not yet, and the non-existent that becomes. His is
the continuity and the activity. His is birth, death and rebirth.90
These passages set up the contrast between time (kāla) and eternity as the
basic problem of the epic;91 following the first summary of the Kuru narrative
at 1.1.67-94, Dhṛtarāṣtra’s lament and Saṁjaya’s response provide a first
interpretive guideline to the meaning of the Kuru narrative. Lines 1.1.193-195,
which are directly juxtaposed to this discussion of the awesome destruction
of time, then introduce Kṛṣṇa Vāsudeva in terms recalling the tradition of
soteriological ontology in the Upaniṣads and Kṛṣṇa’s divine manifestation
in chapter 11 of the Bhagavadgītā. The first minor book concludes with
a description of the merits that accrue from listening to the epic and an
etymological derivation of the name Mahābhārata that underscores its function
as a mokṣaśāstra:
Once the divine seers foregathered, and on one scale they hung the four Vedas
in the balance, and on the other scale The Bhārata; and both in size and in weight
it was the heavier. Therefore, because of its size and weight, it is called The
Mahābhārata—he who knows this etymology is freed from all sins.92
The second minor book then begins with the sages asking the bard to
describe Samantapañcaka.93 The bard complies, clarifying the etymology of
the name Samantapañcaka. At the juncture of the tretā and dvāpara yugas
(tretādvāparayoḥ saṁdhau; 1.2.3), Rāma Jāmadagnya slew the entire race of
Kṣatriyas (sarvaṁ kṣatram), filling five lakes with their blood (pañca cakāra
rudhirahradān; 1.2.4). Here was also fought at the juncture of the dvāpara and
kali yugas (saṁprāpte kalidvāparayor) the battle between the Kurus and the
Pāṇḍavas (yuddhaṁ kurupāṇḍavasenayoḥ; 1.2.9).94
The seers’ question signals a shifts away from the present moment in
the Naimiṣa forest (nimiṣ = moment) to the epochal cycle as it turns at
Samantapañcaka. This shift is simultaneously a shift from the reader’s individual
concerns, especially foregrounded in the concluding phalaśruti (the recitation
of the merits accruing on hearing the narrative) of the Anukramaṇiparvan, to
the narrative of epochal time that dominates the Parvasaṁgrahaparvan. The
reference to Kurukṣetra’s original name and its meaning marks Kurukṣetra
as a sacrificial site and sacrifice itself is linked to the cyclical turning of
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the ages. At the end of an age, all living beings go under in a dissolution
(pralaya). Thus, concealed within the seers’ seemingly innocuous interest in
etymology are a wealth of clues to the Mahābhārata narrative. By locating the
upcoming narrative within a cosmic, geographic, and temporal context, the
arbitrariness of violence is negated and violence itself elevated to a cosmic
principle. Something escapes cosmic dissolution and forms the seeds of the new
beginning; destruction is always incomplete. Becoming proceeds through cycles
of destruction but this destruction is never total so there is no end to the cycle.
Thus, just as a few kṣatriyas survive Paraśurāma’s massacre, Parikṣit will survive
the Kurukṣetra battle. The turn to the history of Kurukṣetra makes it clear
that the Kurukṣetra battle is no ordinary war, as it unfolds at the preeminent
sacrifical and cosmological site at the juncture of dvāpara and kali yugas.
Ugraśravas’ description of Samantapañcaka in lines 1.2.2-14 is then followed
by the third and fourth summaries of the epic at 1.2.34-69 and at 1.2.71-234, and
the bard then concludes with a second invocation of the benefits accruing from
listening to the Mahābhārata.
Let us now turn to the second beginning in the Paulomaparvan. In the second
beginning, Śaunaka enters and, having taken his seat, asks the bard whether
he too has learned the “entire stock of ancient Lore” which his father used to
recount. “[W]e have heard them before, and long ago it was,” says Śaunaka, “from
your own father.” “Now from among all the tales, I would first like to hear the one
of the Descent of the Bhṛgus. Tell the tale—we are eager to hear you.”95 Hiltebeitel
has contrasted the seeming “hauteur” (2001: 104) of Śaunaka and the sages in
the second beginning, but, more than that, it is the shift in emphasis away from
the bard as someone in attendance at Janamejaya’s sacrifice and who received
the Mahābhārata directly from Vaiśaṁpāyana in Vyāsa’s presence that is notable
here. In the first beginning, this fact was emphasized twice: once in the bard’s
own statement (1.1.8-11) and once by the sages who recounted back to the bard
the circumstances of his first hearing (1.1.15-19). In the second beginning, there
is no reference either to Ugraśravas’ presence at the sarpasatra or to his having
heard it from Vaiśaṁpāyana: in response to Śaunaka’s question, Ugraśravas
merely says, “Whatever was so perfectly committed to memory long ago, O best
of the twiceborn, by such great-spirited brahmins as Vaiśaṁpāyana and his
successors, and was recited by them of yore to my father and again committed
to memory by him—all that I myself learned no less perfectly.”96 Even though
Vaiśaṁpāyana is once again placed at the head of the line of transmission, there is
no suggestion that Ugraśravas may have heard the epic directly from him. Instead,
the transmission is now mediated by his father, and this genealogical mediation
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perfectly reflects the content of Śaunaka’s request.
Ugraśravas now launches into the Bhṛgu genealogy, beginning with the
birth of Cyavana from ṛṣi Bhṛgu under strange circumstances. Bhṛgu begets
a son on Pulomā, born of his “virility” (bhṛgor vīryasamudbhavaḥ; 1.5.11). The
demon Puloman sees Pulomā and is overcome by desire for her. Assuming the
form of a boar (varāharūpeṇa; 1.6.1), he carries her off, and her unborn son falls
enraged from his mother’s womb (roṣān mātuś cyutaḥ kukṣeś; 1.6.2). Seeing the
son aborted from his mother’s womb and radiant as the sun (ādityavarcasam;
1.6.3), the demon is burnt to ashes. Because he fell (cyutaḥ), the son is known
as Cyavana (cyavanas tena so ’bhavat; 1.6.2).97 The story of Cyavana’s birth is the
first in a set of genealogical narratives in the Paulomaparvan that also includes
the stories of Pramati’s birth from Cyavana and Ruru’s birth from Pramati.
The cycle which begins with Cyavana’s fall into becoming only comes to an
end when Ruru meets his namesake, a “lizard” named Ruru, who tells Ruru
about how the brahmin Āstīka rescued the snakes at Janamejaya’s snake
sacrifice.98 Āstīka is the offspring of sage Jaratkāru and the snake-woman
Jaratkāru. Because his father, before departing for the forest, declared “There
is [asty eṣa] a child in you, fortunate woman…,”99 his name came to be Āstīka
or “he who is possessed of the quality ‘there is’.”100 The Āstīkaparvan, which
unites elements of cosmology (the story of the churning of the ocean) and
genealogy (the Jaratkāru narrative),101 fuses the cosmological beginning of
the Anukramaṇiparvan and the genealogical beginning of the Paulomaparvan:
two narratives—one cosmological, the other genealogical—culminate in the
great sarpasatra, the setting for the first narration of the epic.102 Ugraśravas’
narration to Śaunaka comes to an end in the next book, and gives way to
Vaiśaṁpāyana’s narration to Janamejaya: the central bheda narrative of the
doings of the Kurus, culminating in the Kurukṣetra battle.
Let us return to the problem of the double beginning. In the preceding
section, I showed why the hypothesis of a “conflation” of two beginnings fails
on the grounds of textual evidence alone. The two narrations corresponding
to the two beginnings constitute distinct textual moments and therefore must
be held apart while reading the epic. In this section, I have shown that these
two textual levels address different themes—cosmology and genealogy—and
thus are “alternative” beginnings only in the strictly defined sense that they
constitute alternative points of entry into the narrative of “becoming.”103 They
are not “alternatives” in the sense that we could excise or do without one of
the two beginnings. The double beginning, in fact, splits the text from the
very outset: like the forked tongue of a snake, we have two beginnings that
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run parallel to each other until they finally come together in the Āstīkaparvan
to give us the main body of the epic. Cosmology and genealogy, which are two
“knowledges of becoming” or two “genera of becoming,”104 unite to create
sacrifice (Janamejaya’s sarpasatra), and it is within that sacrificial setting that the
raṇa or the battle of Kurukṣetra must ultimately be placed—and understood.
An analysis of the double beginning is thus not just limited to the “texthistorical” question of whether both beginnings are equally original, or belong
together, or represent a conflation of different manuscripts. Instead, it opens
on to the global question of how the epic is to be read. Is the Mahābhārata, as 19th
century German Indologists thought, no more than the story of a small conflict
between tribal chieftains of the Indo-Gangetic plain only latterly inflated
through the addition of extraneous material?105 Or, is it, as Indian tradition has
always held, an all-encompassing text with fundamental insights into being,
becoming, dharma, the puruṣārthas, etc.? One can see how incommensurable the
two interpretive frameworks are. Tracing the four genera thus constitutes an
essential step in demonstrating that the Kurukṣetra war is not war as ordinarily
understood, but thematized under the aspect of representing a genus of
becoming. Agōn is the paradigmatic human activity: even Heraclitus says “strife
[polemos] is the father of all” (Πόλεμος πάντων μὲν πατήρ ἐστι; fr. 53) It would be
as absurd to try to extract some “historical” Ionian battle from this statement as
to identify a historical Kuru conflict on the basis of the Mahābhārata, and yet the
latter has been attempted time and again in epic scholarship.
The chart below clarifies the relation of the epic’s two beginnings to its first
narration and to its main narrative plot:
Chart 1: The Double Beginning of the Ādiparvan.106
Genealogy and cosmology are like the two sacrificial sticks that are rubbed together to
produce the sacrificial flame;107 the Kuru conflict is the sacrifice (raṇayajña108); and
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Parikṣit is the yajñaśiṣṭa or the sacrificial remainder;109 and Janamejaya is the one who,
“feeding”110 on the sacrificial remainder, becomes immortal.111
Obsessed with reconstructing Indian ethnography and history on the basis
of the epic, “text-historical” scholarship has rarely asked about why exactly
Janamejaya should be the patron of the great snake sacrifice that constitutes
the setting for the first narration of the Mahābhārata. Oldenberg, for example,
based on a single Ṛgvedic reference to king Janamejaya,112 is able to imagine
“the splendor of Janamejaya’s kingdom” (1922: 12) where brahmins seated on
“gold-embroidered mat(s)” (1922: 15) recite the narrative to a king interested
in hearing the “the heroic poem of the deeds of his ancestors” (1922: 12). We
should set aside Oldenberg’s absurd attempts to secure historical antiquity
for Janamejaya, to ask: why Janamejaya? Why this king whose name means
“victorious over birth”? Janamejaya, I argue, is the one who hears the entire
story of the Mahābhārata, that awesome narrative of the destruction of the
Kuru line, and understands its meaning. Once being, in the form of Āstīka,113
arrives through this textual yajña, there is a “joyous tumult of cheers” (tato
halahalāśabdaḥ prītijaḥ samavartata; 1.53.9) and king Janamejaya, much pleased
(prītimāṁś; 1.53.10), gives away many gifts to the sadasyas and to Āstīka. With the
monumental sarpasattra, Janamejaya has finally overcome the “unseen danger”
(adṛṣṭam; 1.3.8) of death: he is one who is “victorious over birth.”
8. A Fork in the Beginning: Hermeneutics in the Paußyaparvan
Although this analysis solves the so-called “problem” of the double beginning,
a few questions remain: if both beginnings are equally original, where does
one begin? Does one enter the narrative via cosmology (i.e., via the first
beginning in the Anukramaṇiparvan) or does one enter it via genealogy (i.e., via
the second beginning in the Paulomaparvan)? In this section, I argue that the
most original beginning114 corresponds to neither the cosmological nor the
genealogical beginning, but to a third “beginning”: a hermeneutic beginning in
the Pauṣyaparvan.
As van Buitenen already noted, the Pauṣyaparvan is exceptional among the
Mahābhārata’s opening books (cf. van Buitenen 1973: 2). Not only is it one of the
few portions of the Mahābhārata composed almost entirely in prose,115 but its
placement is also highly significant as it separates the first beginning from the
second. As we saw above, Ugraśravas himself states that he will narrate “the
full story [vistaram] of The Bhārata from The Book of Puloman onward, as it was
told at Śaunaka’s Session...,”116 which suggests that the first beginning somehow
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comes to an end with the Pauṣyaparvan. The third minor book is also the first
narrative segment of the epic following the lists of contents and summaries. It
is the first time we encounter king Janamejaya and includes the first mention of
Kurukṣetra, one of only three references until chapter 89 and the only one not
embedded in someone’s verses. Significantly, Kurukṣetra is introduced not as
the site of the great war, but as a sacrificial site.117 In fact, the entire minor book
revolves around four themes: sacrifice, initiation, pedagogy, and hermeneutics.
As I have already analyzed the sacrificial, initiatory, and pedagogical aspects
of the Pauṣyaparvan elsewhere,118 I would like to focus here on its hermeneutic
significance.
Let us see how the Pauṣya narrative, beginning with Saramā and ending
with Uttaṅka, defines a hermeneutic program. Three “sacrifices” structure the
Pauṣyaparvan: the sacrificial session at Kurukṣetra where Saramā appears and
warns Janamejaya of an unseen danger (adṛṣṭam; 1.3.8), Janamejaya’s conquest
of Takṣaśilā, and the snake sacrifice. These three form a series: at the conclusion
of every sacrifice, a person appears and interprets the sacrifice, while triggering
the next one. Saramā appears during Janamejaya’s first sacrifice and warns
him that he has not overcome his mortality. Her warning sends him in search
of fame and conquest through conquering Takṣaśilā, the next “sacrifice” in the
series. While historical fame grants a limited form of immortality, it cannot lead
to true salvation. For this reason, following Janamejaya’s conquest of Takṣaśilā,
a further interpreter appears. Uttaṅka criticizes the king for his conquest of
Takṣaśilā, and urges him to perform the third sacrifice. Janamejaya finally gains
salvation through the third sacrifice with the appearance of Āstīka, the savior.119
Saramā’s warning of an unseen danger (adrṣṭaṁ) sets in motion a series of events
that results in the appearance of being itself.
The name Āstīka means “he who is possessed of the quality ‘there is’.” The
story of Āstīka’s birth recounted in the fifth minor book of the Mahābhārata
bears important clues to his significance in the narrative. The sage Jaratkāru
wanders the earth performing austerities. He is unwilling to marry, until his
ancestors request him to do so for the sake of the line. Jaratkāru agrees on
condition his wife also bears the same name. The snake Vāsuki then presents
his sister, Jaratkāru, to the sage. Long ago, Kadrū, the mother of the snakes,
cursed them to perish in Janamejaya’s sacrificial fire. The Creator, Brahmā,
promised the snakes that a remnant would be saved and that Āstīka, the son of
the sage, Jaratkāru, and a namesake virgin, would bring about their salvation.
One evening, as the sage is sleeping with his head on his wife’s lap, it turns
dusk. Worried that her husband will miss the evening ritual, she awakens him.
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Incensed, the sage threatens to forsake her at once. The tortured woman begs
him not to leave as she had been given to him in marriage in the hope that she
would beget a son from him who would save the snakes from destruction. Then
the sage says, “There is [asty eṣa] a child in you, fortunate woman…” (asty eṣa
garbhaḥ subhage tava; 1.43.38). In time, the woman gives birth to a son. As his
father had said of him, while he was still in his mother’s womb, “There is” (astīty
uktvā), the child became known as “Āstīka” (nāmāstīketi; 1.44.20).
The reference to Saramā, the messenger of the gods, is especially significant.
In the Ṛgveda,120 Saramā is sent as a messenger of the gods121 to the Paṇis, a group
of anti-gods who steal the gods’ wealth (divine cattle and horses, i.e., the rays
of the sun)122 every evening. Saramā journeys across the waters of the cosmic
stream, Rasā, down to the Paṇis’ hiding place123 and warns them to return
the cows. They refuse and in the war that follows, Indra breaks open their
enclosure124 and recovers the stolen light. Saramā, who tracks down the Paṇis
and aids in the recovery of light, manifests as a savior in the myth (cf. Olson
2007: 251).
As Hewitt,125 Woolsey126 et al. note, Saramā and Hermes share many
functions:127 both are messengers, both are linked to the task of (hermeneutic)
recovery, and both guide the soul on its afterlife journey. Duncker, drawing
upon Kuhn, notes that the names Saramā and Hermes are cognate: “Hermes is
no doubt derived from ὁρμή; Sanscrit sar, to flow; Zd. har, to go. The two dogs of
Yama, which watch the road of the souls (vol. 3, 50), are called Sarameyas, i.e.
belonging to Sarama; Kuhn has accordingly identified Sarameyas and Ἑρμείας”
(Duncker 1883: 179).128
The initial episode of Janamejaya’s sacrifice and Saramā’s warning suddenly
gives way to three pedagogic narratives concerning the teacher Dhaumya
Āyoda and his students. These three pedagogic narratives are then followed by
a further narrative dealing with Uttaṅka’s education in hermeneutics. Uttaṅka’s
teacher, Veda, one day calls him and says to him: “… whenever anything is
lacking in our house, I wish you to make up for it.”129 While he is away, Veda’s
wife has her period and Uttaṅka is asked to inseminate her. But unlike Vyāsa,
who engenders the main characters in the text, Uttaṅka refuses to inseminate
his teacher’s wife.
Somewhere between blind obedience and complete randomness, lies the
delicate task of interpreting a text.130
Uttaṅka reasons that Veda did not intend him to go so far in providing
for what is missing. He thus interprets Veda’s words, in contrast to the first
generation of students who blindly follow their teacher’s instructions. Uttaṅka’s
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refusal to inseminate Veda’s wife is especially significant when seen against the
background of Vyāsa’s response. Satyavatī, the queen mother, asks Vyāsa to
beget sons upon Vicitravīrya’s wives in order to ensure the genealogical line’s
survival. Vyāsa complies, siring Pāṇḍu and Dhṛtarāṣṭra. The epic’s creator is
thus also the progenitor of its principal characters: the Pāṇḍavas and Kauravas.
He creatively inseminates his narrative at several levels and triggers the main
events related in the text. Uttaṅka, in contrast, maintains his distance from the
narrative: he appears only at the epic’s end, following the death of its principal
characters (by the time of Janamejaya’s sarpasatra, all of the Pāṇḍavas are dead
as is Parikṣit). He nevertheless triggers action on another level by instigating
the snake sacrifice. Whereas Vyāsa is the author-father, Uttaṅka represents the
interpreter-student, appearing after the events related in the text have come
to a close in order to interpret their meaning. In contrast to Vyāsa, Uttaṅka’s
function is not to engender action at the textual level—to inseminate the
narrative—but to engender action at the meta-textual, i.e. hermeneutic, level
through a retrieval.
Veda returns home and declares Uttaṅka’s education complete: “I grant
you leave to go. You will find complete success.”131 But Uttaṅka refuses to
go without presenting him with his teacher’s fee (gurvartham; 1.3.97). Veda
sends him to his wife, who asks for Pauṣya’s wife’s earrings.132 On his way, he
encounters a man on an oversized bull. The man tells him to eat the bull’s
dung. Uttaṅka hesitates, but the man says: “Eat it, Uttaṅka, do not hesitate.
Your teacher himself has eaten it in his time.”133 Uttaṅka complies, and
continues his journey. He finds Pauṣya and asks for the earrings. The king
sends him to his wife, who gives him the earrings but warns him that Takṣaka,
the king of snakes, may try to steal them. As Uttaṅka returns home, the snake
indeed steals the earrings. Uttaṅka pursues him into the netherworld,134
where he sees marvelous sights: two women weaving black and white threads
into a cloth, a wheel being turned around by six boys, and a handsome man.
Uttaṅka praises them with verses and the man grants him a favor. Uttaṅka
replies: “The Snakes shall be in my power!”135 The man tells him to blow into
the horse’s anus (etam aśvam apāne dhamasveti; 1.3.156). Uttaṅka does so and
smoke rushes out of its orifices. Fearful of fire, Takṣaka returns the earrings to
Uttaṅka.
Uttaṅka returns to his teacher and narrates the story. He then says: “I wish
to be enlightened by you, sir: what is the significance of this?”136 Veda explains
the symbolism to Uttaṅka: the two women are dhātā and vidhātā, the black
and white threads night and day. The wheel with twelve spokes is the day,
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the six boys the seasons, the wheel itself the year. The man is Parjanya (the
rain-god) and the horse Agni (the fire-god). The man on the bull was Indra,
the bull itself Airāvata, the king of snakes (nāgarājaḥ; 1.3.174). Uttaṅka was
able to survive the netherworld because the dung he ate was amṛta (the nectar
of immortality). Following this education in the art of interpretation, the
teacher then gives him leave to go. Uttaṅka then goes to Hāstinapura, where
he triggers the snake sacrifice.137
If we now return to the problem of the Ādiparvan’s double beginning, we
will see how the Pauṣyaparvan offers another way of entering the narrative:
one that is neither cosmological nor genealogical, but hermeneutic.
By embedding Vyāsa’s original narrative in the first level of sacrifice—
Janamejaya’s sarpasatra—and then embedding this sacrifice in a further
sacrifice, Śaunaka’s twelve-year sacrifice, the epic duplicates the outermost
level of the text, thereby creating a forked structure in which is then placed
the textual apparatus: contents, summary and hermeneutic and pedagogical
tools. We thus have the following structure to the Ādiparvan:
Chart 2: The Forked Beginning of the Ādiparvan.138
By opening the “jaws” of the text,139 the redactors are able to place a hermeneutic
apparatus in a kind of non-narrative space that is both inside and outside the text. By
including the hermeneutic apparatus “inside” the text, they are able to redeem its
claim to being all-encompassing;140 by placing it “outside” the text, they are able to
bring the text into the reader’s horizon.
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This surfeit of beginnings shows just how absurd the attempt to establish the
“original” beginning on the basis of specious text-historical criteria is. Van
Buitenen, for example, in his introduction to his translation of the Ādiparvan,
pronounces:
While it is easy, and indeed natural, to be skeptical of many of the beginnings of the
true beginning, the fact that they are there carries its own relevance. At an early
enough date The Mahābhārata was conceived as standing close to the beginning of
national history, so that it was only appropriate to include right at its beginning all
kinds of still earlier matter. Thus The Mahābhārata became the central storehouse
of Brahminic-Hindū lore; it could only have done so if it were widely considered
to be what the editors of the critical edition of the text proudly claim it is: “The
National Epic of India.” (van Buitenen 1973: 6)
But such a view once again privileges the idea of a single and simple beginning.
A plurality of beginnings need not indicate accretion. Instead, if a plurality of
beginnings violates our expectations, it reveals our expectations as linear and
progressive. In a cyclical conception of narrative which mirrors the cyclical
conception of eonic time, a plurality of beginnings does not violate narrative
logic. In fact, only that narrative is authentic which always ends and always
begins. The Mahābhārata is always ending and always beginning: already in
Vyāsa’s composition and Vaiśaṁpāyana’s recitation to Janamejaya, the Kuru
dynasty has ended, the great war has ended, and the great dvāpara yuga has also
ended. However, in the utterance of the bard and the renewed interest of the
sages of the Naimiṣa forest, the narrative begins anew.
The point here is to recognize that the epic is aware of its own structure.
Thus it says, “There are brahmins who learn The Bhārata from Manu onward,
others again from the tale of The Book of Āstīka onward, others again from
the tale of Uparicara onward.”141 These multiple beginnings only evoke the
temporality embodied in the epic: the cycle of stories mirrors the cycle of
eons. Thus one has to be Janus-faced to enter and grasp the narrative logic of
the epic. This condition is declared by the epic itself: “Learned men elucidate
the complex erudition of this Grand Collection; there are those who are
experienced in explaining it and others in retaining it.”142 Those who retain
it are skilled in memory (smṛti) and those who are skilled in explaining it
are skilled in hermeneutics. This is the twin task of the introductory nature
of the list of contents in particular and the Ādiparvan in general. Smṛti goes
backward into the past, while hermeneutics goes forward, bringing the text
to us in the future. The smṛti task of memory, i.e., the philological task,143
which looks backward, is described in verses 51-94, and the hermeneutic
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task or the philosophical task, which is not textual but eschatological, is
described in verses 95-160. In the smṛti section, the bard provides a historical
summary of the author’s origin, the epic itself, the transmission from
author to bard, and the origin of the Pāṇḍavas and Kauravas and their
battle. Viewing these several beginnings as so many additions to a core
text diverts from a philosophical point. These several beginnings should be
understood not as mechanical accretions but as the work of an author who, by
providing different points of entry into the text, provides different avenues
of interpretation. Thus, one could begin reading the text genealogically,
cosmologically, or philosophically.
I have therefore argued for taking seriously the epic’s self-conscious
imitation of the structure of cyclical time. Indeed, the text is carefully
constructed to show that becoming is circular and that origins lie after
ends. If, however, becoming is a closed loop with neither absolute origins
nor ends, where do we begin? How do we enter the hermeneutic circle? We
are presented with a textual problem as well as a cosmological problem:
where to begin? The solution is in both cases the same: begin many times.
Yet, how are we to understand all these beginnings? What enables us to
understand a beginning if there is no absolute arché, an inceptive principle?
The Mahābhārata presents two solutions:
1. The beginning can be understood in terms of a previous beginning, or
2. It can be understood metaphorically.
Thus the narrative beginning of 1.57, referred to as auparicarādi, defers
to the sacrificial beginning at 1.13 (āstīkādi), which in turn defers to the
cosmological and genealogical beginnings at 1.1 and 1.4, jointly referred to
as manvādi. The cosmological and genealogical beginnings are coeval and
hence defer mutually to each other. The outermost beginning, however,
is clearly the hermeneutic beginning, which, as I have argued, occurs both
inside and outside of the text: the text is like an open-jawed snake, with the
hermeneutic beginning reaching out to the reader. Janamejaya’s narrative,
strictly speaking, exists outside the core epic narrative: Janamejaya here is
an abbreviation or a code for the entire Vaiśaṁpāyana narrative and indeed
for the reader herself. Saramā’s warning of an unseen danger (adṛṣṭam; 1.3.8)
is meant for the reader because the Pauṣyaparvan, which occurs between the
epic’s two beginnings, is ultimately the part of the text closest to the reader.
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Chart 3: The Structure of the Mahābhārata.
The Ādiparvan showing how Vyāsa’s “authoritative narrative” is embedded in two
sacrifices representing two narrations, one embedded within the other. The outer–
most level is duplicated to embed the textual apparatus: contents, summary and
hermeneutic tools.
9. Return to the Problem of “Text-Historical” “Criticism”
In the previous two sections, I outlined a hermeneutic approach to the text,
which takes the text’s self-understanding seriously and attempts to understand
the text out of the text itself rather than applying preconceived notions to
the epic. In this section, I return to Oberlies’ thesis of a three-stage historical
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expansion of the epic to elucidate the inability of the “text-historical” method to
account for the epic’s complexity.
Oberlies’ views typify the problems with a reductive “text-historical”
approach to the Mahābhārata. Crucially, Oberlies’ analysis fails to account for
the double beginning of the Ādiparvan. Rather than seeing the twin beginnings
of the Ādiparvan as intentional and appreciating the careful compositional logic
that guides this doubling of the outermost frame narrative, Oberlies sets out
from the basic premise that the twin beginnings cannot both be equally original.
Instead, he proposes that we understand the frame narratives “historically,”
i.e., as evidence of separate “versions” of the text. In particular, he claims that
Mahābhārata 1.4 “does not reference Janamejaya’s sarpasattra,” “this frame is
not woven with the sarpasattra-frame,” and hence represents a later insertion
into the text (Oberlies 2008: 91).144 In Oberlies’ reconstruction of the epic’s
frame narratives, the Pauṣyaparvan (1.3) links up directly with the Āstīkaparavan
(1.13) and, together, “may … have been the original frame narrative of the
Mahābhārata” (ibid., 94). Further, Oberlies claims that this original frame
narrative would have been “structured as a so-called neck-(saving)-narrative
[Hals(lösungs)erzählung],”145 while the narrative of the snake sacrifice would
have been “inserted as a switch-narrative [Schalterzählung] in the Ruru-story
of the Paulomaparvan” (ibid., 94). Thus, we have the following structure to the
Mahābhārata:
1st beginning: 1.1ff.
Manu-version: 1.1.50ff.
2nd beginning: 1.4ff.
Ruru-story: 1.4.8-1.4.12 (switch-narrative)
Āstīka-version: 1.3/1.13ff. (neck-saving narrative)
Vasu-version: 1.57ff.146
Oberlies’ approach has the advantage of allowing us to map these three
“versions” of the epic onto a simple chronological scheme: the “Vasu-version”
would constitute the oldest epic layer, the “Āstīka-version” would have
constituted a simple frame that would have allowed for this original narrative
to be relayed through the use of a narrative device (i.e., a “neck-riddle”), and
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the third “Manu-version” would have introduced a further level of enframing
and allowed for the integration of four lists of contents147 into the epic. This
smooth progression of narrative and frame elements is marred only by the
insertion of the second beginning, i.e., Ugraśravas’ second arrival in the Naimiṣa
forest at Mahābhārata 1.4, which interrupts the original Āstīkaparvan, otherwise
“characterized by a clearly structured frame narrative.”
But in spite of its appealing simplicity, Oberlies’ model has major draw–
backs:
1. It cannot account for why these later redactors felt it necessary to duplicate
Ugraśravas’ arrival in the Naimiṣa forest.
2. Even if we assume, as Oberlies does, that they felt the need to introduce a
“switch-narrative” in the form of the Ruru-story in the Paulomaparvan in order
to enable “the link to the older Āstīkaparvan (1,13),” it is unclear why they could
not just have included this one episode without duplicating the Ādiparvan’s
beginning.
3. Further, it begs the question to claim that the Ruru-story was inserted
in order to enable a transition between the first half of the Āstīka frame (i.e.,
Mahābhārata 1.3; the Pauṣyaparvan in our present epic) and the second half
(Mahābhārata 1.13), when in fact these two halves would have constituted an
unbroken whole prior to this insertion.
4. Alternatively, if one assumes that this continuity was interrupted by
the insertion of the second beginning at 1.4, thus necessitating the insertion
of a “switch-narrative” to restore the lost continuity, then one is once again
confronted by the puzzle of the Mahābhārata’s twin beginnings.
5. A closer examination of Oberlies’ argument in fact shows that he, too, sees
this section (i.e., the chapters from 1.4-11) as the real “insertion.” Following
Ugraśravas’ second arrival at the Naimiṣa and Śaunaka’s request that he narrate
the genealogy of the Bhṛgu lineage (1.4-1.5.10), “The story of the Bhārgavas...
then fills up the entire remainder of the Paulomaparvan (1,5-12). This section
of the Ādiparvan only relates to the section of the Mahābhārata that encloses it
(1,3 and 1,13ff.) insofar as in chapter 1,11 the discussion suddenly returns to the
story of Janamejaya’s Sarpasattra” (Oberlies 2008: 94).
6. In that case, however, the introduction of the concept of a “switchnarrative” does not in any way help clarify the insertion of a second beginning
or the narration of the Bhṛgu genealogy from 1.4 to 1.12. Nor does it clarify
why these redactors would have split apart the original Āstīkaparvan into the
Pauṣyaparvan and our current Āstīkaparvan.
7. In fact, a more detailed examination of the Pauṣyaparvan demonstrates
How to Read the Ådiparvan
175
the untenability of Oberlies’ claim. Apart from the circumstance that there is
a single reference to a sarpasatra toward the end of the Pauṣyaparvan (1.3.190),
the two parvans are completely dissimilar in character. The Pauṣyaparvan is
mainly prose; it begins with the story of Saramā followed by three pedagogical
narratives; the bulk of the book is concerned with the story of Uttaṅka, a
student of the brahmin Dhaumya Āyoda in the second generation; the etiology
of the snake holocaust presented in the Pauṣyaparvan is completely different
from that presented in the Āstīkaparvan; and it is the brahmin Uttaṅka’s rivalry
with Takṣaka and not the Parikṣit/Takṣaka conflict as in the Āstīkaparvan that
provokes this first reference to the sarpasatra. There is no evidence to suggest
that the Pauṣyaparvan and the Āstīkaparvan may originally have been one book.
8. If the “Vasu-version” is to be ascribed to the genre of “history,” what about
the “Āstīka-version”? Is it fictional or historical? As Oberlies sets up the relation
of the “Vasu-version” to the “Hals(lösungs)erzählung” of the “Āstīka-version,”
this endless story whose most famous literary paradigm is The Thousand and
One Nights, the latter is plainly fiction, albeit fiction created around the original
historical core, i.e., the “Vasu-version.” But is the fact that Āstīka narrated it also
fiction? And, if so, who is the author of this little mise-en-scène? Did Āstīka really
once arrive at Janamejaya’s sarpasatra and save Takṣaka’s life, or is this also a
fictional narrative?
9. If the latter, then the real “expansion” of the Mahābhārata, its meta–
morphosis from history to myth, cannot have occurred through the expedient
of a Hals(lösungs)erzählung, but must have occurred through the persons who
introduced the Hals(lösungs)erzählung itself as a literary motif. In other words,
Oberlies’ introduction of a so-called “Āstīka-version” fails to resolve the problem
it was intended to be a response to, namely, of how the original epic (Oberlies’
“Vasu-version”), which Oberlies assigns to the genre of history, could evolve
into the mythic account we have at present. The suggestion that Takṣaka’s
Scheherazadian fate provided the occasion for a massive expansion of the epic
and the interpolation of masses of mythic and didactic material into the original
epic falls apart once one realizes that this requires us to assume that such a
situation actually occurred. Oberlies is caught in a bind of his own making: he
must attribute the expansion of the historical epic to Āstīka and then Takṣaka’s
near-death encounter must have really occurred, or acknowledge that this
situation is fiction and then the expansion must be attributed to the authors of
the Āstīka narrative. In either case, one of the two frame narratives falls out of
consideration as irrelevant: either the Āstīka narration is the historical linchpin
that allows us to understand the text’s expansion and the Ugraśravas narration
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is just a shell, or the Ugraśravas narration is the historical linchpin that allows
us to understand the text’s expansion and the Hals(lösungs)erzählung is itself
decapitated.
10. Conclusion: Establishing Criteria
This paper has argued for a hermeneutic approach to the epic that takes the
epic’s own self-understanding seriously as a text of fundamental philosophical,
cosmological, and theological significance. I have argued that the two
beginnings must be read in the context of this overarching program and cannot
be deleted, moved, or otherwise “edited” to suit contemporary prejudices
regarding texts. The analysis articulated above—of the double beginning as
a meaningful component of the epic’s narrative structure—confirms the CE
editors’ decision to retain the double beginning, and is indirect testimony of the
rigor of their editorial praxis.
Borrowing an expression from Mahadevan’s excellent article in this volume,
I may say that, just as there are “three rails” in Mahābhārata criticism, there
are also “three rails” of Mahābhārata interpretation: the first is the CE which
provides us with an archetype that allows us to unearth the basic narrative
architecture of the epic; the second is Biardeau’s method of studying the epic
within the totality of significations that Biardeau has called the “universe of
bhakti,”148 a method that has been ably continued by her students Hiltebeitel,
Bailey, Couture and others; and the third is the hermeneutic approach, which
uses the text itself to interpret the text. Given this state of affairs, one ought
to set up some minimal criteria for future Mahābhārata scholarship, especially
in light of the fact that, since the CE, certain approaches such as the search
for various “Ur-Bhāratas” are an intellectual embarrassment. These scholarly
“theories” bring nothing new to the table: neither in terms of new ideas, nor
new evidence, nor in terms of a better understanding of the epic. They are,
as Hiltebeitel has argued in his contribution to the present volume, like a
“hydra” that refuses to die. Merely cross-referencing other scholarship does not
establish the truth of these views. Academic citation has the definite function of
corroborating insights, not of accepting what is advanced as a hypothesis in one
paper as established fact in another.149 With the completion of the CE, one must
begin separating out the few, relatively minor corrections of the CE editors’
decisions from circular and reductio ad absurdum arguments. A prime example
of this, as Hiltebeitel has shown in his article in this volume, is the notion of a
Kṣatriya epic. Whatever appears not to “fit” some outmoded prejudice, be it of
an Indo-European epic tradition or a hypermasculine kṣatriya saga, is excised or
How to Read the Ådiparvan
177
attributed to “later” layers. Of this “cut-and-paste” game with layers, one can
only say what Sukthankar observed of 19th-century criticism. Asking “what is
the secret of this book of which India feels after nearly two thousand years that
she has not yet had enough?” Sukthankar responds:
It would be a rather hazardous conjecture to suppose that such a thing might
perchance happen also to the works of the critics of the Mahābhārata, for within
less than half a century the lucubrations of these wiseacres have approached
perilously near the limbo of oblivion, from which they are periodically snatched
out by the industrious pedagogue and the curious antiquarian. (1957: 29-30)
Occam’s razor helped philosophy immensely. Likewise, in literary criticism,
it is useful to assume the text as we have it as a text with some coherent
meaning, unless proved otherwise. Borrowing Austin’s terminology, it is best
to assume that the M0 exemplar had a basic architecture that is continued in a
significant measure in all M+N moments. One must attempt to understand this
architecture before excising any element as an “interpolation.” Interpolation
is not explanation: it is an acknowledgement of our failure to explain the text.
As an interpretive category, “interpolation” should be our absolute last choice.
As an alternative to the dogmatism of the Lassen school, I have been
working since around 2007 on the idea of the Mahābhārata as a “project with
a purpose,” i.e., as a self-conscious attempt to preserve Vedic knowledge and
disseminate it on a pan-Indian basis, while retaining its esoteric character
by concealing it among a mass of narratives. There is now general consensus
that the epic is much more Vedic than previously thought, and my recent
and forthcoming articles demonstrate a consistent encoding of Vedic sacrifice
into the text. These overlappings can hardly be accidental, nor would
it make much sense to take up an original “bardic” epic150 and insert so
much Vedic/Brahmanic material into it. Regarding the thesis of Brahmanic
“interpolation,” Lassen and Goldstücker are the prime culprits,151 but the
myth of “Brahmanic contamination” or “Brahmanic corruption” refuses to
die out: 20th century revivals include Fitzgerald (1983) and Oberlies (1995 and
2008).152 Understanding the Mahābhārata as a project with a purpose allows
us to comprehend the massive scribal effort and the effort at pan-Indian
dissemination behind the epic, both so ably described for us in this volume
by Mahadevan, as also the presence of jointures in the text that seem to have
been designed to allow for local variation and insertions.
Let me conclude with one final statement on the Mahābhārata’s double
beginning. Why does the epic feel the need to place its own hermeneutic tools
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within the text, in the curious space opened up between the two beginnings?
The answer to this question must, once again, be sought in the epic itself. As
Mahābhārata 1.56.33 and 18.5.38 demonstrate,153 the Mahābhārata takes its claim
to being an all-encompassing text quite seriously. Hiltebeitel has already argued
that the statement “‘Whatever is here may be found elsewhere; what is not here
does not exist anywhere’ (MBh 1,56.33; 18,5.38) is not an encyclopedic slogan
but an ontological claim about what counts as real, as the heterodoxies do not”
(Hiltebeitel 2011a: 11). One consequence of this self-understanding, however, is
that the text must contain everything within itself necessary for understanding
it: the text is the sole “remainder” that is transmitted across time and space and
hence must contain its own hermeneutic apparatus within itself. Ultimately, the
double beginning is a consequence of this immense task: to create a kind of nonnarrative space that allows for the transmission of a hermeneutic apparatus
along with the text. I have further shown that such an interpretation takes
the text’s own self-understanding seriously as the śeṣa which textually lives
yugāntare. There is nothing outside the text, not even instructions on how to
read the text. As I have shown, the first three parvans are inserted into a space
in the epic, allowing them to be transmitted along with it. How are we now to
understand the frames in this new interpretive architecture if not as historical?
But that is another beginning.
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Appendix
Structure of
the epic
First level of
enframing: the
Naimiṣa satra
Vaiśaṁpāyana
narrative
Second level of
enframing:
Janamejaya’s
sarpasatra
Oberlies’ “switch-narrative”
(Schalterzählung)
Upaparvans
Anukramaṇiparvan
First beginning: Mbh 1.1.1-19
List of contents: Mbh 1.1.67-94
List of contents: Mbh 1.1.95.195
Ugraśravas’ narration
Mbh 1.1.20-212
Parvasaṁgraha
1.2.1-243
List of contents
Mbh 1.2.34-64
List of contents
Mbh 1.2.71-234
Pauṣyaparvan
Mbh 1.3.1-195
Paulomaparvan
Second beginning: Mbh 1.4.1-1.5.3
Ugraśravas’ narration
Mbh 1.5.4-1.12.5
Ruru narrative, concluding with a
reference to Āstīka 1.8-12
Āstīkaparvan
1.13.1-53.26
Ādivaṁśāvataraṇaparvan
Continuation of Ugraśravas/ Śaunaka
“dialogical level” (1.53.27-36)
Vyāsa’s arrival at Janamejaya’s satra
Mbh 1.54.1-24
Beginning of Vaiśaṁpāyana/
Janamejaya “dialogical level” 1.55.1 and
continued until 18.5 (except 12.327; 331;
335 and 15.42-43)
Ādivaṁśāvataraṇaparvan
List of contents: Mbh 1.55
‘Core’ Mahābhārata 1.57.1 onward
Oberlies’ analysis
The first dialogical level is that of the first frame narrative,
which narrates the context of the second narration of the Mbh.
Second narration of the Mbh.
3. Manu version beginning at 1.27ff.
Oberlies’ redaction
Justification for thesis
2. Āstīka version beginning at 1.3ff.
(lacks the outermost frame and the first
dialogical level and the list of contents).
“That is why now, as the
Mahābhārata is handed down,
the narration of the snake
sacrifice has been inserted as
a switch narration
[Schalterzählung] in the Ruru
story [Geschichte] of the
Paulomaparvan.”
“There existed an ‘unframed’ version of the Mahābhārata—
the ‘Vasu-version’—which began (perhaps with a brief list of
contents [Mbh 1,55 (see p. 85)]) with the introduction of
Vaiśaṁpāyana as the speaker (Mbh 1,54.21, 57.75)…”
“The snake king sways in the highest danger, and in order
to save his ‘neck’ [Hals], Āstīka narrates a story
[Geschichte]—the Mahābhārata—until the life threatening
danger for Takṣaka is past. In the form of the Mahābhārata
present today, however, it is a song of praise of Āstīka to
Janamejaya that moves the latter to fulfill Āstīka’s wish for a
suspension of the sacrifice (Mbh 1,50-51).”
“This version, which began with the narration of
Janamejaya’s snake sacrifice was, in turn, enframed with the
narrative of the 12 year Naimiṣa sattra and thereby the first
dialogical level brought in, the title of the work
Mahābhārata introduced, which of course is found
principally on this dialogical level (see p. 90-91), and this
[i.e., the title] associated with the name of the composer,
Vyāsa.”
“This was fused … with a second ‘Āstīka-version’ circulating
in Vedic circles that possessed the narrative of the snake
sacrifice of Janamejaya as a (simple) frame.”
“But that this was not the original state is
suggested—beyond the young age of the
Ruru narrative and of the entire
Paulomaparvan [...]—by the following
considerations: the actual continuous
narration of the Mahābhārata begins at
Mbh 1,53.35: hanta te kathayiṣyāmi mahad
ākhyānam uttamam,
kṛṣṇadvaipāyanamataṁ mahābhāratam
āditaḥ. And one expects to ‘actually’
[‘eigentlich’] find the frame of the
narration before this starting-point.
Therewith the Āstīkaparvan may have
been the original frame narrative of the
Mahābhārata.”
Oberlies’ “story [told] to save someone’s neck” (Hals(lösungs)erzählung)
“Peculiarly, Mahābhārata 1,4 begins with the same words as in
1,1. But at Mbh 1,4 Janamejaya’s sarpasattra is not spoken of,
i.e., this frame narrative is not interwoven with the sarpasattra
frame.”
“In this second introduction, the sages gathered at the sattra
request Ugraśravas to wait until Śaunka comes, and to recite
that which he [Śaunaka] wishes. As this one then enters (1,5.1),
he does not request Ugraśravas to recite the Mahābhārata, but
he wishes to hear the story [Geschichte] of the Bhārgavas
(1,5.3). This then fills up the entire remaining Paulomaparvan
(1,5-12).”
“Further, this section of the Ādiparvan has to do with the
section of the Mahābhārata (1,3 and 1,13ff.) enclosing it only
insofar as in chapter 1,11 suddenly the discussion comes to the
story [Geschichte] of Janamejaya’s sarpasattra. The link to the
older Āstīkaparvan (1,13) is generated with the help of the
Ruru narrative, a very late insertion into the Mahābhārata.”
“And much speaks for the fact that in this [frame narrative]
not Vaiśaṁpāyana but Āstīka was the ‘first narrator’ of the
Mahābhārata and that the narration was designed as a socalled story to save someone’s neck [Hals(lösungs)erzählung].”
The second dialogical level is that of the second frame
narrative, which narrates the context of the second narration
of the Mbh.
First narration of the Mbh.
1. Vasu version beginning at 1.57ff.
(lacks the inner frame as well as the
outer frame and first four lists of
contents).
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Endnotes
1. All Mahābhārata citations refer to the Critical Edition (CE) text
(Sukthankar 1933). All translations refer to the Chicago edition (cited as van
Buitenen 1973).
2. Obviously, I mean the narrative plot and not some historical “core” to which
was later added. The origins of the latter view can be traced back to Lassen’s
attempt to reconstruct Indian history, geography, and ethnography on the basis of
the epic. It becomes a staple of Germanic or Germanophilic interpretations of the
epic, especially as it allows for a distinction between an “Āryan element” and an
Indian element. On the history of the “core” plus “accretions” model, see Vishwa
Adluri & Joydeep Bagchee, The Nay Science: A History of German Indology (n.d).
3. This aspect is usually lost in reductive analyses of the epic such as those
that argue for a historical core as the “original epic” or as the “Bhārata” epic.
As Austin points out in this volume, such approaches are hopelessly circular,
with everything that does not fit the particular scholar’s views of the epic being
excised as “late.” I discuss a recent instance of such circular reasoning in my
review of A. Malinar, Bhagavadgītā: Doctrines and Contexts (Adluri 2010b).
4. On the distinction between time (kāla) and eternity as a central organ–
izational principle of the epic, see my Sacrificial Ontology and Human Destiny (n.d.).
5. For a recent discussion of the relation of daivam to puruṣārtha, see Woods
2001.
6. On the Mahābhārata as a compendium on the puruṣārthas, see 1.56.21
(arthaśāstram idaṁ puṇyaṁ dharmaśāstram idaṁ param / mokṣaśāstram idaṁ
proktaṁ vyāsenāmitabuddhinā //); see also 1.1.46-47 (vedayogaṁ savijñānaṁ
dharmo ’rthaḥ kāma eva ca // dharmakāmārthaśāstrāṇi śāstrāṇi vividhāni ca /
lokayātrāvidhānaṁ ca saṁbhūtaṁ dṛṣṭavān ṛṣiḥ //)
7. Cf. 1.1.196-197: adhyātmaṁ śrūyate yac ca pañcabhūtaguṇātmakam / avyaktādi
paraṁ yac ca sa eva parigīyate // yat tad yativarā yuktā dhyānayogabalānvitāḥ /
pratibimbam ivādarśe paśyanty ātmany avasthitam //
8. Scholars estimate that perhaps only 1/3 of the text is dedicated to the Kuru
narrative, with the remainder containing philosophical or didactic material.
Hopkins, for example, distinguishes between an “epic proper” of roughly 20,000
verses and the “moral, political, religious, and metaphysical dissertations” (1916:
325) in which this epic is embedded, but does not clarify why only the former
constitutes the epic “proper.” Hopkins also famously propounded a distinction
between the epic and a “pseudo-epic” (Hopkins 1906: pass.), based, perhaps, on a
narrow identification of epic with a heroic narrative (Heldensage). On Hopkins’
How to Read the Ådiparvan
181
contributions to epic chronology, see Sukthankar’s response: “I will say candidly
that for all intents and purposes this pretentious table is as good as useless”
(1957: 9).
9. For a recent consideration of the some of these issues, see Reich 2008.
10. On the doctrine of cyclical time in the Mahābhārata, see Vassilkov 1999;
for details of how the epic replicates the cyclical structure of time, see my
discussion of Uttaṅka as the link that forges the end of the narrative with its
beginning (Adluri 2010b).
11. This has been a basic tenet of Western (and, especially, German) schol–
arship on the epic since Oldenberg and Winternitz articulated the premise that
the epic is an “ungeheuerliches Chaos” (“a monstrous chaos”; Oldenberg 1922: 1)
and a “litterarisches Unding” (“a literary nonsense”; Winternitz 1909: 272). For
a discussion of how these prejudices have shaped much Western scholarship,
see Hiltebeitel 2001: 1-31. Hiltebeitel’s entire book is, in a sense, a rejection
of these premises. See also the editors’ discussion of the Orientalist prejudice
behind Oldenberg’s and Winternitz’ criticism in the respective introductions to
Hiltebeitel 2011a and 2011b.
12. See Minkowski 1989 for a discussion of the principles behind such
embedding.
13. Hiltebeitel has drawn attention to the presence of yet another frame
situated on Mount Himavat, which he calls the Śuka-Vyāsa frame, that would
in a sense be outside of even the Naimiṣa frame (see Hiltebeitel 2004, 2005).
Hiltebeitel’s suggestion is appealing, as it could potentially allow us to draw
together the omniscient narrator who recounts Ugraśravas’ comings and goings
and the epic’s traditional author, Vyāsa, but more work needs to be done here.
For my present purpose, it suffices to note that the author Vyāsa, the narrator
Vaiśaṁpāyana, and the bard Ugraśravas are all contained within the narrative
itself, with the reader alone, represented by Gaṇeśa, outside the epic (see Adluri
2010a for a discussion of the textual issues this raises).
14. The epic uses many words for “snake,” without noticeable difference
in meaning. The term usually used for “snake” is nāga, a “serpent-demon…
supposed to have a human face with serpent-like lower extremities” (MonierWilliams, sv). Nāgas are not ordinary snakes, as they frequently exhibit
anthropomorphic features and are endowed with wondrous powers. Takṣaka,
for example, the main snake featured in the Pauṣya- and Āstīkaparvans is a skygoing snake; his son Aśvasena is said to possess the power of māyā or illusion. In
the snake underworld, Uttaṅka also encounters technological implements such
as a wheel (cakraṁ; 1.3.48) and a loom (tantre; 1.3.47, 48). Although Cozad (2004)
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and Vogel (1926) make a distinction between nāga and sarpa, in the epic, at least,
the two terms are often used interchangeably.
15. Namely, Parikṣit and Parikṣit’s son Janamejaya. Parikṣit is descended
from Arjuna via Abhimanyu.
16. Cf. Minkowski 1989: 7 and 21. According to Minkowski, the Naimiṣa
forest setting provides a “situation ne plus ultra” that overcomes the danger of
regress, but does not fully clarify how this is so. I find Brodbeck’s suggestion
that we are, in a sense, the Naimiṣeya ṛṣis more helpful, as it takes the “reader”
seriously as a component of the epic’s logic. See my Sacrificial Ontology and
Human Destiny in the Mahābhārata for a discussion of the significance of the
reader to the epic. See also Adluri 2010a on the addition of Gaṇeśa to the epic
as its first reader for some important reflections on how reader and text work
together to articulate an all-encompassing logic.
17. Things are somewhat more complex than this initial presentation suggests,
of course, as there is not just one but two Ugraśravas narrations; see below. Also see
Brodbeck 2009: 244-245 and Brodbeck’s contribution in the present volume.
18. Ugraśravas’ narration, of course, implicitly continues in the background,
as Vaiśaṁpāyana’s entire narration is being narrated by him. I thank Simon
Brodbeck for this observation.
19. Austin rightly points out that there are significant differences
between the framing structure of the beginning of the epic and its close in
the eighteenth major book (personal communication), a circumstance that
has important bearings on my thesis of the circular structure of the epic. I
would caution against expecting perfect symmetry between the Ādiparvan
and the Svargārohaṇaparvan. Austin is probably right that the Ugraśravas cycle
is not fused to its beginning as one might expect given the epic’s concern
with maintaining a cyclical narrative architecture; it is not Ugraśravas who
fuses the epic’s end to its beginning, but Uttaṅka, as I have already shown
(see Adluri 2011c). Much more work needs to be done here, especially on the
question of why the Uttaṅka cycle is already closed out in the fourteenth
major book (the Āśvamedhikaparvan) rather than waiting till the end. Austin
2009 provides a good overview of some of the kinds of questions raised by the
epic’s final major book.
20. I.e., first in relation to the reader. From a temporal perspective, however,
the outer frame is the second. I retain the convention of counting the frames
from the outside in throughout this article, in contrast to some scholars who
count outward from the central narrative. The latter more accurately represents
the temporal sequence of the two narrations, but is less evident to the reader,
How to Read the Ådiparvan
183
who encounters the beginnings in narrative rather than chronological order.
21. Credit for noticing the importance of the Naimiṣa frame must, above
all, go to Hiltebeitel (1998 and 2001).
22. A number of manuscripts explicitly attribute the narration beginning
1.1.4 to the bard, inserting sautir uvāca or sūtaḥ etc. The CE leaves the identity
of the narrator unresolved. I cannot agree with Tsuchida’s claim that “the
Āstīkaparvan in its oldest form must have begun with the introductory passage
which in the present text of the Mahābhārata occupies the initial position in
the Paulomaparvan. In other words, we should suppose that the Paulomaparvan
was not simply placed before the Āstīkaparvan, but inserted between the
introductory passage and the main portion of the Āstīkaparvan” (Tsuchida
2008: 20). If the second beginning (which Tsuchida terms U2) was indeed
the original beginning and only later extended backward to form the first
beginning (Tsuchida’s U1), there would have been no reason to retain this
original beginning (i.e., U2) nor, indeed, to highlight it in the Parvasaṁgraha
(cf. yat tu śaunakasatre te bhāratākhyānavistaram / ākhyāsye tatra paulomam
ākhyānaṁ cāditaḥ param; 1.2.29). Mehta’s suggestion of two equally original
beginnings is preferable, although Mehta then defers to a specious “historical”
justification; see Mehta 1973.
23. But Śaunaka is referred to as gṛhapati at 1.4.11. Van Buitenen translates
both as “family chieftain,” fudging the distinction; cf. also śaunakasya kulapater
at 1.1.1, which van Buitenen again renders “… family chieftain Śaunaka.”
24. lomaharṣaṇaputra ugraśravāḥ sūtaḥ paurāṇiko naimiṣāraṇye śaunakasya
kulapater dvādaśavārṣike satre; 1.1.1.
25. The Bhṛgus or the Bhārgavas are a group of brahmin seers or ṛṣis
thought by some to have been the redactors of the Mahābhārata. For the thesis
of a “Bhārgava recension,” see Sukthankar 1936-7; see also Goldman 1977;
opposed to it, see Hiltebeitel 1999; reworked in Hiltebeitel 2001: 105-118.
26. For a discussion of the ideas behind the logic of a triad of sacrifices in
the Pauṣyaparvan, see Adluri 2011c.
27. See especially Tsuchida 2008 and Oberlies 2008. For Brodbeck’s justified
critique of Tsuchida’s over-simplification of the Mahābhārata’s narrative
structure, see his entry in this volume. I discuss Oberlies’ “onion skin” model
of the epic in detail below, as it typifies the problems with so-called “texthistorical” analyses.
28. See section 8 below on the significance of the first three books and,
especially, of the third book, the Pauṣyaparvan, to the epic’s hermeneutic and
pedagogic program.
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29. manvādi bhārataṁ ke cid āstīkādi tathāpare / tathoparicarādy anye viprāḥ
samyag adhīyate; 1.1.50.
30. I.e., at 1.53.10, although there is a second description of the conclusion
of the sacrifice at 18.5.26-29.
31. Van Buitenen’s approach reflects a basic prejudice of modern scholarship
that the epic, at its core, is concerned with a historical event—the conflict
between the two rival branches of the Kuru patrilineal line (cf. van Buitenen
1973: 3)—and that philosophical and hermeneutical matter such as that
contained in the Ādiparvan, the Āraṇyakaparvan, the Bhagavadgītā, and the
Śanti- and Anuśāsanaparvans must be a “later” addition to what was originally
in essence a simple historical narrative. Van Buitenen is especially critical of
what he calls “the third perimeter,” a term that includes Ugraśravas’ narration
in the Naimiṣa forest and the run-up to Janamejaya’s snake sacrifice but not
the sarpasatra itself, to which van Buitenen is prepared to accord a qualified
historical authenticity (cf. 1973: 3).
32. I thank Joydeep Bagchee for all translations of Oberlies.
33. To further complicate matters, Oberlies footnotes this very line with
the comment “besides these, however, there must have definitely existed
others, manifestly also one that—although not exclusively was nonetheless
overwhelmingly—composed in Triṣṭubhs” (ibid., n. 41). But in that case, why
does the hint, if it “is to be understood ‘historically’,” conceal this information
from us? Does Oberlies mean this is only a partial hint? And if so, i.e., if the
“hint” conceals just as much as it divulges, why ought we take it at face value?
What evidence do we have for these other versions if this “hint” does not record
them? Does this additional evidence corroborate this hint?
34. Hiltebeitel (2001) has already shown that the epic poets make use of
“orality” as a literary trope, i.e., that the epic’s literary form is intentionally
structured so as to give the impression of being an oral epic or one with an oral
background to it. Perhaps the epic poets are being just as playful when they
allow us to discern “hints” of history in the epic. In any case, we must take these
hints with caution. If we can speak of “history” at all here, it is of the epic’s
fiction of history. It is almost as the epic, somehow anticipating 19th century
historicism, already sets up its project to defeat straightforward historicist
readings. In fact, the one “hint” the epic really does gives us is when it calls itself
itihāsapurāṇa (1.1.204). As Greg Bailey points out (personal communication),
traditional etymology derives purāṇa(va) from purā and nava (= the narrative of
the past renewing itself). The term itihāsapurāṇa would then be a designation
for the continuous transformation of history (itihāsa) into myth (purāṇa), i.e., of
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the renewal of time itself. The epic, as I have argued throughout this paper, is
aware of the irrelevance that threatens all history; through its complex narrative
strategies (framing, double beginnings, beginning at the end), it is constantly
attempting to overcome this irrelevance, and defeat historicism.
35. Brodbeck makes the point especially well in his recent book; see
Brodbeck 2011.
36. This is, of course, simply untrue, since history is equally metaphysical
in that it elevates the individual empirical object to a well-determined thing
(wohlbestimmtes Ding), which not only contains within itself the ground of all
our cognition but also more than a finite intellect can ever come to know of
it. In other words, history does not do away with transcendence; it simply
displaces the idea of transcendence into material reality. For a penetrating
analysis of the epistemological and metaphysical prejudices at the root of the
modern faith in the empirical individual, see Schmitt 2003; see also Gadamer
(2004) for an excellent overview of the rise of historicism.
37. Conflict between Arjuna’s and Takṣaka’s respective lineages is a
recurrent motif in the Ādiparvan. Arjuna, from whom Janamejaya is descended
via Parikṣit, destroys Takṣaka’s home and kills his wife, “herself a daughter
of the Snakes” (bhujagātmajā; 1.218.6). Takṣaka himself escapes because, at
the time of the burning of the Khāṇḍava forest, he was away “in the Field of
the Kurus” (kurukṣetre ’bhavat tadā; 1.218.4). His son Aśvasena also succeeds
in escaping through his terrible power of illusion (māyāṁ ... ghorāṁ; 1.218.10),
but Arjuna curses him to never find shelter (apratiṣṭho bhaved iti; 1.218.11).
The conflict between Arjuna and the snakes also recurs in the central battlebooks, specifically in the Karṇaparvan. Karṇa is said to aim a “serpent-mouthed
arrow” (sarpamukhaṁ; 8.66.5) of the line of Airāvata (airāvatavaṁśasaṁbhavaṁ;
8.66.6) at Arjuna; some mainly northern manuscripts go even further: the
snake is identified as Aśvasena, who, having escaped the destruction of the
burning Khāṇḍava forest, now enters Karṇa’s arrow seeking revenge (cf. app.
1, no. 40). On snake-related imagery in relation to Karṇa, see Hiltebeitel 2007.
38. Snake and human genealogies seem to be particularly susceptible to such
“cross-overs.” Nahuṣa, an early ancestor of the Kuru line, is cursed to become a
snake when he strikes sage Agastya either with his foot or feet (versions vary;
cf. 12.329.38; 5.17.11; and 13.103.20). Dhṛtarāṣṭra is often referred to as a snake
in the epic (cf. 1.3.142; 1.31.13; 1.52.13; 2.9.9; 4.2.14; 5.101.15; 8.24.72; 16.5.14) and
Janamejaya himself occurs once as a snake’s name in the Mahābhārata (2.9.10; cf.
also Pañcaviṁśā Brāhmaṇa, Baudhāyana Śrauta Sūtra, Baudhāyana Gṛhya Sūtra which
list Janamejaya as one of the snakes to officiate at the first sarpasatra; for the full
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citations, see Minkowski 1989). Aśvasena is also the name of one of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s
sons (1.108.9). Especially significant in this context is the close assocation
between Arjuna and the snakes: some of the most prominent snakes in the epic
(Karkoṭaka, Śeṣa, Vāsuki, and, especially noteworthy, Takṣaka; cf. 1.114.60) are
said to be in attendance at his birth; and Arjuna himself is married to a snake,
the nāgā princess Ulūpī, who drags him underwater and will not release him
until he consents to father a son on her (1.206.12-32; cf. also 1.2.91). Irāvān,
Arjuna’s son of Ulūpī, later plays a minor but crucial role in the Kurukṣetra
battle, sacrificing his life in order that his father and paternal uncles may win
the war. On Nahuṣa’s fall, see Hiltebeitel 1977.
39. “Peculiarly, Mahābhārata 1,4 begins with the same words as in 1,1. But
at Mbh 1,4 Janamejaya’s sarpasattra is not spoken of, i.e., this frame narrative
is not interwoven with the sarpasattra frame. In this second introduction, the
sages gathered at the sattra request Ugraśravas to wait until Śaunaka comes,
and to recite that which he [Śaunaka] wishes. As this one then enters (1,5.1),
he does not request Ugraśravas to recite the Mahābhārata, but he wishes
to hear the story [Geschichte; perhaps “history”?] of the Bhārgavas (1,5.3).
This then fills up the entire remaining Paulomaparvan (1,5-12). Further,
this section of the Ādiparvan has to do with the section of the Mahābhārata
(1,3 and 1,13ff.) enclosing it only insofar as in chapter 1,11 suddenly the
discussion comes to the story [Geschichte] of Janamejaya’s sarpasattra. The
link to the older Āstīkaparvan (1,13) is generated with the help of the Ruru
narrative, a very late insertion into the Mahābhārata. That is why now, as
the Mahābhārata is handed down, the narration of the snake sacrifice has
been inserted as a switch narration [Schalterzählung] into the Ruru story
[Geschichte] of the Paulomaparvan” (Oberlies 2008: 94).
40. On the absence of justification for claiming that the Pauṣyaparvan was
originally part of the Āstīkaparvan, see section 9 below.
41. I say more about the problems Oberlies is contending with in section 9
below.
42. On the concept of “neck-riddles” or “capital-riddles” (Halslösungsrätsel)
see Elias 1995; see also Meyer 1967. The neologism Hals(lösungs)erzählung appears
to be Oberlies’ invention, created in analogy to the German Halslösungsrätsel
but with an extended narration replacing the traditional riddle, Rumpelstiltskin
providing, of course, the most famous example of a Halslösungsrätsel and The
Thousand and One Nights of a Hals(lösungs)erzählung. In both cases, the objective
is the same: to save either one’s own or another’s “neck.” How exactly this
applies to Takṣaka Oberlies does not clarify. It is unlikely that he means to
How to Read the Ådiparvan
187
suggest that there is some “riddle” to be solved at the end of Āstīka’s narration
as is the case in Rumpelstiltskin, but I also doubt he means that king Janamejaya
falls in love with Āstīka as the Scheherazade parallel would suggest. Brodbeck
notes that Oberlies’ point makes sense if we accept the equation of Āstīka with
Vaiśaṁpāyana (personal communcation, see also Brodbeck 2009, esp. 173-174);
on the problems with this equation, see below.
43. Oberlies 2008: 94-95. Contrary to popular belief, snakes do possess
necks, although they are highly atrophied (the majority of a snake’s body is
comprised of an extremely extended thorax). But I take it that Oberlies does
not mean us to take the “Hals(lösungs)”-aspect literally.
44. I.e., its core “historical” narrative of the “Vasu-version.”
45. “King Vasu is present from Mbh 1,57—i.e., the immediate beginning
of the ‘Vasu version’—as a (typical) cultural founder [Kulturstifter] and the time
in which he rules as a golden age [Goldenes Zeitalter] (on this see in detail in
another passage). This will (ultimately) be the reason why this version of the
epic began with his story [Geschichte]” (Oberlies 2008: 95, n. 52).
46. Oberlies argues for the priority of the “Vasu-version” on the grounds
that “[t]his will (ultimately) be the reason why this version of the epic began
with his story [Geschichte]” (95, n. 52), but the argument is a non sequitur.
The claim is only tenable, if one already assumes in advance that every epic is
necessarily built up on or around some historical narrative, as Oberlies, in fact,
does; cf. especially the claim in Oberlies 1998 that “in the Mahābhārata—as in
so many heroic epics [Heldenepen]—historical and quasi-historical facts are
transformed through a narrative template” (139, n.51).
47. Oberlies’ reconstruction does answer some questions, in particular, the
question of how the original “historical” “Vasu-version” could give rise to the
highly mythologized and theological epic we have at present (cf. van Buitenen
on “inept mythification”; 1973: xx), but these are concerns endemic to German
Lutheranism rather than being reflective of genuine issues in the epic; see my
discussion of Oberlies’ motivations below.
48. Oberlies, in fact, concedes that the epic is carefully redacted (cf.
Oberlies 2008: 75-78), but then defers to specious text-historical justifications
for this seeming order. Here one again sees a massive historicist prejudice at
work that has so marred German epic scholarship.
49. For a useful discussion of hermeneutics in recent philosophy, see Malbon
1983. The term “hermeneutics” shares “a linguistic root with the name of the
Greek god Hermes, the messenger of the gods and the inventor or discoverer
of language and writing. The three basic meanings of hermeneuein are: (1) to
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speak (or express or say), (2) to explain (or interpret or comment upon), (3) to
translate.” The “foundational Hermes process” at work in all three cases is thus
the same: “in all three cases, something foreign, strange, separated in time,
space, or experience is made familiar, present, comprehensible; something
requiring representation, explanation, or translation is somehow ‘brought to
understanding’ is ‘interpreted’” (quoting and heavily paraphrasing Malbon 1983:
212)
50. Paraphrasing Wittgenstein, one could perhaps formulate a principle of
the form: Whereof there is no manuscript evidence, thereof one must remain
silent. In Wittgenstein’s Tractatus-Logico-Philosophicus, where the principle
originally appears (“Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent,” 7;
Ogden trans.), the principle functions to separate meaningful combinations of
signs from nonsensical combinations. In our present case, its function would
be to separate scholarship from unverifiable speculation.
51. The prejudice appears to be innate to modernity; on Annas’ criticisms
of Plato, see Annas 1981, and, for my rejoinder, see Adluri 2010c.
52. See Mehta 1973, and, more recently, Tsuchida 2008 and Oberlies 2008.
Tsuchida’s work is riddled with logical fallacies such as petitio principii, ignorantia
elenchii, and at least one ad hominem attack (cf. Tsuchida 2008: 6); I cannot discuss
Tsuchida in the present paper, but I take up Oberlies’ work, which is based
mainly on Tsuchida’s, in detail in section 9.
53. On Nīlakaṇṭha’s editorial principles, cf. Sukthankar 1933: lxv-lxx. In
Sukthankar’s words, “Nīlakaṇṭha’s guiding principle, on his admission, was
to make the Mahābhārata a thesaurus of all excellences (culled no matter from
what source” (ibid., lxvii; emphasis in original). For a useful introduction to
Nīlakaṇṭha’s work, see Minkowski 2010.
54. Sukthankar 1933: lxxxvi; emphasis in original. Even though Sukthankar
hesitates to acknowledge both beginnings as genuine, he remains true to the
principles established for the reconstruction of the CE text.
55. Ibid., v. The criterion of “appropriateness,” unfortunately admits of no
objective quantification or evaluation; as a subjective category, it has been
utterly abused in “text-historical” criticism to make the text conform to
specific ideologies or perceptions of what an ideal “Ur-Bhārata” would have
looked like.
56. Cf. Sukthankar 1933: 93. “Before loma°, K3 Ñ V1 B (except B3; B1 in
brackets) Dn3 D1.4.6 Nīlp ins. sautiruvāca (cf. Nīl. comm.); T (T2 with prefixed śrī)
G4-6 M2.4 (with prefixed śrī).5 sūtaḥ.” With the exception of Ś, manuscripts from
all major groups are present in this list.
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189
57. See Mahadevan’s contribution in this volume for evidence of the
antiquity of the text as recovered in the CE; based on the “three rails” of
criticism, Mahadevan suggests a date of 3rd to 2nd century BCE for the CE
text, putting it substantially further back than the four centuries of evidence
of the manuscripts. If the two beginnings are not original, they must have
been added prior to the date supplied by Mahadevan, and that is to say, prior
to the CE, which is to enter the realm of Austin’s hypothetical M-N text(s).
Needless to say, that puts us in the realm of unverifiable speculation, based
on nothing more than some scholars’ intuitions of some kind of original
“heroic epic” (Heldenepos), a prejudice that can be traced back to 19th century
German longings for “Āryan” or “Indo-Germanic” origins; on the origins of the
Indogermanisches Urepos hypothesis, see Vishwa Adluri & Joydeep Bagchee, The
Nay Science: A History of German Indology (n.d.).
58. By this I mean, of course, that the critic must provide manuscript
evidence, rather than speculate about a text that “could have been, should have
been.” Such speculations do extraordinary harm to the discipline of philology,
as they completely undermine all scholarly canons: it would seem that, misled
by the maxim of text-critical reconstruction brevior lectio praeferenda est (the
shortest text is to be preferred), some scholars have taken it to the extreme of
hypostatizing shorter and shorter texts to the point of volatilizing the text as we
have it entirely. Our problem, then, is not so much one of “Einschaltungen” in
the epic as the irrational “Ausschaltung” of the manuscript evidence in search
of a hypothetical “text that is no text.” Fitzgerald’s hypothesis of a “PāṇḍavaBhārata” perfectly illustrates the problems with this approach (see Fitzgerald
1983 and 2010).
59. See Hiltebeitel’s contribution in this volume.
60. I owe the idea of “reading communities” to Alf Hiltebeitel, who has
been especially instrumental in redirecting our attention to the reception of
the text among its traditional reading communities as a crucial element in
understanding the text (see Hiltebeitel 2005 and 2006; on the significance
of Hiltebeitel’s turn to a consideration of the reception of the epic, see the
respective introductions to Reading the Fifth Veda (Hiltebeitel 2011a) and When the
Goddess was a Woman (Hiltebeitel 2011b).
61. Cf. van Buitenen for the suggestion that if it “pleased” the manuscript
owner he could “insert in his loose-leaf book a couple of leaves containing a
variant version of one of those stories” “without compunction” (1973: xxix).
62. In fact, even if we were to assume a redactor as Tsuchida, Oberlies et
al. do, there is no reason why the redactor, who undertook to collate, edit,
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and unify an entire library of stories and retellings, could not have simply
eliminated one beginning. Tsuchida and Mehta both proffer putative reasons
for why he could not or did not wish to do so, but this is to enter the realm of
psychobiography. Tsuchida proceeds ex hypothesi throughout; the following
passage provides some indication of the circular and self-referential nature
of his arguments: “It goes almost without saying that these two sub-Parvans
attained their present shape only as the result of a gradual and intricate process
of enlargement. One can, nevertheless, fully grasp what the original compiler of
the prologue intended to present with his compilation. His main purpose was to
narrate Janamejaya’s celebration of the sarpasatra and other events which finally
converge on the start of Vaiśaṁpāyana’s recital of the epic. Most probably it was
this very compiler of the prologue who elaborated framework U-2 in order to
put his own genesis of the Mbh into the mouth of some authoritative narrator.
To the question of whether this compiler ever consulted any other independent
version U, now lost, or whether he simply followed the current tradition of
Ugraśravas’ narratorship of the epic and purāṇic texts one cannot give any exact
answer, though the latter supposition seems more plausible than the former. The
compilers, indeed, who laid out frameworks U-1 and U-2 must have been still
quite well-acquainted with the ancient bardic tradition. But there is no need at all
for us to think that they also belonged to the same class of sūta as Ugraśravas,
Lomaharṣaṇa and Saṃjaya. Most probably the epic texts they handled in their
compilatory activities had already been transmitted in written form. It would
thus be futile to look for any direct vestige of the oral tradition in the frameconstruction of the present Mbh” (Tsuchida 2008: 9; italics mine).
63. Text-historical “reconstructions” of the process by which the double
beginning arose are entirely conjectural and subjective. M. Biardeau has rightly
drawn attention to brahmins’ memories (Biardeau 2002, 2: 747-749). While I
cannot agree with her on the issue of orality, one must take her suggestion
seriously: it is hardly likely that brahmins capable of reciting the entire epic
from memory would not be aware of the “dissonance” among its first four
opening parvans. Nor is the stereotype of brahmins committed to an unchanging
textual corpus realistic, as Nīlakaṇṭha’s edition demonstrates. If the double
beginning was added to the text at a certain stage in the Mahābhārata’s history,
then it was as part of a highly sophisticated redactorial and hermeneutic
program—an alternative, however, I reject, as the “archetypal redactor” is
an invention of 19th century text-historicism based on models of textual
transmission and growth that are simply inadequate to the reality of the Indian
context.
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64. For a more detailed analysis of the significance of the number eighteen,
see Sarin 2004.
65. dvādaśa varṣāṇi; 1.204.8 and 1.205.30. Van Buitenen translates: “twelve
months.”
66. Oberlies 2008: 75; but see Oberlies 2005 on the issue of whether 12
months or 12 years are intended.
67. On Ruru’s doubling as a metaphor for self-reflection leading to the
arrival of being (Āstīka), see Adluri & Bagchee (n.d.).
68. On doubling as a feature of being itself, see my recent book (Adluri
2011a).
69. Austin rightly points out that many of these features could also occur
in a narrative based on linear conception of time (personal communication).
A detailed analysis of doubling as a feature of being itself would take me far
afield of the present paper (see, however, Adluri 2011a), so I will just note that
the Mahābhārata’s use of doubling is not restricted to the observation that
things recur in time but has the function of showing that the universe is a copy
without an original or, in Plato’s words, the universe is a copy of a copy. It is this
philosophical aspect to doubling that is important here.
70. I gratefully acknowledge Simon Brodbeck’s hint that the idea of
“expansion” is the epic’s own fiction; in retrospect, my previous draft (which
had the words “Acknowledging that…”) conceded too much.
71. On the problem of positing absolute origins, see section 8 below.
Every serious attempt at understanding the epic must take the hermeneutic
framework provided by the epic itself seriously; without taking seriously
indications such as the separation of being and becoming (1.1.187-190 and
1.1.191, 1.1.193-195), the separation of eonic time from the eternity of Brahman
(1.1.37-38 and 1.1.27-28), and the difficulty of making a beginning in a narrative
conception that does not allow for absolute beginnings in time, there can be
no meaningful interpretation of the epic, in spite of the masses of “critical”
scholarship produced on it.
72. Hiltebeitel 2001; see esp. the chapter “Conventions of the Naimiṣa
Forest” for its rewarding discussion of the importance of the Naimiṣa frame,
long neglected by the “analytic” school, to the epic.
73. janamejayasya rājarṣeḥ sarpasatre mahātmanaḥ / samīpe pārthivendrasya
samyak pārikṣitasya ca // kṛṣṇadvaipāyanaproktāḥ supuṇyā vividhāḥ kathāḥ /
kathitāś cāpi vidhivad yā vaiśaṁpāyanena vai; 1.1.8-9.
74. śrutvāhaṁ tā vicitrārthā mahābhāratasaṁśritāḥ; 1.1.10. There is also a
suggestion in the second beginning that Ugraśravas is not as yet fully proficient
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in the narrative: Śaunaka asks whether he has “learned” (adhīṣe; 1.5.1) whatever
had been learned long ago by his father, and seems to be testing either his
memory or his understanding at select intervals in the narrative (cf. 1.14.1-3;
1.31.1-3; 1.36.1-2). In contrast, the Naimiṣa sages treat Ugraśravas much more
deferentially, as someone well-versed in the narrative, and Ugraśravas’ response
reflects a quiet confidence (cf. “it is the delight of the learned”; 1.1.26) that is
perhaps absent in the second narration.
75. dvaipāyanena yat proktaṁ purāṇaṁ paramarṣiṇā / surair brahmarṣibhiś
caiva śrutvā yad abhipūjitam // tasyākhyānavariṣṭhasya vicitrapadaparvaṇaḥ /
sūkṣmārthanyāyayuktasya vedārthair bhūṣitasya ca // bhāratasyetihāsasya puṇyāṁ
granthārthasaṁyutām / saṁskāropagatāṁ brāhmīṁ nānāśāstropabṛṁhitām //
janamejayasya yāṁ rājño vaiśaṁpāyana uktavān / yathāvat sa ṛṣis tuṣṭyā satre
dvaipāyanājñayā // vedaiś caturbhiḥ samitāṁ vyāsasyādbhutakarmaṇaḥ / saṁhitāṁ
śrotum icchāmo dharmyāṁ pāpabhayāpahām; 1.1.15-19.
76. On the epic’s popular title as a strī-śūdra-veda or a “Veda for women
and śūdras,” I find Black’s discussion in a forthcoming article especially useful.
Black notes that “Although the Critical Edition does not contain the well known
description of the epic as a text ‘for women and śūdras’, the Mahābhārata does
seem to regard itself as delivering a universal message. In addition to the
numerous phalaśrutis throughout the text that address audiences beyond those
who are male and of the twiceborn classes, Vyāsa himself, in the Śāntiparvan,
instructs his disciples to teach his story to members of all four varṇas (12.314.45).
In light of the author’s own instruction to his students, what better way to
reach a diverse and inclusive audience than to have Brahmanical knowledge
communicated by someone of lower birth. Indeed, without making any claims
about the ‘real’ history of the text, this scenario seems to be the one that the
Mahābhārata tells about its own transmission: originating among brahmins, but
learned by sūtas such as Ugraśravas who, implicitly, share such tales and legends
with a wide audience, particularly when they frequent popular pilgrimage
sites, such as the ones Ugraśravas visited before arriving in the Naimiṣa Forest”
(Black, forthcoming: 11). On the term strī-śūdra-veda itself, Black notes that the
description “appears in the Bhāgavata Purāṇa (1.4.25), which says that Vyāsa
composed his story out of compassion for women, śūdras, and uneducated twiceborns. Nonetheless, there are a number of individual phalaśrutis throughout the
text that offer rewards for śūdras and women” (ibid., n. 16).
77. See Brodbeck 2009: 244-245, esp. n. 40. See also Brodbeck in this volume:
“there were two Naimiṣa Forest recitations: one by Ugraśravas to Śaunaka, and a
later one by Ugraśravas to the ṛṣis. This is clear when Ugraśravas, addressing the
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ṛṣis, refers to his dialogue with Śaunaka as having already happened.”
78. yat tu śaunakasatre te bhāratākhyānavistaram / ākhyāsye tatra paulomam
ākhyānaṁ cāditaḥ param; 1.2.29.
79. Cf. van Buitenen 1973: 439. “Told at Śaunaka’s session: but he is yet to do
it; below, 1.4-5; 13.”
80. A study of the terms vistareṇa and punaḥ suggest that duplications
in the narrative are due to a desire for poetic retelling rather than being
insertions of different versions of stories. Śaunaka, for example, frequently
requests longer, more detailed accounts (vistareṇa) from the bard, who then
follows up his initial narration with a longer version. The word vistaram is
used at 1.2.29 to express the relation of the sections of the text that precede
the Paulomaparvan to the Mahābhārata from this book onward. It reappears
at 1.2.126 and clarifies the entire sub-narrative of the “Rāmāyaṇa” as an
elaboration. In the Paulomaparvan, the bard provides a summary genealogy
of the Bhṛgus. Śaunaka then asks for further details of Bhṛgu’s son, Cyavana.
Ugraśravas complies and later says that he will present a full account (vistareṇa
pravakṣyāmi; 1.8.3) of all of Bhṛgu’s descendants, including Ruru. Śaunaka
later explicitly requests a fuller account of Āstīka of Ugraśravas (saute kathaya
tām etāṁ vistareṇa kathāṁ punaḥ; 1.14.1). This pattern is repeated in the
Āstīkaparvan (vistareṇa punar vada; 1.45.1 and sarvaṁ vistaratas; 1.48.3) and in
the Ādivaṁśāvataraṇaparvan (vistaraśravaṇe jātaṁ kautūhalam atīva me; 1.56.2
and sa bhavān vistareṇemāṁ punar ākhyātum arhati; 1.56.3). The next time the
word vistareṇa appears, it is within the inner narrative: Janamejaya rather than
Śaunaka addresses the dvijottama Vaiśaṁpāyana (etad icchāmy ahaṁ śrotuṁ
vistareṇa dvijottama; 1.71.2).
81. etat parvaśataṁ pūrṇaṁ vyāsenoktaṁ mahātmanā / yathāvat sūtaputreṇa
lomaharṣaṇinā punaḥ // kathitaṁ naimiṣāraṇye parvāṇy aṣṭādaśaiva tu; 1.2.70-71.
82. Brodbeck 2009: 245, n. 40.
83. “The latter/later satra is iterable because although it only happens once in
the text, it can happen each time the text is presented—be this to many listeners
of a reciter at once, or to one silent reader at once” (personal communication).
84. Without the addition of the reader, who represents consciousness and life,
the text remains dead, a corpus suitable only for autopsy (Greek autopsein = “to
see for oneself”). Approaches that seek to reduce the text to nothing more than a
corpus available for “text-historical” dissections are thus incapable of appreciating
the sublime logic of this great epic, as Sukthankar already demonstrated (see
Sukthankar 1957). Sukthankar’s On the Meaning of the Mahābhārata should be made
required reading for anyone attempting his or her hand at “Mahābhārata criticism.”
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85. This is a practice attested to in the recitation of mantras; in the Gāyatrī
mantra, for example, it is customary to recall the god (Savitṛ), then the ṛṣi or
sage to whom the mantra is traditionally attributed (Viśvamitra), and then the
meter (gāyatrī). Its occurrence here in the Anukramaṇiparvan hints at the epic’s
self-conscious understanding of itself as a mantra; on the Mahābhārata as a
mantra, see my Sacrificial Ontology and Human Destiny in the Mahābhārata.
86. niṣprabhe ’smin nirāloke sarvatas tamasāvṛte / bṛhad aṇḍam abhūd ekaṁ
prajānāṁ bījam akṣayam // yugasyādau nimittaṁ tan mahad divyaṁ pracakṣate /
yasmiṁs tac chrūyate satyaṁ jyotir brahma sanātanam; 1.1.27-28.
87. The term bhavagītā is mine. Although Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s bhavagītā precedes
the Bhagavadgītā from the perspective of textual order, from a chronological
perspective it is actually later, occurring after Bhīṣma’s fall and after the end of the
Kurukṣetra battle. Dhṛtarāṣṭra has already heard the Bhagavadgītā’s soteriological
philosophy, but appears to have gained nothing from it, as his lament and
Saṁjaya’s subsequent reprimand demonstrate.
88. kaṣṭaṁ yuddhe daśa śeṣāḥ śrutā me; trayo ’smākaṁ pāṇḍavānāṁ ca sapta /
dvyūnā viṁśatir āhatākṣauhiṇīnāṁ; tasmin saṁgrāme vigrahe kṣatriyāṇām // tamasā
tv abhyavastīrṇo moha āviśatīva mām / saṁjñāṁ nopalabhe sūta mano vihvalatīva
me; 1.1.158-159.
89. kālamūlam idaṁ sarvaṁ bhāvābhāvau sukhāsukhe // kālaḥ pacati bhūtāni
kālaḥ saṁharati prajāḥ / nirdahantaṁ prajāḥ kālaṁ kālaḥ śamayate punaḥ // kālo
vikurute bhāvān sarvām̐l loke śubhāśubhān / kālaḥ saṁkṣipate sarvāḥ prajā visṛjate
punaḥ / kālaḥ sarveṣu bhūteṣu caraty avidhṛtaḥ samaḥ // atītānāgatā bhāvā ye ca
vartanti sāṁpratamtān / kālanirmitān buddhvā na saṁjñāṁ hātum arhasi; 1.1.187-190.
90. atropaniṣadaṁ puṇyāṁ kṛṣṇadvaipāyano ‘bravīt /… bhagavān vāsudevaś
ca kīrtyate ‘tra sanātanaḥ / sa hi satyam ṛtaṁ caiva pavitraṁ puṇyam eva ca //
śāśvataṁ brahma paramaṁ dhruvaṁ jyotiḥ sanātanam / yasya divyāni karmāṇi
kathayanti manīṣiṇaḥ // asat sat sad asac caiva yasmād devāt pravartate / saṁtatiś ca
pravṛttiś ca janma mṛtyuḥ punarbhavaḥ; 1.1.191, 193-195.
91. This is not to deny the richness of the epic’s contents, but to underscore
the problem of mortality as the epic’s enduring and central concern. Austin
rightly points out that the epic is also concerned with “themes of the problem
of dharma, necessity of violence, renunciation, the divinity of Kṛṣṇa etc., none
of which can simply be reduced to the other” (personal communication). My
point, however, is not so much that there is one single problem in the epic as that
there is a basic concern with being in time expressed in the form of the question
“how now to live?” that provides the motive force for many of the issues Austin
rightly cites. Questions of dharma, of violence, renunciation, etc., only make
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sense against the background of this basic problem of being in time; which, of
course, is not to reduce them to this problem but to acknowledge the infinite
richness of the problem.
92. catvāra ekato vedā bhāratam ca ekam ekatah / samāgataih surarṣibhis tulām
āropitam purā / mahattve ca gurutve ca dhriyamāṇam tato adhikam // mahattvād
bhāravattvāc ca mahā bhāratam ucyate / niruktam asya yo veda sarva pāpaih
pramucyate; 1.1.208-209.
93. Samantapañcaka is another name for Kurukṣetra or the “Field of the
Kurus” where the battle between the Kauravas and Pāṇḍavas was fought. It
gets its name “five lakes” from the legend that Rāma Jāmadagnya filled five
lakes with the blood of the kṣatriyas. Curiously, throughout the Anukramaṇiand Parvasaṁgrahaparvans, this site is referred to by its older name rather
than as Kurukṣetra: Ugraśravas, asked to narrate his doings, recounts that
he was present at Janamejaya’s sarpasatra where Vaiśaṁpāyana recited the
Mahābhārata, after which he journeyed to Samantapañcaka (1.1.11; cf. also
1.2.1) the site of the great battle between the Kauravas and Pāṇḍavas. In fact,
the name Kurukṣetra never occurs within the Ugraśravas narration proper (i.e.,
excluding the Vaiśaṁpāyana narration, which is embedded in the Ugraśravas
narration), with the exception of the third minor book, the Pauṣyaparvan, which
is embedded between the two beginnings (1.3.1, 144, 145). It is almost as though
Ugraśravas’ narration, which is soon to explode into the massive account of the
violent conflict between the Kuru princes, is looking back more to its mythic and
sacrificial predecessor, Rāma Jāmadagnya’s slaughter of the kṣatra, than forward
to the upcoming events of the Kuru bheda narrative.
94. Credit for noticing the significance of the yuga scheme, and its relation to
the avatāra myth, must go to Biardeau (1976). See also Couture’s recent essay on
avatāra, continuing Biardeau’s excellent work, as relating to the concept of divine
“play” (Couture 2001). As though anticipating that the main weakness of Western
“critical” scholarship would turn on its inability to appreciate the centrality the
Mahābhārata as divine play, see Sukthankar (1957: 25): “How could European
savants, lacking as they do in their intellectual make-up the millenia old background of Indian culture, ever hope to penetrate this inscrutable mask of the
Unknowable pulling faces at them, befooling them and enjoying their antics?”
95. purāṇam akhilaṁ tāta pitā te ’dhītavān purā / kaccit tvam api tat sarvam
adhīṣe lomaharṣaṇe // purāṇe hi kathā divyā ādivaṁśāś ca dhīmatām / kathyante
tāḥ purāsmābhiḥ śrutāḥ pūrvaṁ pitus tava // tatra vaṁśam ahaṁ pūrvaṁ śrotum
icchāmi bhārgavam / kathayasva kathām etāṁ kalyāḥ sma śravaṇe tava; 1.5.1-3.
96. yad adhītaṁ purā samyag dvijaśreṣṭha mahātmabhiḥ / vaiśaṁpāyanaviprādyais
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taiś cāpi kathitaṁ purā // yad adhītaṁ ca pitrā me samyak caiva tato mayā; 1.5.4-5.
97. Cyavana means “moving, the being deprived of, falling from any divine
existence for being re-born as a man” (Monier-Williams, sv). It derives from
√cyu which means “to come forth from, to drop from, to fall down, to die, to
be deprived of, to perish” (Monier-Williams, sv). The Mahābhārata itself high–
lights this etymology in elucidating Cyavana’s name: “And the child she bore
alive in her womb, O descendant of the Bhṛgus, angrily fell [cyutaḥ] from his
mother’s womb and thus became known as Cyavana” (tataḥ sa garbho nivasan
kukṣau bhṛgukulodvaha / roṣān mātuś cyutaḥ kukṣeś cyavanas tena so ’bhavat; 1.6.2).
Etymologies are a crucial element in understanding the epic, as Śaunaka’s
question to the bard in the Āstīkāparvan demonstrates. Śaunaka asks the bard:
“This I wish to hear. Pray tell me the etymology of jaratkāru.” When the bard
resolves the word into jarā and kāru and interprets the word as “monstrous
destruction” (cf. jaratkāru niruktam tvam yathāvad vaktum arhasi // jarā iti kṣayam
āhur vai dāruṇam kāru samjnitam; 1.36.2-3), demonstrating that he has grasped
the soteriological ontology implicit in the Jaratkāru narrative, Śaunaka laughs
out loud and says “That fits!” (upapannam iti; 1.36.5). One must read this
passage in the full light of a previous occurrence of etymology in the text, in
which the word “Mahābhārata” is etymologically related to salvation: “Once
the divine seers foregathered, and on one scale they hung the four Vedas in
the balance, and on the other scale The Bhārata; and both in size and weight
it was the heavier. Therefore, because of its size and weight, it is called The
Mahābhārata—he who knows this etymology is freed from all sins” (catvāra
ekato vedā bhāratam ca ekam ekatah / samāgataih surarṣibhis tulām āropitam purā
/ mahattve ca gurutve ca dhriyamāṇam tato adhikam // mahattvād bhāravattvāc ca
mahā bhāratam ucyate / niruktam asya yo veda sarva pāpaih pramucyate; 1.1.208-209).
For a fuller discussion of how the etymologies of the names in the Paulomaparvan
encode a philosophical message, see Adluri & Bagchee (n.d.). I thank Christopher
Austin for pointing out that tying playful etymologies to salvation is routine
procedure in the Brāhmaṇas (personal communication).
98. For an analysis of the Ruru narrative, especially in its soteriological
aspect, see Adluri & Bagchee (n.d.).
99. asty eṣa garbhaḥ subhage tava; 1.43.38,
100. astīty uktvā gato yasmāt pitā garbhastham eva tam / vanaṁ tasmād idaṁ
tasya nāmāstīketi viśrutam; 1.44.20. I thank Gregory Bailey for this translation
(personal communication).
101. I discuss both these narratives in greater depth in my Sacrificial Ontology
and Human Destiny in the Mahābhārata.
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102. For a discussion of the significance of Āstīka, who represents the
soteriological power of being that is born through hermeneutics, see n. 119
below. Āstīka is key to understanding why the first narration concludes with
the Āstīkaparvan and a new beginning is made from 1.57 onward, i.e., in the
Ādivaṁśāvataraṇaparvan. For a more detailed discussion of how the epic’s
opening books articulate a comprehensive soteriological program, see my
Sacrificial Ontology and Human Destiny in the Mahābhārata.
103. By “becoming,” I understand the experience of change in its twofold
aspect of coming-to-be (Greek genēsis) and perishing (phthora). I use the
overarching term “becoming” to convey the sense of a range of terms such
as bhavābhavau (becoming, literally “being—non-being”), vṛtti (disturbance),
saṁsāra (eternal recurrence), jayājayau (victory and defeat), lābhālābhau (gain
and loss) and sukhaduḥkha (pleasure and pain). I translate these with the
term “becoming.” The epic also often uses the word kāla (time) in place of
bhavābhavau; in these cases as well, I translate with “becoming.” For references
to bhavābhavau, see 3.148.9 (in relation to the yugas and the puruṣārthas), 3.279.10
(in relation to pleasure and pain), 5.36.45 and 12.26.31 (on self-control and
salvation), 5.39.1 (in relation to finitude and fate); see also 12.137.51, 12.221.94
and 12.233.11.
104. For a discussion of the four “genera of becoming” (sacrifice, cosmology,
genealogy, and war or agōn), see my Sacrificial Ontology and Human Destiny in the
Mahābhārata. The four genera are crucial to understanding the Mahābhārata
as the entire epic is articulated in terms of these four genera. The four genera
are also key to understanding the epic’s dual claim to being both an itihāsa (cf.
itihāsam; 1.1.24, 52, 204) and a Veda (cf. kārṣṇaṁ vedam; 1.1.205) as they provide a
way of speaking about “becoming” without reifying it, as is the case in history.
105. The obsession with a historical kingdom has been a characteristic
feature of German epic scholarship since C. Lassen (1837) who sought to
reconstruct Indian ethnology and prehistory on the basis of the epic, the
Kauravas and Pāṇḍavas being identified with “white Aryans [weisse Arier]” and
“black aborigines [schwarzen Urbewohner]” respectively and the epic as a whole
being interpreted as the record of a historical conflict for white supremacy.
Lassen’s racial hypothesis lays the fundament for over two centuries of German
epic studies, beginning with Holtzmann, Sr. (1854), author of the infamous
“inversion hypothesis,” according to which the Kauravas were the heroes
of the “original” epic and were later denigrated by scurrilous “Brahmanic”
redactors. Goldstücker (1879) sought to anchor Holtzmann’s thesis in the text
by distinguishing a Bhārata of 24,000 verses from the Mahābhārata of 100,000
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verses. Wecker (1888) continues this strain of “Indo-Germanic” thinking by
setting up explicit comparisons between the Mahābhārata and the Nibelungenlied
(Dhritaraschtra = Armenrich, Bhischma = Rüdiger, Karna = Siegferd, Arjuna
= Iring, Krischna Kesava and Krischna Draupadi = Kriemhilde, etc.). Finally,
Holtzmann, Jr. (1892) saw in the epic evidence of a “Brahmanic CounterReformation [Gegenreformation]” against a supposed Buddhist Enlightenment,
explicitly describing Aśoka as a mixture of Frederick the Great and Lessing! The
obsession with projecting Lutheran-Protestant values onto Buddhism continues
in some more recent literature; a case in point being Bronkhorst 2011.
106. Not shown on this chart is the shared opening line—lomaharṣaṇaputra
ugraśravāḥ sūtaḥ paurāṇiko naimiṣāraṇye śaunakasya kulapater dvādaśavārṣike satre
(1.1.1 and 1.4.1)—which holds the two beginnings together.
107. The imagery is Vedic, but I argue one can find similar descriptions in
the epic as well; most notably, in the description of the churning of the ocean
(1.16.1-40).
108. For raṇayajña, see 2.20.15 (svargaṁ hy eva samāsthāya raṇayajñeṣu
dīkṣitāḥ / yajante kṣatriyā lokāṁs tad viddhi magadhādhipa), 5.57.12 (ahaṁ
ca tāta karṇaś ca raṇayajñaṁ vitatya vai / yudhiṣṭhiraṁ paśuṁ kṛtvā dīkṣitau
bharatarṣabha), 5.154.4 (raṇayajñe pratibhaye svābhīle lomaharṣaṇe / dīkṣitaṁ
cirarātrāya śrutvā rājā yudhiṣṭhiraḥ), 9.59.25 (yuddhadīkṣāṁ praviśyājau
raṇayajñaṁ vitatya ca / hutvātmānam amitrāgnau prāpa cāvabhṛthaṁ yaśaḥ).
109. Sacrificial remainders can be of multiple kinds, as I have already argued
in my book Sacrificial Ontology and Human Destiny in the Mahābhārata. Parikṣit is
the “genealogical remainder,” but there is also a “textual remainder,” namely, the
Mahābhārata itself, which survives the previous cosmological cycle (dvāpara yuga)
to enter the next (kali yuga).
110. Cf. Bhagavadgītā 3.13. yajñaśiṣṭāśinaḥ santo mucyante sarvakilbiṣaiḥ /
bhuñjate te tv aghaṁ pāpā ye pacanty ātmakāraṇāt //
111. Of course, immortality is of two types: the limited immortality offered
by historical fame and the transcendence of being. Janamejaya, I argue, attains
the higher immortality of being through the sarpasatra. For an articulation of my
thesis of “double transcendence” in Plato, see Adluri 2011d.
112. Oldenberg does not tell us which verse except to note that it is from
the Atharvaveda: “A royal father and a royal son, both surrounded by great
splendor. The poet of a poem preserved in the Atharvaveda tells us where they
ruled: over the Kurus, precisely the tribe that stands in the center of the later
Vedic period and the Mahābhārata” (Oldenberg 1922: 8).
113. On Āstīka as being, see my comments below.
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114. “Original,” of course, not in the sense of being temporally prior, but
in the sense of having a logical and hermeneutic priority over the other
beginnings. As Heidegger emphasizes over and over, human existence always
already finds itself within a certain hermeneutic situation, a “state of having
been interpreted” (Ausgelegtheit) that is the condition of its being able to carry
out an explicit inquiry or discussion. It is in this sense that the Pauṣya narrative
has a certain priority over the others: as the hermeneutic beginning it refers
to the fact that we always already find ourself within a certain situation of
interpretation and understanding that first enables explicit reflection on origins
or causes, such as the reflection on cosmological or genealogical beginnings
found in the Anukramṇiparvan and the Paulomaparvan respectively. For a concise
treatment of the concept of the “hermeneutic situation,” see now Heidegger
2005 (Anhang III).
115. The exceptions are Upamanyu’s verses in praise of the Aśvins (1.3.6070), Uttaṅka’s verses in praise of the snakes (1.3.38-46), Uttaṅka’s verse in
praise of the wondrous sights he sees in the underworld (1.3.150-153), and king
Janamejaya’s response to Uttaṅka (1.3.183-184).
116. yat tu śaunakasatre te bhāratākhyānavistaram / ākhyāsye tatra paulomam
ākhyānaṁ cāditaḥ param; 1.2.29.
117. janamejayaḥ pārikṣitaḥ saha bhrātṛbhiḥ kurukṣetre dīrghasatram upāste /
tasya bhrātaras trayaḥ śrutasena ugraseno bhīmasena iti; 1.3.1
118. On initiatory motifs in the Pauṣyaparvan, see Adluri 2010a; on sacrificial
and pedagogic aspects, see Adluri 2011c.
119. As Janamejaya’s snake sacrifice unfolds, Āstīka arrives at the sacrificial
grounds and praises the king. The king offers him a boon and the brahmin asks
that the sacrifice be stopped. The king implores him to ask for any other boon,
but not to demand the sacrifice’s interruption. Takṣaka, the intended victim
of the sacrifice, has begun his downward fall out of the sky into the sacrificial
fire, when Āstīka says to him three times “Stay! Stay!” (tiṣṭha tiṣṭheti; 1.53.5) and
arrests the frightened snake’s fall. The king then assents to Āstīka’s wish and
ends the sacrifice.
120. On the Ṛgvedic background to the Mahābhārata, see Feller 2004. Feller
demonstrates that the Pauṣyaparvan is especially rich in Ṛgvedic resonances,
but does not discuss the Saramā myth. See also Adluri 2009.
121. Cf. Bloomfield 1896: 425; Hopkins 1908: 505; Srinivasan 1973: 45.
122. ṚV 10.108.7 identifies this wealth as gó, aśva, vásu (7.90 adds híraṇya
to the list). However, cows and horses seem to be metaphorically identified
with the dawn in this hymn, and the entire myth seems to be an aetiological
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description of the nightly disappearance of the sun and its reappearance
with the rays of the dawn. For horses see Macdonell 1897: 31, 47. For cows see
Srinivasan 1973: 53-4. Srinivasan notes: “It is well known that terms meaning
‘cow’ may be used metaphorically for ‘rays of light, rays of dawn, dawns.’ The
Indian lexical material is the earliest source to direct our attention to this
figure of speech. Nighaṇṭu 1.5 lists gāvaḥ and usrāḥ as raśmi terms, and, Nirukta
2.6 reiterates this: sarve ‘pi raśmayo gāva ucyante. In a list of animals associated
with different gods in the capacity of vahanas, Nighaṇṭu 1.15 mentions aruṇyo
gāva uṣasām.” Srinivasan continues: “How do we know that the Paṇis withhold
the rays of the Dawn? The frequent use of usrā and usriyā in this context is our
first indication. Both terms are derivatives of vas ‘to shine’… In the myth of
the Paṇis, usríyā = the cow as ‘light’ (e.g. 7.57.7; 7.81.2) as well as the oblationgiving cow (4.50.5)” (ibid.).
123. Although the Paṇis are identified as dásyus, suggesting a netherworld
home, the myth does not explicitly support this interpretation. However,
scholars (e.g., Srinivasan) have attempted to locate the Paṇis’ home “in the
western region of a lower world,” a description that would also accord with the
experience of the sun’s passage across the sky and nightly setting in the west.
124. Indra cuts through the enclosure (valá; 10.67.6) where the cows have
been hidden; he makes a path to drive out the cows (3.30.10; cf. also 2.14.3).
Other passages, however, refer to Bṛhaspati, the Aṅgirases, the Navagvas and
Daśagvas, as well as other priests in this context. On the identity of the Paṇis’
foes, see Srinivasan 1973: 49-52.
125. “Throughout the Rigveda and Brāhmaṇas the dog and Agni are both
regarded as messengers of the gods. As Sāramēya, the Greek Hermes, he is
both messenger and watch-dog, and both chronologically and mythologically
he and Sarama, the dawn, stand, as Max Müller says, ‘on the threshold that
separates the gods of light from the gods of darkness’” (Hewitt 1890: 441-2).
126. “In the Vedic religion a dog was sent by Yama to accompany the soul
on its journey after death and two four-eyed dogs guard the road that leads
to the abode of Yama. And the dogs of Yama were called Sarameyas, which
in Greek form, according to Dr. Kuhn, became Hermeias or Hermes, death’s
messenger, who was an infernal god, and conducted souls in their exit”
(Woolsey 1993: 219).
127. West notes the connection between the Greek god Pan and the
Vedic god Pūṣan as well as Pan and Hermes. Interestingly, the same complex
of associations (cattle, conducting the souls into the netherworld, making
things visible, guiding) applies to all three gods as well as to Saramā. “Some of
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Pūṣan’s functions parallel those for which Hermes is noted rather than Pan.
Hermes too is a good lookout…, a god of roads… and a guardian of flocks and
herds. As [psuchopompos] he guides the dead on the path that they must go,
and similarly Pūṣan conducts the dead to join their ancestors (RV 10. 17. 3-6;
AV 18. 2. 53-55, cf. 16. 9. 2)… With his knowledge of ways and byways, Hermes
can spirit away cattle or other property; he is the patron god of the sneakthief. But by the same token he is good at finding things that are hidden, he
knows where animals have strayed, and he gets the credit if someone makes a
lucky discovery…As [mastérios] (Aesch. Supp. 920) he helps people track down
their stolen property. Pūṣan for his part is the patron of professional trackers,
and can bring lost, hidden, or stolen goods to light [RV 1. 23. 13; 6. 48. 15, 54.
1-2, 8, 10; AV 7. 9. 4], and the same can be said of Hermes. So the Arcadian
Pan and the Panhellenic Hermes overlap, and both have many features in
common with Pūṣan. Pan was held to be Hermes’ son. It seems likely that
originally they were the same” (2007: 282-3). West’s suggestion is especially
significant given that Śaunaka, the interlocutor of the Mahābhārata, adopted
a Bhāradvāja, seers who were especially known for their worship of Pūṣan (cf.
Sarmah 1991: 197).
128. See also Kramrisch 1975: 236. “Although not definitely proved, her
name seems to derive from sar, to speed.”
129. … yat kiṁ cid asmadgṛhe parihīyate tad icchāmy aham aparihīṇaṁ bhavatā
kriyamāṇam iti; 1.3.86.
130. Ugraśravas and Uttaṅka thus respectively embody the double function
of redactorial activity: 1. Preserving and transmitting the text. 2. Explaining
the text. The Mahābhārata itself notes these dual functions: “Having expiated
upon this great erudition, the seer thereupon made a summary thereof;
for the wise wish to retain it for this world, in its parts and its entirety.
There are brahmins who learn The Bhārata from Manu onward, others again
from the tale of The Book of Āstīka onward, others again from The Tale of
Uparicara onward. Learned men elucidate the complex erudition in this Grand
Collection; there are those who are experienced in explaining it, others
in retaining it” (vistīryaitan mahaj jñānam ṛṣiḥ saṁkṣepam abravīt / iṣṭaṁ hi
viduṣāṁ loke samāsavyāsadhāraṇam // manvādi bhārataṁ ke cid āstīkādi tathāpare /
tathoparicarādy anye viprāḥ samyag adhīyate // vividhaṁ saṁhitājñānaṁ dīpayanti
manīṣiṇaḥ / vyākhyātuṁ kuśalāḥ ke cid granthaṁ dhārayituṁ pare; 1.1.49-51).
131. tad anujāne bhavantam / sarvām eva siddhiṁ prāpsyasi; 1.3.92.
132. The link between earrings and hearing (śravanam) is suggestive. Fur–
ther, we may recall that the primary Indian characterization of scriptural or
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authoritative texts is śruti (lit. “that which is heard”), suggesting that Uttaṅka’s
quest is symbolic of the recovery of sacred meaning or insight. There is another
aspect to the story that strengthens the association of earrings with śruti. Staal
notes that the “Vedic text, the Aitareya Āraṇyaka (5.5.3) states that a pupil
should not recite the Veda after he has eaten meat, seen blood or a dead boy, had
intercourse or engaged in writing” (1979: 122-3). In the Uttaṅka narrative, Uttaṅka
is unable to see Pauṣya’s wife because he has eaten food previously and is therefore
in a state of pollution. Besides relating the earrings to śruti, there are other
alternatives: one is to look at the story of Karṇa’s earrings, but that is another story.
133. bhakṣayasvottaṅka / mā vicāraya / upādhyāyenāpi te bhakṣitaṁ pūrvam iti;
1.3.104.
134. Snakes in the Mahābhārata are a symbol of hermeneutics: 1. The image
of a snake looping back on itself, although not explicitly provided by the epic but
familiar from Gnostic imagery, provides the most impressive description of the
text’s self-reflexive character. 2. The snake cycle in the Mahābhārata functions as
a hermeneutic laid over the core narrative. Understanding the fate of the snakes
lets us understand the fate of the Kuru dynasty. The snake genocide is a foil for
the upcoming human genocide that reveals its underlying logic: although most
of the snakes are destroyed, a remnant escapes: Takṣaka, who is the sacrificial
remainder. 3. The snake realm is the realm of hermeneutics where the inner
workings of the universe (fate, time, space and destiny) become visible. This
realm requires interpretation in order for its real meaning to become visible.
Interestingly, Nāgārjuna, a Buddhist from South India born into a brahmin
family, is said to have descended into the snake netherworld to obtain The
Hundred Thousand Verse Prajñāpāramitā Sūtra, following which he acquired the
name Nāgārjuna. The repetition of a descent into the snake realm in pursuit of
wisdom is worth noting, as is the fact that the Mahābhārata is also traditionally
said to be comprised of 100,000 verses.
135. nāgā me vaśam īyur iti; 1.3.155.
136. tad icchāmi bhavatopadiṣṭaṁ kiṁ tad iti; 1.3.171.
137. The great sarpasatra is thus not an actual sacrifice of snakes, but nor is it
a parable for the defeat of snake-worshipping peoples (see Cozad 2004, Kosambi
1964, Pargiter 1913). Instead, it should be read as a parable for interpretation,
through which activity the soteriological power of being becomes manifest.
It replicates the Kurukṣetra battle at a meta-textual level, allowing us to
understand the cosmological and eschatological significance of this battle.
138. Not shown on this chart is the shared opening line—lomaharṣaṇaputra
ugraśravāḥ sūtaḥ paurāṇiko naimiṣāraṇye śaunakasya kulapater dvādaśavārṣike satre
How to Read the Ådiparvan
203
(1.1.1 and 1.4.1)—which holds the two beginnings together, or the fact that
the Uttaṅka narrative connects the epic’s hermeneutic “beginning” with its
end through his two biographies, one in the Pauṣyaparvan and the other in the
Āśvamedhikaparvan; for a fuller discussion see Adluri 2011c. The epic is thus
not as open-jawed as in this schematic presentation: it is circular, with its end
forged to its beginning, as shown in the next chart.
139. Cf. Garuḍa’s theft of the somā, which he “envelope[s] … without
drinking it” (apītvaivāmṛtaṁ pakṣī parigṛhyāśu vīryavān; 1.29.11). The basic idea
is the same: the hermeneutic key to the text, the secret of immortality, is
contained in the text’s “mouth.” The fact that Garuḍa rejects amṛta and asks
that the snakes be his food instead is also suggestive. Cf. now my comments on
Janamejaya above.
140. Cf. 1.1.48. “… everything has been entered here, and this describes this
Book” (iha sarvam anukrāntam uktaṁ granthasya lakṣaṇam).
141. manvādi bhārataṁ ke cid āstīkādi tathāpare / tathoparicarādy anye viprāḥ
samyag adhīyate; 1.1.50.
142. vividhaṁ saṁhitājñānaṁ dīpayanti manīṣiṇaḥ / vyākhyātuṁ kuśalāḥ ke cid
granthaṁ dhārayituṁ pare; 1.1.51.
143. Obviously, by “philology” I do not mean what is understood as
“scientific” or “critical” philology. Contemporary philology is as far-removed
from the meaning of this word as it is from the genuine smārta tradition; on
the meaning of philologia (“love of the logos”) and its essential connection with
philanthrōpia (“love of humanity”), see Plato’s Phaedo 89d-e. Plato, who is the first
to use the term philologia, links philologia to the argument for the immortality of
the soul and sets apart the philologos (“the lover of speech,” of which Socrates is,
of course, the paradigmatic example for Plato) from the misologos (“the hater of
discourse”) who is characterized by misanthrōpia.
144. “Die Kapitel 1,4 bis 1,12 sind ein Einschub in eine bestehende textliche
Umgebung.”
145. “The snake king Takṣaka sways in the highest danger, and in order
to save his ‘neck’, Āstīka narrates a story—the Mahābhārata—until the lifethreatening danger for Takṣaka is past.” Ibid., 94-95.
146. I have focused here on the main elements of Oberlies’ reconstruction,
but his actual scheme is far more complex. I provide an overview of his complete
thesis in the appendix.
147. I.e., at Mahābhārata 1.1.67-94, 1.1.95-159, 1.2.34-69, and 1.2.71-234.
148. The Mahābhārata is, as Biardeau so elegantly puts it, “le monument
principal, et sans doute le plus ancien, de la bhakti” (1981: 78, n. 1.), and it
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Journal of Vaishnava Studies
therefore must be read, as I have argued in this paper, in the context this selfunderstanding rather than being forced to conform to arbitrary and extraneous
models.
149. I have in mind especially Oberlies’ reliance on Tsuchida, even though
the latter’s work is riddled with logical flaws (including an aad hominem attack
against Mehta). In many ways, it would have been preferable if Oberlies had
cited his own work, or attempted to arrive independently at the case he wants to
argue rather than deferring to Tsuchida; cf. Oberlies 2008. For earlier criticisms
of Oberlies’ citational praxis, see Grünendahl 2002.
150. See Hopkins, Fitzgerald, and other defenders of the oral composition
hypothesis.
151. For a discussion of Lassen and Goldstücker, see the editors’ introduction
to Hiltebeitel 2011b: x, n. 15, see also xxvii, n. 72.
152. The thesis is hardly new as it was first advanced by Lassen in 1867,
followed by Goldstücker in 1879, Holtzmann in 1892, and made into a cottage
industry by Hopkins (1899 and 1906). It has continued since then in some form
or another as a fundament of Germanophonic epic scholarship.
153. dharme cārthe ca kāme ca mokṣe ca bharatarṣabha / yad ihāsti tad anyatra
yan nehāsti na tat kva cit //
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