तस्य सञ्जनयन्हर्षं कुरुवृद्ध: पितामह: |
सिंहनादं विनद्योच्चै: शङ्खं दध्मौ प्रतापवान् || 12||
tasya sañjanayan harṣhaṁ kuru-vṛiddhaḥ pitāmahaḥ
siṁha-nādaṁ vinadyochchaiḥ śhaṅkhaṁ dadhmau pratāpavān
tasya—his; sañjanayan—causing; harṣham—joy; kuru-vṛiddhaḥ—the grand old man of the Kuru dynasty (Bheeshma); pitāmahaḥ—grandfather; sinha-nādam—lion’s roar; vinadya—sounding; uchchaiḥ—very loudly; śhaṅkham—conch shell; dadhmau—blew; pratāpa-vān—the glorious
Translation:
Bhishma the grandsire, the glorious, the oldest of the Kurus, gave forth a lion-roar and blew his conch, causing joy to Duryodhana
After Duryodhana praised the principal warriors of his army, especially his Chief Commander Bhishma, Sanjaya continues to describe the events on the battlefield.
The grand old man of the Kaurava race, their glorious grand-patriarch Bhishma, cheered up Duryodhana, roared loudly like a lion, and blew his conch.
Next to Bahlika, Bhishma was the oldest member of the Kaurava race. He had the same degree of relationship with both the Kauravas and the Pandavas, as he was the grand-uncle of both. This made him an object of reverence to both sides, which is why Sanjaya called him “the grand old man” of the Kauravas and their grand-uncle. Although he was advanced in age, Bhishma excelled even the foremost younger heroes in energy, strength, fitness, and heroism, earning him the description of “glorious.”
The grand old warrior noticed Duryodhana standing near Dronacharya, somewhat startled and anxious at the sight of the Pandava array. Bhishma saw that Duryodhana, despite his anxiety, had been praising the Kaurava army to encourage the fighters and had been urging Drona and the other Maharathis to protect Bhishma. To reassure Duryodhana of his own great prowess, to delight Duryodhana’s heart, and to proclaim the commencement of the fight as Chief Commander, Bhishma roared loudly like a lion and blew his conch with great force.
Following the example of Bhishma, other heroes blew the conches, and drums, trumpets, and horns were sounded.
तत: शङ्खाश्च भेर्यश्च पणवानकगोमुखा: |
सहसैवाभ्यहन्यन्त स शब्दस्तुमुलोऽभवत् || 13||
tataḥ śhaṅkhāśhcha bheryaśhcha paṇavānaka-gomukhāḥ
sahasaivābhyahanyanta sa śhabdastumulo ’bhavat
tataḥ—thereafter; śhaṅkhāḥ—conches; cha—and; bheryaḥ—bugles; cha—and; paṇava-ānaka—drums and kettledrums; go-mukhāḥ—trumpets; sahasā—suddenly; eva—indeed; abhyahanyanta—blared forth; saḥ—that; śhabdaḥ—sound; tumulaḥ—overwhelming; abhavat—was
Translation:
Then, conches, kettledrums, tabors, drums, and trumpets all at once blared forth, creating a tumultuous noise.
When Bhishma roared like a lion and blew his conch, announcing the commencement of the battle, all the regions were filled with hope and encouragement. Suddenly, in all sections of the army, conches, trumpets, and other instruments of martial music, belonging to different commanders, were sounded. The simultaneous sounding of these instruments produced a terrible noise that echoed and re-echoed throughout the entire sky.
There is the will of the unknown, and there is the will of the person. There is a conflict between the two. How can a person know what is the will or desire of the unknown? A person is never able to know. If a person leaves himself, erases himself, then he knows immediately; he becomes one with the unknown. A drop cannot know what the ocean is until the drop is lost in the ocean. A person cannot know what the will of God is. As long as a person has made himself a person, he cannot know. If a person loses himself, then only the will of God remains because no desire of the person is left. Then the question of knowing does not arise. Then the person lives the way the unknown makes him live. Then there remains no aspiration of the individual, no desire for results, no tendency of the individual to impose oneself on the aspiration of the whole, because the individual does not remain.
As long as the individual exists, it is not possible to know what the unknown wants. And when the individual does not exist, there is no need to know; whatever happens is caused by the unknown. Then the individual becomes an instrument, a mere means. Krishna explains this to Arjuna throughout the Gita—that he should surrender himself to the unknown. Because those whom Arjuna thinks will die have already been killed by the unknown. If he saves himself, he will be responsible. If he can fight as a means, as a witness, leaving himself behind, then he has no responsibility.
If a person loses himself in the whole, surrenders himself, leaves the ego, then only the will of Brahman comes true. Even now, it is coming true. It is not that we will get a different result. But in getting a different result, we will fight, break, and get destroyed. I have been telling a small story continuously. I have been saying that there is a huge flood in a river and two small straws are floating in that river. One straw has got stuck in the river and is trying to stop the flood of the river. And he is shouting loudly that he will not let the river rise, although the river is rising. He is shouting that he will stop it, although he is not able to stop it. He is shouting that he will stop the river in any case, whether he lives or dies! But he is flowing away. The river neither hears his voice nor is aware of his struggle. A small straw! The river has no idea about him. The river does not care. But the straw is very much affected. His life has gotten into big trouble; he is flowing away. If he does not fight, he will reach wherever he wants, even after fighting. But this moment in between, this time in between, will become a time of sorrow, pain, conflict, and worry.
Another straw has left itself in his neighborhood. He is not lying across the river; he is lying straight, in the direction in which the river is flowing, and he is thinking that he is helping the river to flow. The river is not even aware of this. He is thinking that he will take the river to the ocean; if it is with him, it will reach there. The river is not even aware of his help.
It does not matter to the river, but it matters a lot to those two straws. The one who is carrying the river along is in great joy; he is dancing in great happiness; and the one who is fighting with the river is in great pain. His dance is not a dance; it is a nightmare. His dance is the breaking of his limbs; he is in pain, he is losing. And the one who is carrying the river along is winning. A person is never able to do anything except the will of Brahman, but he can fight, he has so much freedom. And by fighting, he can make himself worried, he has so much freedom.
There is a saying of Sartre, which is very valuable: humanity is condemned to be free—man is forced to be free; compelled, condemned to be free. But man can make two uses of his freedom. He can make his freedom a struggle with the will of Brahman, and then his life will be a life of sorrow, pain, and anguish. And ultimately, defeat will be the result. A person can also make his freedom a surrender to Brahman; then life will be a life of joy, bliss, dance, and song. And the end? In the end, there is no other way except victory. The straw that thinks it is supporting the river is bound to be victorious. There is no way for it to lose. And the one who is stopping the river is bound to lose; there is no way for it to win.
The will of Brahman cannot be known, but one can become one with Brahman. Then, one’s own will is lost, and only His will remains.