Bharata Paryatanam

 A JOURNEY THROUGH THE MAHABHARATA

“Bharata Paryatanam” (A Journey through Bharata) by Kuttikrishna Marar, the eminent Malayalam critic and writer, is a literary classic. Marar’s erudition, analytical power, and fearless questioning mind make this intellectual journey through the Mahabharata both exhilarating and enlightening. This year marks the 125th birth anniversary of this towering literary figure.

The Mahabharata: An Enduring Epic

The Ramayana and the Mahabharata, the two great Indian epics, have profoundly shaped the social, cultural, and spiritual life of the subcontinent. While the Ramayana narrates the story of Rama, the ideal man, and explores individual virtue and suffering, the Mahabharata revolves around the Kurukshetra war between two branches of the Kuru dynasty, probing the moral complexities of duty, righteousness, and the consequences of human action.

The Mahabharata also contains the Bhagavad Gita— “The Song Divine”—one of the world’s most influential spiritual texts. Despite their differences, both epics offer timeless reflections on morality, spirituality, and the eternal struggle between right and wrong.

The Mahabharata began as an oral narrative around the 8th or 9th century BCE and reached its written form by about the 4th century CE. It has aptly been described as an “inexhaustible mine”: “What is found here may be found elsewhere; what is not here exists nowhere else.” Few works in world literature have been so widely discussed, interpreted, and reinterpreted, continually yielding fresh insights into human nature.

My Mahabharata Connection

In our home, the Ramayana occupied a place of honour in the puja (prayer) room. My mother read it devotedly, especially during the Ramayana month of Karkidakam (the monsoon season). Like many families, we did not keep a copy of the Mahabharata, perhaps because it dealt with complex and darker aspects of human nature, which elders felt might influence young minds.

Yet, the Mahabharata reached us in many forms—folk tales, stories narrated by elders, school lessons, books, journals, comics, poetry, Kathakali, dance-dramas, plays, films, and television serials. I vividly recall how, when the Ramayana and subsequently the Mahabharata were televised on Doordarshan, India virtually came to a standstill every Sunday morning.

My first reading of the Mahabharata was the English abridgement by C. Rajagopalachari, published by Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan in 1951. Later, I read Jaya: An Illustrated Retelling of the Mahabharata by Devdutt Pattanaik. I still hope to read the poetic retelling by Romesh Chunder Dutt, the acclaimed translator of both the epics.

When I was in college, Kuttikrishna Marar was already a celebrated and controversial figure in Malayalam letters. His Bharataparyatanam, published in 1948 (though often cited as 1950), had sparked intense debate. Only much later, after my professional years, did I finally read it—and was struck by its depth and originality.

The Life of Kuttikrishna Marar

Kuttikrishna Marar was born on 15 June 1900 at Triprangode near Tirur in present-day Malappuram district, Kerala. Alongside learning percussion—his family’s traditional art—he studied Sanskrit from an early age. He later graduated from the Government Sanskrit College, Pattambi, earning the Sahityashiromani title.

Marar began his career as Sahithyacharya (Professor of Literature) at Kerala Kalamandalam, working under the guidance of Mahakavi Vallathol Narayana Menon for about 15 years. From 1938 to 1961, he served as proofreader for Mathrubhumi, one of Kerala’s leading newspapers. Later, he worked on the Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda and translated several of Kalidasa’s masterpieces—Shakuntalam, Raghuvamsham, and Kumarasambhavam—into Malayalam.

His Bharataparyatanam remains a landmark in Malayalam literary criticism and continues to feature in academic syllabi, including the Central Board of Secondary Education (CBSE). The work was awarded a prize by the Government of Madras.

Another celebrated work, Kala Jeevitham Thanne (“Art is Life Itself”), won him the Kerala Sahitya Academy Award, the Central Sahitya Academy Award, and the M. P. Paul Prize. His Malayala Shaili and Bhasha Parichayam are regarded as authoritative treatises on Malayalam style and usage. Sahithya Sallapam, Danthagopuram, and Kaivilakku are among his many volumes of literary criticism, and he published over nineteen collections of essays in total.

After the death of his wife in 1966, Marar turned increasingly inward and spiritual. He passed away on 6 April 1973.

About Bharataparyatanam

Bharataparyatanam is a profound critical exposition of the characters and key episodes in the Mahabharata. Though many studies of the epic have appeared before and since, Marar’s work—published in 1948—remains a benchmark for literary analysis.

Divided into eighteen sections, the book mirrors the epic’s eighteen parvas (chapters). Marar re-examines characters traditionally viewed as divine or superhuman, portraying them instead as human beings with moral complexity, strengths, and weaknesses.

In the preface, Marar describes how his interest was sparked by a poignant episode from a children’s version of the Mahabharata: after the war, when Arjuna’s horse-sacrifice expedition (Ashwamedha Yajna) leads him to Dussala, the lone surviving Kaurava sister, she begs him to spare her grandson’s life. Deeply moved by this scene, Marar resolved to undertake a serious and original study of the epic.

 

On Dharma

The concept of Dharma—righteousness and moral duty—is central to the Mahabharata. Marar explores how individuals grapple with ethical dilemmas, “training us,” as he writes, “to look closely at the riddle of life, and to tread carefully along the spiritual path where the snares of desire lie hidden.”

In one chapter titled “Nese balasva iti chared adharmaḥ” (“Do not follow adharma, thinking that might is right”). Marar shows, how, in reality, even the virtuous Pandavas resorted to adharma (unrighteous means) to gain strength and victory. The Mahabharata, he notes, teaches that triumph won through deceit or injustice is fleeting; the Pandavas themselves were burdened by guilt after the war.

Yudhishthira, often seen as the embodiment of Dharma, loses both kingdom and wife in the fateful dice game. When Draupadi is humiliated in the court, only Vidura and Vikarna protest. Bhishma, Drona, and Kripacharya remain silent, bound by loyalty to the throne. Bhishma’s utters only these words— “Yudhiṣṭhire’stu praśne’smin pramāṇam ity me matiḥ” (“Let Yudhishthira decide; his judgment is the law”).

Marar analyses Yudhishthira’s quiet acceptance of exile not as moral strength, but as weakness—fear of the opposing camp led by powerful elders like Bhishma and Drona. Later, under Vyasa’s counsel, the Pandavas strengthen themselves through divine weapons and Krishna’s strategic guidance, yet resort to deception to win—most notably when Yudhishthira utters, “Ashwatthama is dead,” a half-truth that leads to invincible Drona’s death.

Marar contrasts this with Dharma observed from strength: Duryodhana, though portrayed as villainous, refuses life-saving help from Kripacharya after the war, considering it a betrayal of his fallen comrades—a gesture even the gods admire.

Reinterpreting the Characters

Marar’s interpretations diverge boldly from traditional readings. Rejecting the simplistic division of Pandavas as good and Kauravas as evil, he portrays them as deeply human—mixtures of virtue and vice.

Duryodhana, though consumed by envy, is shown as a loyal friend and dutiful son who cares for his subjects. Bhishma, celebrated for wisdom and sacrifice, sides with the Kauravas. Karna, noble yet embittered, lets pride and resentment dictate his fate. Vidura emerges as a truly balanced and just figure.

Among the women, Gandhari, Kunti, and Draupadi stand out. Gandhari’s steadfast devotion, tragic motherhood, and final curse upon Krishna embody moral anguish. Kunti’s silence about Karna’s parentage reveals the heavy price of social norms. Draupadi, bold and articulate, becomes the epic’s moral conscience—her unanswered questions in the royal court still resonate as a challenge to patriarchy and injustice.

Marar and Gandhi

Marar greatly admired Mahatma Gandhi and refers to him at least twice in his work. While discussing Dharma, he observes that Gandhi transformed the notion of “Passive Resistance” into Satyagraha (“firmness in truth”), giving moral force to non-violence. Marar also compares Krishna’s peace mission to the Kaurava court with Gandhi’s journey to Noakhali in 1946, undertaken to restore communal harmony.

Impact and Legacy

As writer and critic M. N. Karassery notes:

“If someone asks which is the most important critical work in Malayalam, I would answer Bharata Paryatanam (1948). Few books have been read by so many people, gone through so many editions, or had so many translations. In seventy-five years, over one hundred and ninety-five thousand copies have been sold. Now the 65th edition is out from Marar Sahitya Prakasham, Kozhikode. There are English, Sanskrit, and Hindi translations too. Even the most popular Malayalam novels have not achieved such enduring fame.”

Conclusion

Ultimately, the Mahabharata is not just a tale of an ancient war—it is the ceaseless conflict within the human mind between good and evil, truth and falsehood. Its moral framework, though complex, affirms that adherence to Dharma, however difficult, is essential for harmony in both personal and public life.

Marar’s Bharataparyatanam, by re-examining the epic through a modern, humanistic lens, enriches our understanding of both literature and life. As the Mahabharata enlightens our intellect, Bharataparyatanam illumines our conscience—together, they guide us in the eternal quest for truth.

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A DEBT TO PREMCHAND

Munshi Premchand remains one of the most revered figures in Hindi literature, celebrated for his realistic portrayal of social issues and the everyday struggles of ordinary people. Throughout his lifetime, he wrote numerous short stories and novels that illuminated the hardships and hopes of rural India.

Although Premchand’s fame spread mainly across the Hindi-speaking regions of North India, his influence gradually reached other parts of the country. Readers elsewhere encountered his stories in local newspapers and periodicals, and many of them found their way into school and college curricula — as they still do today.

Life of Munshi Premchand

Munshi Premchand, whose real name was Dhanpat Rai, was born in 1880 in a village near Benares (now Varanasi) in Uttar Pradesh. His grandfather, Guru Sahai Rai, was a patwari (village record keeper), while his father, Ajaib Rai, worked as a clerk in the local post office. His mother, Anandi Devi, played an important role in shaping his early sensibilities.

Dhanpat aspired to pursue college education but was denied admission due to poor marks in arithmetic. In 1900, after completing school, he took up a job as a teacher in a government school — earning him the honorific “Munshi,” meaning teacher.

His life was marked by struggle, yet his literary talent soon found expression in stories that gained wide readership. In 1921, he resigned from government service in response to Mahatma Gandhi’s call for non-cooperation with the British. Moving to Bombay, he briefly worked as a scriptwriter to make ends meet. A publishing venture he started ran into debts, and he later returned to Benares, where ill health shadowed his final years. He passed away in 1936.

How I Came to Know About Him

As children, we often listened to our father narrate a story — likely written by Premchand — about a little boy visiting a mela (village fair) with his parents. The boy keeps pestering them for sweets, toys, and balloons but eventually gets lost and is rescued by a kind man. When offered the very things he had desired, the child refuses them all, crying only for his mother.

This simple tale carries a profound message: the things we crave in life are transient and meaningless compared to love and care, which we ultimately seek above all else.

When I was in school, perhaps in Class 7 or 8, we studied a Hindi story by Premchand titled Eid aur Holi. It told of two neighbouring families — one Hindu, the other Muslim — whose children played together daily. One day, a quarrel between the children escalated into a fight between the adults. After some time, the exhausted elders were astonished to see their children once again playing together as if nothing had happened. The story beautifully highlights how innocence and goodwill can transcend religious and social divides. It deeply influenced my understanding of communal harmony.

Around my high school years, when Hindi was declared the official language of India, there was nationwide enthusiasm to learn it — though not equally everywhere. One of my sisters took up postgraduate studies in Hindi, and among her books was Premchand’s Godaan. I remember trying to read it then but found it incomprehensible, as I knew little Hindi and even less about the rural life of northern India. Years later, I read the English translation.

Godaan (The Gift of a Cow, 1936)

Godaan — Premchand’s last completed novel — is regarded as one of the greatest works of modern Indian literature. The title refers to the ritual of gifting a cow in charity (go-daan), an act believed to absolve one’s sins and earn divine blessings. “A household can never appear prosperous without a cow,” wrote Premchand. “How auspicious it is to wake up in the morning to the mooing of your own cow!”

The novel centres on Hori Mahato, a poor peasant caught in a web of debt and deprivation. His simple wish to own a cow becomes a symbol of dignity, piety, and human struggle. Through Hori’s life and death, Premchand painted a vivid portrait of rural India before independence — its poverty, its powerlessness, and the intricate social fabric that defined it.

Godaan left a deep and lasting impression on me. It may even have influenced my decision to work in Bihar — one of India’s poorest states — where the realities Premchand depicted still persist in rural life today.

The novel was first translated into English in 1957 by Jai Ratan and Purushottama Lal under the title The Gift of a Cow. A later translation (1968) by Gordon C. Roadarmel is now regarded as a classic. Godaan was adapted into a Hindi film in 1963 and later as part of Gulzar’s television series Tehreer... Munshi Premchand Ki (2004) on Doordarshan.

The Short Stories

Premchand’s short stories stand apart for their emotional depth and moral realism. Few writers have captured rural India in all its colours and contradictions as vividly as he did. His narratives often revolve around the powerless and the oppressed — tenant farmers, landless labourers, and exploited women — whose voices he brought to life with empathy and truth.

Stories like Garib Ki Hai (“The Poor Man’s Curse”), Jurmana (“Penalty”), and Poos Ki Raat (“A Winter Night”) reveal his deep understanding of human suffering.

In Garib Ki Hai, Munga, a destitute woman, entrusts her small savings to a local advocate for safekeeping. He cheats her out of it. Left without means to survive, she becomes mentally unstable and finally dies in front of his house — a tragedy that haunts his entire family.

In Jurmana, Alrakkhi, a sweeper woman, is constantly harassed by a sanitary inspector who habitually deducts money from her wages. One day, she brings her sick baby to work; when the child’s crying prevents her from doing her tasks, she fears losing her pay. Seeing her plight, the inspector — surprisingly — pays her in full without a word. In that brief, wordless moment, Premchand exposes the flicker of compassion that can survive even within the hardest of hearts.

In Poos Ki Raat, Premchand captures the tender bond between Halku, a poor farmer, and his faithful dog Jabra, as they endure a freezing night together guarding their field. Lacking warm clothes, Halku lies shivering on a cot, with Jabra beside him. Writes Premchand:

“When he could no longer bear it, he gently picked Jabra up... got him to fall asleep in his lap. The dog’s body gave off a kind of stink — but Halku, hugging him tight, experienced a happiness he hadn’t felt for months. He embraced him with the same affection he would have felt for a brother or a friend.”

The bond between man and beast is captured with extraordinary tenderness. When I once read this story aloud to my helper’s daughter, it changed something in me. My old fear and hesitation towards dogs disappeared, and since then, we have kept them as part of our family. Even today, when I see our dog, my heart warms with the same affection Premchand described between Halku and Jabra.

The World Today

We now live in a techno-savvy world where time is money and attention is scarce. The younger generation spends its leisure on screens and gadgets, with little inclination to read about the past. Who, after all, wants to dwell on human suffering when the world glorifies instant gratification? “Self” has become supreme. We scroll endlessly through screens, detached from real human emotions. Violence, loss, and tragedy are reduced to headlines that vanish within minutes. In our obsession with machines, we risk becoming machines ourselves.

The Relevance of Premchand

Long ago, the novelist Pearl S. Buck wrote about her “Debt to Dickens.” Growing up in China, where her father was a missionary, she was surrounded by Chinese children and cut off from English life. But Dickens’ books connected her to her homeland — to its streets, people, and emotions — keeping her sense of belonging alive through imagination. In much the same way, Premchand connects us to the moral and emotional heart of India.

Premchand’s genius lay not merely in storytelling but in his ability to awaken feeling — to stir compassion in the reader. His pages compel us to look beyond our comfort zones, to understand lives very different from our own, and to realize that empathy is the essence of being human. He believed that art should not only entertain but also enlighten — that literature should make us more humane, more sensitive to suffering.

As we grow more self-centred, we risk losing touch with the values that hold civilization together — compassion, kindness, and shared humanity. Premchand’s writings remind us that man is not meant to live in isolation. He saw generosity as the natural law of existence. As he beautifully wrote:

“Trees bear fruits only to be eaten by others;
Fields grow grain, but they are consumed by the world;
The cow gives milk but does not drink it herself;
Clouds send rain only to quench the parched earth.
In such giving, there is little space for selfishness.”

We owe Premchand a deep and enduring debt — not merely as readers, but as human beings. It is a debt we can never fully redeem, yet it ennobles us each time we remember him.