Mahabharata Beyond Bloodlines: What is Pitriloka and The Dismantling of Father-Son Relationships?

Tapan Mandal Pal, the poor farmer sat curled in the corner of his dimly lit room, his frail body shaking like a candle flickering in the wind. Outside, the air was filled with sorrowful chants. “Bolo Hari Hari Bol!”—the pathetic voices rose and fell, echoing grief that seeped into every corner of the village. His son lay outside, draped in white, surrounded by mourners. Yet, Tapan could not move. He could not bring himself to step outside and face the truth.

For years, he had dictated his son Ratan’s future. He believed a father was like a god to his child. Discipline and obedience were everything. Medicine or engineering—these were the only acceptable paths. But Ratan was different. He was not the brilliant student Tapan had imagined. He struggled in school, burdened by expectations too heavy for his young shoulders. Tapan mistook fear for respect and silence for submission, crushing his son’s spirit without realizing it.

But consciousness is not about imposing one’s will under the guise of morality or spreading propaganda in the name of religion. It is not about controlling others’ happiness or comfort or actual nature in the name of religion or authority. It is not merely swallowing news headlines or mindlessly cramming information to pass exams. True consciousness is awareness—it is seeing, listening, and understanding. It is not just about touching and tasting the world, but about feeling it. It is compassion. It is empathy.

When one heart reaches out to understand another, the light that bridges them, that too is consciousness. Recognizing hunger, sensing another’s pain, acknowledging the struggles of those beside us-this is what it means to be truly awake. But such awareness has many barriers-arrogance, as well as deep-seated insecurity.

A person drowning in low self-esteem can hardly lift their eyes to see beyond their own suffering. Their entire existence becomes a desperate act of proving, of showing, of seeking validation. In such an environment, the role of parents is crucial. Parents who see themselves as infallible, who consider their words as divine truth, inflict the worst fate upon their children.

Tapan was one such father. He believed he could never be wrong. If he made a decision, it was final. If his son faltered, the fault was never his own. He had seen fathers who called themselves incarnations of God, demanding unwavering submission. In such households, there could be no room for independent thought—only the father’s absolute truth. The child, growing up under such suffocating authority, learned to doubt his own feelings, his own judgment, his very existence.

Ratan had tried to escape. First through silence, then through rebellion, and finally, through intoxication. And yet, Tapan, in his blind certainty, had dismissed every warning. Relatives, neighbors, friends had all urged him to reconsider—was he playing with his son’s future? Tapan had laughed it off. “It will all be fine,” he had said.

As Ratan grew older, he became distant. He seemed lost, trapped in a fog no one else could see. Even when his father was not present, his shadow loomed over him. Ratan tried to escape—first through silence, then through rebellion, and finally, through intoxication and drugs.

Tapan had noticed but dismissed it as youthful foolishness. He scolded, he punished, he commanded. Ratan, desperate for managing a job for a very minimum salary, joined local political syndicate. It promised him influence and security, a chance to carve his own path. But the streets of Bengal were cruel, and power always came at a cost. Last night, that cost was paid in blood.

Now, Ratan lay outside, forever silent. His body bore the cruel marks of his final moments—his face bruised, his lips cracked, and his mouth stained with dried blood. The violence had been merciless, leaving behind a lifeless form that only vaguely resembled the boy Tapan had once cradled in his arms.

Tapan’s fingers dug into the cold ground. His hands, once so firm in shaping his son’s life, now felt weak and useless. He had tried to mold Ratan’s future, but instead, he had led him to ruin.

The chants outside grew louder. The villagers were waiting for the father to claim his son. But how could he? How could he step forward when he had failed so terribly?

Tapan had always struggled with love. He believed love meant discipline, control, guidance. But now, for the first time, he felt love in its truest form—raw, painful, helpless. This was Maya, the illusion of attachment spoken of in the Mahabharata. If he were to attain peace, he had to let go. But how did a father let go when he had never truly held his child with love in the first place?

He thought of Dhritarashtra, the blind king of Hastinapura, who, despite his strength, had been powerless to change the fate of his sons. He had held on too tightly, too blindly, until destruction consumed everything. Was Tapan any different?

A verse from the Srimad Bhagavatam echoed in his mind:

अहो विचित्रं भगवद्विचेष्टितंघ्नन्तं जनोऽयं हि मिषन्न पश्यति । ध्यायन्नसद्यर्हि विकर्म सेवितुंनिर्हृत्य पुत्रं पितरं जिजीविषति ॥

” Alas! How wonderful it is that the foolish materialist does not heed the great danger of impending death! He knows that death will surely come, yet he is nevertheless callous and neglectful. If his father dies, he wants to enjoy his father’s property, and if his son dies, he wants to enjoy his son’s possessions as well. In either case, he heedlessly tries to enjoy material happiness with the acquired money”

(Śrīmad Bhāgavatam, 5.18.3)

Even Maharaj Yudhishthira, when asked by Yama in the Mahabharata, had responded:

“Day after day, countless beings enter the realm of death, yet those who remain believe themselves to be immortal. What could be more astonishing than this?”

(Mahabharata, Vana Parva, 313.115)

Tapan realized the bitter truth—he had spent his life believing he was in control, but in the face of death, control was an illusion. He had clung to the belief that he was the master of his son’s destiny, yet he had been powerless to stop fate’s cruel hand.

A gust of wind rattled the door. The wailing outside blended with the howling wind. In that moment, Tapan thought of Bhishma Pitamaha, lying on his bed of arrows, waiting for his moment to pass. Was this Tapan’s moment of reckoning? A father who had controlled every step of his son’s life but now had no control over his death?

With slow, heavy steps, he stood up and walked outside. The sea of grief-stricken faces parted as he approached his son’s lifeless form. His boy. His blood. The child who had once clung to his hand while learning to walk.

Tapan knelt beside him. His hands trembled as he reached out, not to command, not to control, but simply to touch. Ratan’s face was cold. Unreachable. The dried blood at the corners of his lips told a story of suffering-of a struggle that ended in silence. His son had pleaded for life, but the world had shown no mercy.

“Bolo Hari-Hari Bol!” The voices swelled, urging him to move forward.

He had lost his son long before this night. He had lost him when he placed his own dreams above the boy’s happiness. When he mistook authority for love. And yet, only now, in death, did he truly see him.

Tapan rose. The final rites awaited. With each step toward the funeral pyre, the weight of his illusions crumbled. To be a father was never to be a god. It was to be human, to love, to let go.

As the fire consumed his son, Tapan whispered a final prayer-not for Ratan’s soul, but for his own. He had spent his life believing he was the master, the guide, the unquestionable authority. Now, he realized, he was merely a man. A father who had loved too late.

The flames roared, and for the first time in his life, Tapan Mondal bowed his head-not in pride, but in surrender.

In the silence of the burning pyre, he realized: He was not God. He was only a father.

He was gradually realizing that although he took pride in being the god for his son, today, he was not god at all. And to become god, he had to overcome his attachment, his Maya. This was an affection he had never shown before, but now, he was drowning in it. Ironically, now that his son was gone, he truly felt love for him. Yet, to attain Nivritti—liberation from the cycle of suffering—and to merge with the divine, he had to sever this final thread of earthly attachment. The Mahabharata, through its intricate tales, dismantled the illusion of relationships, proving that all worldly bonds were transient, fleeting like the autumn leaves in the wind.

 

Tapan Mondal Pal sat near the dying embers of the funeral pyre, staring blankly at the rising smoke. His mind felt like a jungle-dark, endless, full of dangers he could not escape. His whole life, he had believed he was in control, but now he realized he had been just like in the jungle.

Ratan had been his only son, his pride, his future. But Tapan had been too blind to see his suffering, too stubborn to let him choose his own path. Now, just like hanging helplessly in a pit, Tapan was caught in the tangled creepers of his own past mistakes. The pain of his loss was the mighty serpent below, waiting to swallow him whole. The regret gnawed at him like the black and white rats cutting through the roots of the tree. The expectations he had forced upon his son were like the roaring beasts surrounding the forest-terrifying, inescapable.

Yet, even in this misery, Tapan clung to hope, just like licking the last drops of honey of hope for Moksha. But what sweetness was left for him now? Ratan was gone. And Tapan, at last, understood-he had spent his whole life chasing an illusion.

This is the exact scenario that we can find in Mahabharata. 

“A brahmana once got lost in a huge jungle full of scary, dangerous animals. He ran in fear, trying to escape, but he couldn’t. The forest was trapped by a giant net made by a terrifying old woman, and tall, five-headed snakes guarded it, hissing at him.

As he wandered, he fell into a hidden hole covered with plants. His feet got tangled in vines, and he ended up hanging upside down, like a fruit on a tree.

Below him, a big snake waited at the bottom of the hole. At the top, a massive black elephant with six faces and twelve feet slowly moved closer. Nearby, bees buzzed around a giant honeycomb. Even while hanging there, the man tried to lick some drops of honey. He liked the taste and wanted more.

Meanwhile, black and white rats were chewing through the tree’s roots. Danger was everywhere—wild animals, the scary woman, the snake below, the elephant above, the bees, and the weak vine he was hanging from. But even with all these dangers, the man still clung to life and never gave up hope.”

Vidura explains to Dhritarashtra that the forest represents life in this world (Samsara). The wild animals are diseases, the scary old woman is old age, and the well is the human body. The big snake at the bottom of the well is time, and the vines trapping the man are his hope to live. The huge elephant with six mouths and twelve feet represents a year with its six seasons and twelve months. The mice, which are black and white, represent day and night, slowly eating away at time. The drops of honey that the man tries to taste represent pleasures in life.

At the end of the Mahabharata, Vyasa explains this story further. He says that the white and black mice (day and night) are slowly cutting away life. Vidura tells King Dhritarashtra that everyone is trapped in this situation—suffering is a part of life, and no one can escape it.

Vyasa teaches that life is full of suffering-both in the body and in the mind. From birth to death, pain is always there. The more we collect things and attach our ego to them, the more suffering increases.

Holding onto the feeling of “mine” (the Sanskrit word mama) leads to death, while letting go of attachment and realizing “not mine” (na mama) helps one go beyond death (MBh XII.213.18/19).

Even though the Mahabharata often talks about karma (the idea that suffering comes from past actions), Vyasa also expresses deep sorrow, what we also find reflected in Tolstoy’s War and Peace, where Prince Andrei and Pierre Bezukhov witness the indiscriminate destruction caused by war, realizing that fate and suffering do not always align with moral deserts.

As the writer of this great story about a royal family fighting and destroying each other, Vyasa also made himself part of it—he was the father of both Dhritarashtra and Vidura.

Note. He is the father! 

We will come to his success in fatherhood at last. Let’s continue the discussion regarding what is going on. 

Caught in the web of life’s suffering, the man in the allegory clung to fleeting pleasures, just as humans remain attached to the temporary joys of the world. Yet, like Siddhartha, one must eventually question—can true happiness be found in this endless cycle of birth, decay, and death? The search for something beyond the perishable begins when one dares to look beyond illusion and seek the eternal truth.

Old age, sickness and Death- in order to get free from these three, Siddhartha chose asceticism. Did he actually get any path towards freedom? Let us keep the debate for another day. However, it can’t be denied that this body- which is not eternal and capricious, left him thinking. From mortality to eternity, the journey began in search of the “Sat” or eternal or absolute- the imperishable! 

This is irrespective of how noble and great we might be, death never spares us, from a nanoscale-sized germ to the supreme Vishnu or Brahma, the creators, the Lords of the Universe! There is no one to give the company when one is driven towards the last journey of breath in this mysterious and complex course. 

Baby Achilles was drowned upside down by his mother Thetis in the water of Styx, holding his heel. This is to make him immortal… like Iron Man. But, what to say! The area of the heel remained vulnerable to death as it was in touch with the mother’s hold. And in this heel, as per the later Greek and Roman drama and poetry and long after Homer’s Iliad, the arrow of destiny would get stuck and make Achilles die!

Again, remember the tale of Duryodhana? Before the war, Gandhari, the mother asked him to come undressed and delivered him with the iron-like armor wishing “Break a leg!”. However, the guy covered his thighs because of his prestige in front of the mother. So, his last breath was lying helplessly with a broken femur! 

“Tobu praan nityodhaara, haase surjo chandro taara, Basonto nikunje aase bichitra raage. Aachhe dukkho, aachhe mrityu, birahodahano laage”:

Song of Rabindranath Tagore.

Translation:
Flows the ceaseless life-stream, beams the sun, stars the moon, the
Spring arrives in the forest in varied hues….

…There exists pain, exists death, and the ache of separation burns one (Translated by Ratna De)

In various battle-oriented stories and accounts of Karbala, patrimonial love has a great part. Muhammad kissed the whole body of his grandson Imam Hussain, in his childhood. A prophecy was there that harming any human body part touched by the messenger’s affection is impossible. So far so good. However, as the slayer Sinan ibn Anas failed to kill him after much effort, Hussain himself revealed that “My whole body would remain unscathed, except the neck. Security Not My Problem… !! The prophet hasn’t kissed there. Don’t be at the end of your rope. Sinan, hit the dagger on my neck. Then only you can kill me”. 

Which of these myths have come from where and influenced the others is also not our present concern. The thing to see here is the approach of those narratives- the affection towards own children (Vatsalya Rasa) presented through these legends. How much might be we are fond of and look after our kiddies- oil the care of love on their body- would never make them immortal. They will not achieve the ability to exist forever. And, the mythologies have never let us forget these simple anomalies. Birth and death- both will be there. Mrityu is inevitable. 

While Garuda as we have seen in my previous articles, took the path of Devayana to Moksha, Mandapala wanted to be satisfied with attaining Pitrloka through the path of Pitryana. Who is smarter Garuda (who exceeds all desires) or Mandapala (who doesn’t want to miss the chance to sit with his forefathers)? Decision- upto you!

Both Garuda and Mandapala are birds. And, the symbolism of birds are associated with the concept of ASCENT as we have discussed in our last article. 

By the way? Who is this Mandapala?

Remember the Khandavadahana episode we touched in my previous article “The Clash of Naga’s Fangs and Garuda’s Wing: An Eternal Cosmic Tug-of-War for Ascent and Descent”

“Amid Khandava’s destruction, apart from the serpent king Takshaka’s son Aswasena, the bird-sages—Jarita, Sarisrikva, Stambhamitra, and Drona—sing hymns to Agni, ensuring their survival and linking the epic to the Vedic tradition. Now, as discussed earlier, how the symbolisms of these bird-sages are also connected to the idea of “ascent”- lets keep it for another day!

Hmm… the last one is named Drona? Something fishy?”

Mandapala was the father of these birds. He was himself a sage. 

To know his story, let’s go into the journey of his love story as adapted from Mahabharata in Subodh Ghosh’s Bharata Premkatha book and directly taken from Vishwa Alduri talks. 

 

Mandapala, the wise sage who wanted a son to secure his place in the afterlife, took the form of a Sharngaka bird. Precisely speaking, he wanted to establish himself at the Pitriloka, the plane under the Devloka that can be only attained if the soul has left sons on the earth before leaving undergoing rigorous tapas i.e. severe ascetic practices demanding celibacy and the restraint of one’s vital energy (virya). Despite his austerities, he failed to attain the heavenly realms (lokas) after death, as he had no sons to perform the necessary rites. Now, the concern is pitriloka is not devoid of desires and ego since the sense of attachment (with progenies) is still there. Hence, it falls under the realm of Pravrtti Marg unlike Nivrtti Marg which is complete transcendence and surrender of ego. 

[YouTube talk- Mahābhārata and the Philosophical Hermeneutics of Śankarācārya by Vishwa Adluri- On Advaita Academy]

[YouTube talk- Mahābhārata and the Philosophical Hermeneutics of Śankarācārya by Vishwa Adluri- On Advaita Academy]

Our sage made four sons with Jarita, a female bird, in the deep Khandava forest. Birds breed more and faster… so number of sons right? Hmm… excessive emphasis on procreation as a path to securing a happy-happy place in the afterlife! Well, once his children were born, he left Jarita and returned to his young wife, Lapita. Notably, these chicks- Jarita, Sarisrikva, Stambhamitra and Drona are names of some “interpreters of the Vedas,” and certain hymns in the Rigveda are also attributed to the second and third. Moreover,, the Rig Veda mentions a tribe named Jarita and the very name Jarita means “old” or “aged,” i.e. our neglected, discarded wife of Mandapala—one who fulfilled her duty yet is left behind. He had only stayed with Jarita for the sake of having children, but his heart, he thought, belonged elsewhere. Lapita, interestingly is the one whose name translates to “much talked about” or “very much talkative” akin to today’s attention and limelight seekers by talking too much- like Kim Kardashian and Rakhi Sawant!

[From article by -Khandava in Flames and Mandapala-Jarita-Lapita by Dr. Pradip Bhattacharya]

The story of Mandapala and his family is more than just an isolated episode; it offers a crucial lens through which the deeper themes of the Mahabharata can be understood. The great fire of Khandava is not merely a destructive event but symbolizes a cosmic dissolution—a pralaya that marks the breakdown of an established order. In the Vedic tradition, sacrificial rituals sustain harmony between the divine and the mortal realms. However, when this balance is disturbed, disorder follows. In the Mahabharata, Agni, the fire god, devours the Khandava forest, disrupting this sacrificial cycle. Indra, who should have been receiving these ritual offerings, remains estranged from Agni, signaling a disturbance not only in the natural world but also in the ethical and metaphysical order.

Despite Mandapala’s absence, Jarita did not forsake her children. With unwavering love, she nurtured them amidst the wilderness, finding solace in the rustling trees, the gentle breeze, and the fragrance of blooming flowers. Her resilience reflected her deep sense of responsibility, embodying the essence of selfless maternal devotion.

Beyond its emotional depth, this narrative poses profound ethical and philosophical dilemmas. The Rigveda associates Sharngaka birds with poetic wisdom while the plight of Mandapala’s family compels us to reflect on fundamental questions: How should one act in the face of impending doom? What responsibilities does one hold when survival is at stake? In a world where cosmic and ethical forces seem beyond individual control, the story of Mandapala and Jarita serves as an allegory for navigating duty, fate, and moral choices amidst destruction.

Jarita, however, did not abandon the children. She loved them deeply and raised them alone in the wild forest. The trees, the wind, and the flowers became her world as she cared for her little ones. She was strong and never wavered in her duty as a mother.

When the Khandava forest was engulfed in flames, chaos and fear spread as the fire consumed everything in its path. Mandapala, wandering with Lapita, was overcome with worry for his offspring. In desperation, he pleaded with Agni to spare them. Agni, recognizing his sincerity, granted his request. However, Lapita, witnessing Mandapala’s distress, was overcome with jealousy.

As the fire rages, Jarita, now left alone with her four sons, is distraught. She laments:

“How can I save you, my little hatchlings? You have no feathers, you cannot fly, and the fire is coming! Surely, we will perish!”

She urges them to hide in a rat hole. However, the young birds—wise beyond their years—hesitate.

“A rat hole? What if there is a rat inside? We would rather die a heroic death in fire than be eaten alive by a rat!”

Jarita reassures them:

“The rat was killed earlier by a kite, so the hole is safe.”

Despite their philosophical concerns, the little birds remain skeptical. Eventually, Jarita, seeing no other option, abandons them and flies away, screaming in despair.

This scene reflects the relentless cycle of destruction that consumes all beings. It also foreshadows a later apocalyptic vision in the Bhagavad Gita (Chapter 11), where Krishna, in his Vishwarupa (universal form), declares himself as Kala (Time), the destroyer of all worlds.

In a remarkable turn, Agni, asks them:

“What boon do you desire?”

The chicks respond:

“Our enemy is the cat. Kill the cat.”

Agni grants their wish, incinerating the cat and sparing them.

Meanwhile, Mandapala, having abandoned his children and Jarita, is stricken with guilt. When Lapita notices that he is more concerned about his former family, she scorns him and tells him to leave. Mandapala returns to Jarita, but neither she nor their children speak to him. He attempts to reconcile with them by narrating the story of Arundhati (a symbol of devoted wifehood). Somehow, this restores the family, and they leave together for another land.

Mahabharata is often seen as either a historical war epic or a Puranic story meant for children. However, this perspective overlooks its engagement with profound legal and dharma issues. If we compare the Mahabharata with Manusmriti (Book 9, Chapter 9), we see that many of the themes in the epic align closely with legal and social concerns in Hindu jurisprudence:

• The role and status of wives
• The significance of sons in inheritance and rituals
• Nyoga (levirate marriage) and its implications
• The legal standing of children from different caste backgrounds
• The inheritance rights of women
• The disqualification of heirs

[YouTube talk- Mahābhārata and the Philosophical Hermeneutics of Śankarācārya by Vishwa Adluri- On Advaita Academy]

These are the very concerns that shape the Mahabharata’s core narrative. The epic is not just an account of a war but a text that reflects and interrogates the complexities of law, social hierarchy, and moral duty.

The story of Mandapala and the Sarnga birds, while appearing as a minor episode, encapsulates many of the Mahabharata’s larger philosophical and ethical dilemmas. It plays with irony, humor, and deep existential questions, demonstrating the text’s unparalleled literary and intellectual depth.

Through this, the Mahabharata offers not just historical or mythological wisdom but a sophisticated meditation on the nature of life, duty, and the inescapable passage of time. Moreover, the epic is a text deeply rooted in the explicating of Dharma, Moksha Dharma, and various other aspects of righteousness. By examining different narratives within the Mahabharata, such as the story of Arundhati as told by Manda Pala and Manu, we can uncover striking differences in interpretation and their implications.

Manda Pala’s concern thus starts when Jarita is upset with him for engaging in deceitful actions. In this rendition, Manda Pala states:

“Nothing in the world is so fatal to women as rivalry with another wife. Even the faithful and good Arundhati, famous in all the world, distrusted the eminent seer Vasishtha. Due to her contempt, she became a tiny star, sometimes visible, sometimes not—appearing like a bad omen.”

On the other hand, Manu presents a different version:

“When a wife unites with her husband according to rule, she takes on his qualities, like a river merging into the ocean. Arundhati, a woman of the lowest birth, when united with Vasishtha, became worthy of great respect. Other women of low birth also attained high status in this world due to the eminent qualities of their respective husbands.”

The contrast is evident: Manda Pala diminishes Arundhati’s status, whereas Manu elevates her through her union with Vasishtha. This disparity raises important questions about how the Mahabharata recalibrates stories for its own logic and narrative structure.

The Mahabharata is not merely a historical record but a cosmological, philosophical, and literary text. It explicitly states its function as an Itihasa, aligning itself with the Vedas. The text itself asserts:

“Ideas from Itihasa and Purana should be used to uphold, interpret, and nourish the Veda.”

This suggests that the Mahabharata is aware of its role in preserving and transmitting Vedic wisdom. It is not just a simple recounting of past events but an active, interpretative tradition that seeks to uphold the principles of Dharma.

So to continue with the story, we find Lapita accused him of caring more about Jarita than about their own love. “If your heart is still with Jarita and her children, then go to them!” she said angrily. “I will stay alone.”

Mandapala tried to explain. “I was with Jarita only to have children, not because I loved her,” he said. But Lapita did not believe him. She turned away, her heart broken.

Mandapala left her and rushed to find his children. To his relief, Agni had kept his promise, and Jarita and the children were safe. But when he reached them, something was different. They did not welcome him. The fire had not harmed them, but their love for him had burned away.

Jarita looked at him coldly. “Why have you come now, Mandapala? You left us without a second thought. Go back to your beautiful Lapita. We don’t need you.”

Mandapala was hurt. He said that even the most loving wives change when they become mothers. But Jarita remained silent. She had suffered alone for too long.

Then, their eldest son, Jaritari, spoke. “Father, you gave us life, but a father must do more than that. When we needed you, you were not here. Mother protected us from hunger, from hunters, from the dangers of the wild. She was our world, while you were only a name.”

Mandapala lowered his head. “I made a mistake. But does a father’s love die just because he was absent?”

Another son, Sarisrika, answered, “Love without presence is like a tree without roots. You ask us to forgive, but forgiveness cannot bring back what is lost.”

Mandapala felt deep regret. He looked at Jarita, hoping for kindness in her eyes, but there was none. She had already let him go. He was a stranger now. 

Now what is the symbolism behind the name Mandapala?

As Katha Upanishad rightly defines what a “manda” buddhi person is like:

[YouTube talk- Mahābhārata and the Philosophical Hermeneutics of Śankarācārya by Vishwa Adluri- On Advaita Academy]

Far away, Lapita sat alone. The night flowers bloomed around her, but their fragrance gave her no joy. The stars above seemed like broken pieces of her heart. She had once believed in a love untouched by duty, a love that was pure and eternal. She thought Mandapala was that love. But he had chosen legacy over love. And so, she remained, watching the empty swing move in the wind, waiting for someone who would never return.

The Khandava forest whispered the story of two women—one who carried the burden of duty and one who carried the burden of dreams. Both had been abandoned. Both were left to find meaning in the ashes of love unfulfilled.

So, the epic seems to be filled with flawed paternal figures:

• Yayati, who did injustice towards his children for his personal pleasure
• Shantanu, who accepted the lifelong celibacy and rejection of material kingdom for his son
• Even the Pandavas, who were largely absent in their children’s lives

Are there any examples of a good father?

Take the Tapan Mandal Pal or Mandapala’s case study— the sons were merely a mean to reach Svarga. Both of them saw them as tools rather than as their beloved child. That’s really tragic. Moreover, this recurring theme of strained father-son relationships is evident across the Puranas. Take the example of Hiranyakashipu and Prahlada—the father pursued immortality and sought to dictate his son’s fate, yet Prahlada remained steadfast in his devotion to Vishnu, prioritizing spiritual faith over familial allegiance. From a pitr-yajna perspective, Hiranyakashipu expected his son to uphold their asuric lineage in Pitṛiloka. However, Prahlada defied this expectation, choosing Purusha instead. This narrative highlights a fundamental theme in Indian philosophy—the conflict between worldly attachments and the pursuit of spiritual liberation. Once you begin recognizing these patterns, it becomes clear that they are recurring and deeply ingrained themes throughout the Puranas. 

And, now the most interesting part and symbolism of today’s discussion!

Remember the name of the fourth son of Mandapala.

Yes! You caught it right. The name is similar to another important figure of Mahabharata. The Guru figure and at a core the important father-figure.

 

So, let’s connect today’s theme with the important Parvan of Mahabharata named after him, where the first parvan is Dronabhisheka parvan i.e. consecration of Drona to appoint him the commander-in-chief of the Kaurava army.

Funny right?

[YouTube talk- Mahābhārata and the Philosophical Hermeneutics of Śankarācārya by Vishwa Adluri- On Advaita Academy]

However, an interesting parallel would be Krishna as a father figure to Arjuna. We must not forget that in Indian tradition, the Guru is often regarded as a father, with many biological fathers entrusting their sons to a Guru, where they undergo a symbolic “rebirth” through diksha (initiation). Following this reasoning, Vyasa— who creator of the whole Mahabharata is also the  father and guidance of Shuka (Shuka means parrot. Again a bird!) toward spiritual liberation—represents the IDEAL FATHER FIGURE- the main example for the moral of today’s discussion. Their relationship was not centered on material inheritance but on the pursuit of moksha. Let’s end with an adapted version of the story from Mahabharata and other Puranas.

The sun hung low over the Mandakini, its golden light shimmering on the rippling waters. Vyasa stood at the riverbank, his gaze fixed on the sky. His son, Shuka, had transcended the earthly realm, his luminous form piercing the heavens like an arrow loosed from a bow. The celestial beings marveled, showering him with divine blossoms, while the mountains trembled at his passage.

Vyasa’s heart swelled with pride, yet an ache gnawed at his soul. Shuka had achieved what he had spent a lifetime striving for—moksha, ultimate liberation. And now, he was leaving.

“Shuka!” Vyasa called out, his voice carrying the weight of his yearning. “Come back down here, wait a moment! I wanted a son so that my lineage would continue, so that you would perform my funeral rites and help me ascend to heaven. And now you leave me behind?”

For a moment, silence reigned. Then, from the vastness above, Shuka’s voice descended like a gentle breeze.

“Father, do not look at me through the eyes of attachment. Look at me through the eyes of wisdom. I have fulfilled my dharma, my highest purpose. I am free. You still have karma to perform. Remain and complete it.”

Vyasa trembled, his mind caught in a tempest of conflicting emotions. Joy surged through him—his son had attained the highest truth, unshackled from the cycles of birth and death. And yet, a deep sorrow took root. A father raises his child, hoping to witness his success. But what of a father whose son surpasses him in the very path he himself has struggled upon?

Stories from Mahabharata and other Puranas recount how Shuka surpassed his father in spiritual attainment. Once, when following his son, Vyasa encountered a group of celestial nymphs who were bathing. Shuka’s purity was such that the nymphs did not consider him to be a distraction, even though they were naked, but covered themselves when faced with his father. Shuka is sometimes portrayed as wandering about naked, due to his complete lack of body consciousness. When Shuka came, the apsaras in semi-nude condition in the river never bothered; but when Vyasa came they hurriedly put their clothes on. Shuka’s mind was as pure as a crystal.

A voice, deep as the cosmos itself, broke through his turmoil.

“Vyasa,” Shiva’s form emerged from the mist. “Do not grieve. Shuka is now one with Brahman, but you are not alone.”

A shadowy form, bearing Shuka’s likeness, appeared beside Vyasa, a spectral echo of his son. Comforted yet sorrowful, Vyasa closed his eyes. He had wished for Shuka’s greatness, and he had received more than he had ever hoped for. But the joy of a father was not the joy of a sage. His happiness was not one of celebration but of surrender, of watching his son fly beyond his reach.

Vyasa sighed, the river lapping at his feet. The cycle of life had come full circle. With a final glance at the heavens, he turned away, stepping into the solitude of his own path, alone but never abandoned.

References:

চেতনা মানে ড্যাবডেবিয়ে খবরের কাগজ গেলা বা… – Sourav Bhattacharya | Facebook

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