An essay on Wokism in Vedic culture.

"You represent Germany, why are you asking me questions in English?" replied President Vladimir Putin, hinting at the subjugation of Europe to the USA.

Misused or misunderstood words give power to those who dominate language. The latter trains minds and controls people, from generation to generation until it becomes culturally rooted in the hearts. Ignorance of this power can hinder intellectual pursuits and disqualifies us. I am a strong believer that a command of language shapes minds and influences thought. Most people are unaware of it.

When I qualify Maharaj Pandu as woke, because he gave to his two wives children by surprise...

I am starting my story with an episode of the Mahabharata which sounds like an anachronism; Pandu Maharaj developed a "woke" mentality before his time, I will say.* He broke the rules of morality and traditional behavior only to get children. 

Nowadays, the Woke ideology has become a widespread and aggressive force. It has very much infiltrated the Hare Krishna organization. The reality is that powerful economic and political lobbies have taken over a movement that originated in the United States and fought against the oppression of blacks by whites. In that connection, I remember the Black Panthers because they were welcomed as refugees in Algeria (where I was born), just before I joined Krishna Consciousness.

We didn't say "Woke" back then, but "Stay woke". Today, the movement is mostly manipulated by gender ideologues whose fantasmes are taught to primary and kindergarten children by drag queens, to make it short. I'll spare you the other excesses, like gender-neutral bathrooms and sex-change surgeries, as well as the will of its members to do away with the old world. 

I am "woke" by principle and temperament, just as I am a devotee of Krishna in heart and mind. But, just as I have little in common with today's Krishnas, I have little in common with today's Wokism.

When I first joined the Hare Krishna, I was fascinated by the figure of Pandu Maharaj in the Srimad Bhagavatam. Unable to conceive children himself, he appealed to the Gods for other men to take his place, only for the act of procreation.

Pandu was truly a pioneer. By seeking to father children through such an unconventional arrangement, he demonstrated a level of thinking far ahead of his time. So doing, he defied conventional morality and social norms to have children. 

His actions can be seen as a form of rebellion against the rigid social norms of his era, anticipating contemporary debates on consent, sexuality, and gender roles. While his motivations were deeply rooted in the cultural and religious context of ancient India, his audacity in challenging established traditions made him a forerunner, comparable to the 'Woke' thinkers of our own time. As the adage goes, "When great people do something, the masses follow their lead." In fact, this principle is directly stated in the Bhagavad-Gita: "Whatever actions great persons perform, common people follow. Whatever standards they set, all the world pursues." Bhagavad-gita is from the Mahabharata.

For those unfamiliar with the specific situation that Pandu Maharaj faced with his two wives, as described in the Mahabharata, I'll provide a brief overview. You will understand that he was not a pioneer in this matter, as I wrote. 

* It is the translation of a French text I wrote in October 2016.

One day, as the eminent sages, secluded in the mystical solitudes of the Himalayas, prepared to undertake their ascent to the celestial realm of Brahma, Pandu, moved by a transcendental ambition, expressed his desire to accompany them. But the sages, imbued with their infinite wisdom, dissuaded him. They warned him gravely: this journey, into the heart of the deserted peaks buried under thick layers of snow, is only destined for the rishis and siddhas, beings of an extraordinary, spiritual nature. His two wives, however valiant and irreproachable, could not withstand its rigors nor escape alive:

"There are up there desert regions covered with abundant snow accessible only to the rishis and siddhas. Your wifes will not be able to survive the experience."

At these words, Pandu felt his confidence dwindle, carrying with it all joy of life. He who had renounced his kingdom, abandoned his riches, and turned his back on the splendors of the palace, had found refuge in the tranquility of the forest, amidst these sages whose way of life and ideals he shared. In perfect harmony with him, his two wives, tender and devoted, followed in his footsteps with unwavering fidelity. How could he consider abandoning them? Was he thus doomed to an endless chain of curses, leading inevitably to hell?

The idea crushed him; it was impossible for him to accompany the sages to the celestial abode to find deliverance, just as it was forbidden for him to conceive children, essential to the perpetuity of his future existence. What cruel intent did this absurd fate hold? ‘Have I not done everything to please the gods through my sacrifices? Have I not honored the sages by living according to their precepts and serving them with devotion? Have I not practiced austerities, meditation, and the study of the Vedas with discipline? And yet, here I am on the brink of the abyss. O great sages, destiny is fulfilled only in accordance with the laws appropriate to the time and circumstances.

Because I have not fathered a son to carry on our lineage and honor our ancestors, I am now condemned to remain behind, deprived of access to the divine realm. I implore you, you who possess divine powers, do not abandon me in this desperate situation. Through your immense grace, you can change the course of my destiny.

Consider my plea: in the past, when King Vichitravirya, son of my grandmother Satyavati, was unable to have a child, she begged Vyasa to father children with the king's wives. Thus, my brothers and I were born, as you know. If such a favor was granted to my family, why cannot I also benefit from it?

The sages replied that he must therefore follow the same path. By doing so, he would beget exceptional sons. They encouraged him not to succumb to excessive worry and to prepare himself in performing the sacred rites which will bring him the desired result.

Stories of pregnancy by women whose examples should not be followed. 

Pandu immediately conferred with Kunti, urging her to seek someone of noble lineage worthy of fathering a child. However, shocked by his eagerness, she vehemently expressed her discontent: she would never allow herself to be embraced by another man but him! Pandu reassured her, insisting there was no wrongdoing in such an act, as it was a matter of great urgency. Had the sages themselves not advised such a course of action? To convince her, he recounted a story that mirrored their situation.

Once upon a time, there lived a kshatriya named Saradandayana, whose daughter had been instructed by her husband to conceive a child through another man. Obeying his command, she bathed and set out in search of a worthy man to fulfill this task. Arriving at a crossroads, she waited for someone suitable to pass by. Not long after, a brahmana of great virtue appeared. Hearing her plea, he agreed to fulfill her request. From this union, three children were born.

"My dear Kunti, this is not a mere request I place before you, but a vital plea upon which our salvation depends. I implore you, consider this delicate situation with the utmost care and take the measures that are required."

Yet Kunti, steadfast in her resolve, was not one to be easily swayed. She responded with quiet determination:

"No, I cannot approve of such a way of thinking! In life, if one searches long enough, one always finds a fitting solution, but this comparison hardly suits the man I love and revere for his piety and strength of character. Let me assure you, I have no doubt in your ability to overcome any trial that fate may set before us. But instead of yielding to this perspective, listen to another story —one that, in my view, is far more fitting to illuminate our current predicament."

King Vyushitasva, a descendant of the noble Puru lineage (which would later give rise to the Kuru dynasty), organized a sacrifice of unparalleled magnificence. This extraordinary event attracted the presence of the Gods and celestial rishis. Delighted by the offerings, they relished the divine nectar that was presented to them. Satiated and overjoyed, they made the rare decision to personally lead the ceremony, thereby granting Vyushitasva extraordinary power and an almost divine status.

Empowered by this blessing, the king, driven by boundless ambition, continued to perform grand sacrifices, such as the ashvamedha-yajna, solidifying his universal fame. His power seemed limitless. Yet, Vyushitasva bore a fatal weakness: an all-consuming and passionate love for his wife, Bhadra. Overwhelmed by his insatiable desire, he exhausted himself. His excesses led to a severe illness, tuberculosis, which claimed his life in a short time.

The king’s death left Bhadra alone, inconsolable, and without an heir. The weight of this cruel fate fell upon her with an unbearable force. Torn by grief, she refused to part with her husband’s lifeless body. Day after day, night after night, she clung to him, her unending tears accompanied by heart-wrenching pleas.

In a final prayer, she begged her departed husband to return to her. And, through some mysterious force or divine miracle, he did...

Let us step back and repeat that sequence, as it is so surreal. 

One day, overcome by despair, Bhadra seized her husband’s lifeless body and, in a frenzy of emotion, shook him as if to awaken him. At that moment, a voice rang out —it was Vyushitasva’s. In a calm and soothing tone, he urged her to find peace and promised to help her endure the unbearable.

Without delay, Bhadra, still trembling with grief, shared her fears: “I am now a widow, alone, with no man to protect me. How can I live like this? My life will have no meaning without a son to continue our lineage.”

Vyushitasva gently reassured her: “Do not worry. On the eighth or fourteenth night of the moon, when you are in your bed, I will come to you. On that night, you will conceive a child.”

True to his word, Vyushitasva appeared to his wife, and from their union, seven sons were born—a blessing that transformed her despair into a life of purpose.

“That, dear Pandu, is what I expect from you,” Kunti concluded in a firm, resolute voice. “I know you, and I am certain that, through your virtue and merit, you are capable of accomplishing such a miracle —a path far more dignified and honorable than urging me to seek for another man." 

Pandu was well acquainted with this tale, so often recounted by the narrators of the Puranas. Vyushitasva was no ordinary man; his virtue and goodness placed him among the celestial beings, who considered him their equal. However, Pandu knew his wife just as well. He knew that Kunti is not the type to easily submit to such a delicate and singular request.

Of course, he did not doubt his own ability to perform such 'miracles'. He did not deny it. But despite this, he did not want to resort to such an unnatural means.

"Times have changed," he finally told her. "In the past, the customs for women were very different. They enjoyed complete freedom: they went wherever they pleased, took the pleasures they desired, without being confined to the home or bound by an exclusive tie to a single man. They lived fully, without the constraints imposed by society today.  freedom was in no way perceived as a sin; it was considered as natural as the behaviors observed in birds and animals. At that time, it corresponded to the prevailing moral standards, and even the great rishis saw no fault in it. Even today, this way of life persists among the Kurus of the North."

"Kunti," he repeated, "the idea of confining a woman to her home is a relatively recent notion. These modern rules, designed to govern the lives of ordinary people, should not concern you. We must act according to the context and circumstances. Do not let these conventions weigh you down.'

In this narrative, I interject my own reflection on the condition of women, inspired by the ensuing exchanges between Pandu and Kunti, while taking care not to alter their words with overly personal considerations. In reality, I merely paraphrase Vyasa and the characters he portrays, which allows me to explore more freely the originality and eccentricity of this behavior in such a unique context.

India, it must be noted, has long regarded—and still regards—the woman as a being subject to patriarchal authority, to use contemporary terms. This deeply ingrained perception, rooted both in public opinion and in age-old traditions, lends a particular resonance to these narratives. In that land, such stories spark passionate debates and ignite fervent discussions, for they challenge norms that have stood for centuries, serving as a reminder that the history of women is also one of struggles, paradoxes, and the enduring tension between freedom and tradition.

In this account, I weave in a reflection on the condition of women, inspired by the exchanges between Pandu and Kunti, while taking care not to distort their words with overly personal interpretations. I simply paraphrase Vyasa and the characters he brings to life, allowing me to explore more freely the originality and eccentricity of their behavior in such a unique context.

I strive to remain faithful to the Mahabharata as translated by Kisari Mohan Ganguli, however extraordinary or perplexing it may be, by adhering strictly to what I read without interpreting it through the lens of morality or personal bias. When translating these stories, derived from an old and sometimes imprecise form of English, I avoid reshaping them to fit a predetermined logic or aligning them with modern conceptions. My primary goal is to faithfully convey what I have read without betraying the essence of these narratives. ■