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Chapter 8 · Verse 19
🪈 Krishna speaks
Illustration for Chapter 8, Verse 19

भूतग्रामः स एवायं भूत्वा भूत्वा प्रलीयते। रात्र्यागमेऽवशः पार्थ प्रभवत्यहरागमे॥

bhūtagrāmaḥ sa evāyaṁ bhūtvā bhūtvā pralīyate | rātryāgame'vaśaḥ pārtha prabhavatyaharāgame ||

Word by Word 12 words
भूतग्रामः
bhū to be, to become grāma multitude, host

the whole host of beings, the crowd of living things

सः
tad that

that, this same

एव
eva verily, the very same

the very same, indeed

अयम्
idam this

this

भूत्वा
bhū to be, to come into being

having come into being

प्रलीयते
pra forth, completely lī to dissolve, to merge

dissolves away, melts back

रात्रि
rātri night

night

आगमे
ā toward gam to come, to arrive

at the coming, at the arrival

अवशः
a not vaśa control, will

helplessly, not by its own choice

पार्थ
pṛthā Pritha, Arjuna's mother

O Partha — son of Pritha, a name for Arjuna

प्रभवति
pra forth bhū to be, to arise

comes forth, springs into being

अहः
ahan day

day

This same crowd of living beings is born, then melts away, then is born again — over and over. When the great cosmic night arrives, they all dissolve back into the unseen, helplessly, not by their own wish. And when the cosmic day dawns again, they come streaming back into being. Nobody chooses it; it simply turns, like a giant wheel, endlessly.

कथा

The Breathing Sea

An original story

The tide was going out.

Aarav sat on the warm steps of the ghat at Puri, watching the Bay of Bengal pull itself slowly back from the sand. Where there had been waves an hour ago, there was now wet brown beach, dotted with little holes where crabs had ducked underground. A stranded starfish lay glistening. A fishing boat that had floated this morning now leaned on its side, beached.

Dadu lowered himself onto the step beside him, his old knees creaking like the boat's timbers. He had been a fisherman his whole life, and he read the sea the way other people read faces.

"It's leaving," Aarav said, a little sadly. "All of it. Look — the boat's stuck."

"Wait," said Dadu.

So they waited. The sun slid lower. And after a while Aarav noticed the line of foam wasn't retreating anymore. It paused. Then, so gently he almost missed it, the first wave crept forward again. Then another, a little further. The crab-holes flooded. The starfish lifted and was carried off. The leaning boat shivered, and slowly, slowly, floated upright once more.

"It's coming back," Aarav breathed.

"It always comes back," said Dadu. "Out and in. Out and in. The sea has been breathing like this since long before you were born, and it will breathe long after. Twice a day, every day, all the way back to the beginning of the world."

Aarav watched the water fill the beach again. "Does it ever get to decide? To just stay in, or stay out?"

Dadu laughed softly. "No. The moon pulls it. The sea has no choice. It can't say, 'I'm tired today, I'll skip a tide.' Out it goes, in it comes, helpless as a leaf in a stream."

He pointed past the breakers, to where the sea grew dark and huge and went on past seeing.

" told a secret like this," Dadu said. "He said all the worlds, all the beings, breathe out and in just like the tide. They come into being. They live a while. They dissolve away into the unseen. And then — day after great cosmic day — they come streaming back. Again and again, helplessly, turning like a wheel too big for us to see the edges of."

Aarav leaned his head against his grandfather's shoulder and watched the tide come home. Out and in. Born and gone and born again. Everything, even the worlds, breathing like this.

चिन्तनम्

Think of something that goes away and comes back again and again — the tide, the seasons, day and night, even your breath. Does knowing it will come back make it less scary when it leaves?