The teaching begins

To him who was thus overcome by pity, his eyes clouded and brimming with tears, sorrowing, Madhusudana spoke these words:

In this crisis, Arjuna, where does this dejection come from—unworthy of a noble person, disgraceful, and no path to heaven?

Don't yield to unmanliness, son of Pritha—it doesn't suit you. Cast off this petty weakness of heart and rise up, scorcher of enemies!

How can I, Madhusudana, meet Bhishma and Drona with arrows in battle—they who deserve worship, destroyer of foes?

It would truly be better to live on alms in this world than to kill these great and noble teachers. If I kill them, even here, all my enjoyment of wealth and desires will be smeared with blood.

Nor do we know which is better for us—that we conquer them, or that they conquer us. The very sons of Dhritarashtra stand arrayed before us, and if we killed them we would no longer wish to live.

My very being is struck down by the weakness of pity, my mind confused about dharma. I ask you—tell me for certain what is best for me. I am your student; instruct me, who have taken refuge in you.

I see nothing that could dispel this grief withering my senses, even if I won unrivaled and prosperous kingship over the earth, or lordship over the gods themselves.

Having spoken thus to Hrishikesha, Gudakesha, scorcher of foes, said to Govinda, "I will not fight," and fell silent.

To him who was sorrowing between the two armies, Hrishikesha, as if smiling, Bharata, spoke these words.

You grieve for those who need not be grieved for, yet you speak words of wisdom. The wise grieve neither for the living nor for the dead.

There was never a time when I did not exist, nor you, nor these kings. Nor is there any future in which we will cease to exist.

Just as the embodied self passes through childhood, youth, and old age in this body, so too it passes into another body. The steady person is not confused by this.

Contacts of the senses with their objects, Kaunteya, give rise to cold and heat, pleasure and pain. They come and go; they don't last. Bear them patiently, Bharata.

The person whom these cannot disturb, who is the same in pleasure and pain, steady—that one, best among men, is fit for immortality.

The unreal never comes into being; the real never ceases to be. Those who see the truth have seen the boundary of both.

Know that by which all this is pervaded to be indestructible. No one has the power to destroy this imperishable one.

These bodies of the eternal, indestructible, immeasurable embodied self are said to have an end. Therefore fight, Bharata.

Whoever thinks this self kills, and whoever thinks it is killed, both fail to understand—it does not kill, nor is it killed.

It is never born, nor does it die. It is not that, having once not existed, it later comes to be—or, on another reading, that having once existed, it later ceases to be. Unborn, eternal, changeless, always itself, it is not killed when the body is killed.

Whoever knows this to be indestructible, eternal, unborn, and unchanging—how, son of Pritha, can that person kill anyone, or cause anyone to be killed?

Just as a person casts off worn-out clothes and puts on other new ones, so the embodied self casts off worn-out bodies and enters others that are new.

Weapons don't cut this self, fire doesn't burn it, water doesn't wet it, and wind doesn't dry it.

This self cannot be cut, cannot be burned, cannot be wetted, cannot be dried. It is eternal, all-pervading, fixed, unmoving, everlasting.

This self is called unmanifest, unthinkable, unchanging. Knowing it to be so, you should not grieve.

But even if you think of it as constantly being born and constantly dying, even then, mighty-armed one, you shouldn't grieve for it.

For what is born, death is certain; for what has died, birth is certain. So over this unavoidable matter, you shouldn't grieve.

Beings are unmanifest in their beginning, Bharata, manifest in their middle state, and unmanifest again in their end. What is there in this to lament?

Someone sees this self as a marvel, another speaks of it as a marvel, another hears of it as a marvel, and yet even having heard, no one truly understands it.

This dweller in the body is eternally beyond killing in everyone's body, Bharata. Therefore you shouldn't grieve for any being.

And looking to your own dharma too, you shouldn't waver—for a kṣatriya, there's nothing better than a righteous war.

Happy indeed are the kshatriyas, son of Pritha, who find such a battle coming to them unsought, like an open gateway to heaven.

But if you don't fight this righteous battle, then, having abandoned your own dharma and honor, you'll incur wrongdoing.

People will also speak forever of your enduring disgrace, and for someone once honored, dishonor is worse than death.

The great chariot-warriors will think you withdrew from battle out of fear, and you'll be regarded lightly by those who once thought highly of you.

Your enemies, too, disparaging your strength, will say many things that shouldn't be said. What could be more painful than that?

Killed, you'll gain heaven; victorious, you'll enjoy the earth. So rise up, son of Kunti, resolved to fight.

Treating pleasure and pain, gain and loss, victory and defeat as the same, engage in battle. In this way you won't incur wrongdoing.