Bhagavatham Stories

In the closing chapters of Canto 9, before the final revelation, there appears the story of a king whose dharma was to witness endings. His name was Janaka, and his unique path was to understand the nature of completion, conclusion, and the surrender that must accompany the ending of all things.

Janaka was not a warrior-king like Raghu, nor a devotee like Ambarisha. He was a king contemplative and sensitive, acutely aware of the transient nature of all phenomena. From his youth, he had been struck by the impermanence of all things. He watched friends age and die. He saw kingdoms rise and fall. He observed how the glory of the past became the ruins of the present.

Unlike many who might sink into despair at such recognition, Janaka allowed this awareness to become the foundation of wisdom. He understood that impermanence was not a flaw in existence but a fundamental characteristic of manifestation. Because all things end, nothing can be grasped permanently. This recognition, rather than being depressing, was liberating.

As king, Janaka's approach was unique. He governed with full engagement and responsibility, yet with a peculiar inner detachment. He recognized that his reign, like all reigns, was temporary. His kingdom would outlast him. His successors would make different choices. His accomplishments would eventually be forgotten. Yet none of this diminished his commitment to govern well during the time he was given.

Throughout his life, Janaka developed an extraordinary capacity to be present to endings without resistance. When trusted advisors retired or died, he released them gracefully. When policies failed, he studied what could be learned and moved forward without regret. When his own aging became apparent, he did not struggle against it but welcomed it as a natural progression.

One of the most striking aspects of Janaka's reign was how he prepared for his own death. Unlike many leaders who cling to power until the end and create instability in their succession, Janaka recognized early that his time would come. He took deliberate steps to prepare his successor, not as a burden begrudgingly accepted but as the culminating act of his service as king.

As his health declined in his final years, Janaka did something extraordinary. Rather than retreating to privacy, he invited his people and neighboring rulers to his palace. He spent his final months conducting what might be called a sacred dialogue about the nature of existence, the reality of change, and the freedom that comes through accepting impermanence.

Janaka spoke to all who visited about the dharma of endings. He taught that every ending contains within it a kind of grace—the opportunity to release attachments, to refine understanding, to recognize what truly matters. He spoke about how societies and individuals often suffer not from endings themselves but from resistance to endings, from the futile attempt to preserve what cannot be preserved.

One of his most profound teachings came near the end of his life. He told his gathered listeners: "Everything you see around you—my palace, my kingdom, even my body that you see before you—is already in the process of ending. This is not a tragedy or a failure of these things. This is their nature. To understand and accept this is to touch profound wisdom."

He went on to explain that resistance to endings creates suffering. A person who recognizes that youth will end and attaches desperately to remaining young suffers. A person who recognizes that a successful project will eventually be completed and clings to the productivity of creation long past the point of diminishing returns suffers. A person who loves another and denies that separation will eventually come suffers.

Yet, Janaka taught, the acceptance of endings is not resignation or passivity. A king who understands that his reign will end is freed to govern with complete commitment and effectiveness precisely because he is not defending against the inevitable. He can take risks, try new approaches, and invest fully in his work knowing that failure in any specific initiative will not define him.

Throughout his final months, Janaka seemed almost radiant. Though his body was weakening, something within him seemed to be growing stronger. Visitors reported that in his presence, their fear of death diminished. Somehow, witnessing someone at peace with their own ending was profoundly reassuring.

Janaka received letters from distant kingdoms asking for his counsel on matters of state and spirituality. Many times his response was some variation of: "Remember that your kingdom will not last forever. This knowledge should free you to make your best decisions without fear. You have nothing to defend because everything is already in transition."

The most remarkable aspect of Janaka's death was that it seemed like a continuation of his life rather than a negation of it. He spent his final day in meditation, surrounded by his family and closest advisors. As his breathing gradually slowed, observers reported that there was no distress, no struggle, simply a gentle releasing, like a wave returning to the ocean.

The teaching of Janaka in Canto 9 comes at a crucial point. Having presented many paths and approaches to dharma, Canto 9 now presents perhaps the most universal teaching: that all the paths, all the practices, all the forms of dharma ultimately must come to terms with ending.

This is not morbid. Rather, it is liberating. The person who has not come to terms with impermanence and death is driven by fear. This fear expresses itself as clinging—to possessions, to relationships, to identity, to life itself. The person who has genuinely accepted impermanence is free from this fundamental fear and is therefore free to love more authentically, to serve more completely, and to live more fully.

Janaka's teaching also addresses a common misconception: that spiritual practice leads to the denial or transcendence of death. Canto 9 suggests something different. Spiritual practice leads to the acceptance and understanding of death, and paradoxically, this acceptance reveals something in us that is not bound by death, not because we escape physical death but because we recognize that our deepest identity is not reducible to the physical form that dies.

One of the gifts Janaka left to his lineage was a tradition of what might be called "death practice"—a contemplative approach to accepting and understanding impermanence and mortality, not morbidly but as a spiritual discipline that liberates.

There is also a subtle teaching about timing. Janaka understood that different dharmic practices are appropriate at different times. As a younger king, he had needed to develop strength, discipline, and the capacity for effective action. As he aged, the emphasis naturally shifted toward surrender, letting go, and preparation for transition. He did not cling to the practices of his youth but allowed his practice to evolve with his aging.

In the context of Canto 9, Janaka's teaching synthesizes much of what has come before. All the previous kings—through their various paths of action, devotion, knowledge, and surrender—were ultimately preparing for this recognition: that the greatest dharma, the highest wisdom, is to accept the truth of impermanence and death without resistance, and in that acceptance, to find a freedom and peace that transcends the fear that drives most of human behavior.

Janaka's example also suggests that this wisdom need not wait until death is imminent. The contemplation of impermanence and mortality, practiced throughout life, gradually transforms one's entire approach to existence. One becomes freed from petty concerns, from unnecessary conflicts, from the desperate grasping that characterizes so much human activity. Life becomes both simpler and richer simultaneously.