New Delhi, Oct. 27 -- Kripacharya, the revered royal teacher of Hastinapura in the Mahabharata, warned his nephew Ashwatthama against attacking warriors while they slept. Yet when the attack took place, he helped kill those who tried to escape. It is a startling contradiction. A man entrusted with instructing generations of princes understood the demands of honour and restraint, but failed to uphold them when loyalty was tested. His life asks a question that reaches far beyond an ancient battlefield: what happens when those who teach us what is right act otherwise?
Kripa's beginnings were unusual. He and his twin sister Kripi were born to the sage Sharadvan and discovered as infants by attendants of King Shantanu, who brought them into his household. Their names recalled the compassion with which they had been received. Sharadvan later instructed his son in the science of arms, and Kripa became an accomplished warrior and teacher. Long before Dronacharya became the better-known martial instructor of the Kuru princes, Kripa had taught both the Pandavas and the Kauravas. His sister married Drona, making Drona's son Ashwatthama his nephew. These ties placed Kripacharya close to the royal family and to the people whose choices would eventually destroy it.
The authority he enjoyed came from knowledge, but the responsibility it carried was greater than imparting military skill. The young princes were being prepared for positions in which a moment's judgement could affect thousands of lives. The same is true, on a different scale, when experienced professionals train younger colleagues who may one day manage teams, resources and public trust. An institution's values are transmitted not only through what its mentors teach, but also through what they reward, overlook and practise. An apprentice notices whether a respected superior admits a mistake, treats a subordinate fairly or changes a decision when the facts demand it. A new employee learns as much from how a manager responds to failure as from what that manager says about excellence. These everyday acts often remain long after formal instruction is forgotten.
When conflict between the cousins became war, Kripacharya fought on the Kaurava side, although he had taught both families. His long association with the Kuru court helps explain that allegiance, but it does not remove the difficulty of his position. Where did duty to the institution end and responsibility to conscience begin? Such dilemmas rarely arrive with a clear choice between loyalty and betrayal. A senior official may owe years of service to an organisation while questioning the conduct of those currently directing it. Faithfulness to a position is not identical to unquestioning agreement with the person who occupies power. The challenge is to serve an institution's deeper interests even when doing so unsettles its leaders.
Kripacharya faced precisely that challenge after the death of Karna. Bhishma and Drona had already fallen, the Kaurava forces were shattered, and Duryodhana still refused to accept defeat. Kripa approached him and urged peace with the Pandavas. He did not disguise the losses or promise a reversal that circumstances no longer supported. He spoke as an elder who had watched the prince grow up and as an adviser willing to deliver a painful assessment. Duryodhana acknowledged the sincerity of the counsel but rejected it. His pride, grief and past choices had made retreat seem harder than further destruction.
In that exchange lies a lesson for anyone entrusted with difficult decisions. When an investment fails, an ambitious expansion falters or a policy causes harm, leaders can become attached to the resources and reputations already committed. Further expenditure then feels easier to justify than a change of course, particularly when reputations have been built around the promise of success. Employees may bear the costs of that reluctance through uncertainty, wasted effort and decisions postponed beyond repair. Kripacharya's advice was an attempt to distinguish courage from obstinacy. Responsible leadership demands the humility to reassess a failing course and the courage to tell those in authority what they may not wish to hear. Yet the exchange also shows why an organisation needs leaders who make room for dissent. Honest counsel is of little use if every unwelcome assessment is treated as a challenge to prestige.
A still more severe test followed the Kauravas' defeat. Ashwatthama, devastated by the death of his father Drona and enraged by the destruction of their side, resolved to enter the opposing camp at night and kill its sleeping warriors. Kripacharya tried to dissuade him. He warned against allowing anger to displace judgement and urged him to wait until daylight rather than attack men who could not defend themselves. As a teacher and a maternal uncle, he was speaking to someone whose welfare mattered to him personally. He understood that grief could explain a desire for vengeance without making the act justifiable.
Ashwatthama refused. Kripacharya then accompanied him, along with Kritavarma. While Ashwatthama entered the camp and killed its occupants, including Draupadi's five sons, Kripa and Kritavarma stood at the exits and killed warriors who tried to flee. They also helped set the camp ablaze. Kripacharya had not merely failed to persuade his nephew; he had taken part in the very violence he had counselled against. That action cannot be softened into passive disagreement. It is the moment when the respected instructor's conduct became irreconcilable with his own warning.
The violence of that episode is far removed from ordinary professional life, and comparisons must respect that difference. Yet its ethical challenge is familiar. Consider a manager who privately opposes the falsification of figures but signs the report, or a senior colleague who condemns mistreatment yet helps protect the person responsible. A warning does not discharge responsibility when one's subsequent actions help the wrongdoing succeed. Professional codes and declarations of principle matter, but their credibility is tested by decisions that carry a cost. At times, the duty to an organisation may require refusing an instruction rather than helping execute it.
The involvement of Ashwatthama made Kripacharya's failure more personal. A family bond can make it painful to oppose someone we love; long friendships and years of shared work create similar pressures. In workplaces, a leader may be tempted to excuse a trusted colleague's misconduct because that person has delivered results or stood by the organisation through difficult years. At home, parents may ask children to be truthful while finding reasons to conceal their own errors. Care for another person cannot be measured by how far we will go to excuse their actions. Sometimes it is expressed through an unwelcome boundary, maintained even when affection makes it difficult.
Kripacharya survived the war. Years later, as Yudhishthira prepared to relinquish the throne, he entrusted Parikshit, Arjuna's grandson and heir to the Kuru kingdom, to Kripa as his teacher. The choice is striking. Someone who had witnessed the collapse of one generation was asked to help prepare the next. It speaks to the enduring value of knowledge and experience, but it should not be mistaken for a verdict that his earlier conduct no longer mattered. Parikshit was inheriting a kingdom whose ruling family had been devastated by conflict. Teaching such a successor called for more than proficiency in arms. It also raised the question of what an experienced adviser could impart about the human cost of pride, division and failed restraint. The epic records Kripacharya's appointment; it does not tell us what he said to Parikshit about his own choices.
For senior executives, preparing successors therefore means more than selecting capable people. It means demonstrating how to use authority when no one is offering applause, and allowing younger colleagues to question practices that deserve scrutiny. A teacher who treats a struggling student with patience gives a living example of fairness. A parent who admits a mistake teaches responsibility without delivering a lecture. A citizen who observes the standards demanded of public officials makes civic duty more than a slogan. These are different spheres of life, but each involves someone learning by watching another. Kripacharya's return to the role of teacher gives his story its most searching dimension. He had knowledge worth passing on, but his choices had also shown how easily principle could yield to attachment. If those who learn from us judge our values not by what we say, but by what we do, will they find us practising what we ask them to uphold?
Views expressed are personal. The Writer is Chairperson, Bharat Ki Soch
Published by HT Digital Content Services with permission from Millennium Post.