I can not hurt anyone

Someone I know was going through a painful situation. Her boyfriend’s parents were against their relationship. And he loves his parents deeply—who doesn’t?

Now he stands at a crossroads, holding a choice that feels almost cruel in its nature. A heartbreaking, nerve-wrenching dilemma: he has to hurt one of the parties, and he can not hurt anyone.

He is a good person—he always has been. He believes in kindness. He believes in not hurting others. That belief wasn’t formed overnight; it was shaped slowly, over years—through childhood lessons, through moments of being hurt himself. He knows, intimately, how deeply pain can cut. He has felt it.

And so, somewhere along the way—perhaps without even realizing it—he made a quiet decision: I will not hurt people.

And from that, another identity emerged: I will be a good person.

For years, this belief protected him. It kept him away from conflict. It helped him live a life that felt calm, stable… peaceful.

But now, life has placed him in a situation where no matter what he chooses, someone will be hurt.

Battle of Kurukshetra

Now let’s step onto another battlefield—the battlefield of Kurukshetra.

The war is about to begin.

Arjuna, the great warrior, asks his charioteer, Krishna, to take him to the center of the battlefield so he can see those he must fight. But what he sees shakes him to his core.

On the other side are not enemies—they are his own people.

His brothers. His elders. His teachers.

His hands begin to tremble. His breath grows heavy. The mighty warrior who had never feared battle before now feels something unfamiliar—his heart collapsing under the weight of love and attachment.

He slowly lowers his bow—the legendary Gandiva—and says to Krishna:

“I cannot do this. How can I raise my weapon against those I love? Against those who raised me, guided me, blessed me? This is not a battle I can fight.”

In that moment, Arjuna is not a warrior. He is simply a human being—conflicted, emotional, torn apart from within.

Krishna looks at him… and smiles.

And then, he asks him to fight.

And Arjuna does.

He fights his own kin. He brings down Bhishma, the man he revered, onto a bed of arrows. He kills his own guru—the one who taught him everything he knew about war.

Was Krishna Wrong?

Was Krishna wrong?

How can something that leads to so much pain, so much destruction, be right?

Imagine the suffering—the sheer physical and emotional agony. A man lying on a bed of arrows for days… every breath filled with pain.

And Bhishma was not a villain. He was, in many ways, a noble soul.

Our traditions have always spoken of ahimsa—non-violence. Entire philosophies, like Jainism, are built on the idea of minimizing harm to even the smallest living beings.

So what Krishna did… does it go against everything we have been taught?

Let’s Look Deeper

Krishna was not asking Arjuna to act out of anger, revenge, or hatred.

He was asking him to rise above his immediate emotions and see the larger picture—the greater good.

Because sometimes, what looks like kindness in the moment can lead to greater suffering in the long run.

If Arjuna had chosen to walk away… if Duryodhana had won… what kind of world would have followed? A kingdom built on greed, ego, and injustice. A future filled with silent suffering, stretching not just for years—but possibly generations.

Krishna’s guidance was not about promoting violence. It was about preventing a much larger, more destructive form of it.

It is like a surgeon’s knife.

To an outsider, it looks like harm—cutting into the body, causing pain. But the intention is healing.

A small, conscious act of pain… to prevent a lifetime of suffering.

And that’s where the truth becomes uncomfortable.

Because it forces us to question something we deeply believe in:

Is being “good” always about avoiding harm?

Or is it sometimes about having the courage to make a choice that hurts… but is necessary?

Arjuna, by refusing to fight, would not have avoided violence—he would have allowed it to grow.

And by choosing to fight, he was not embracing violence—he was containing it.

So perhaps…

Sometimes, what looks like violence is actually compassion in disguise. And what looks like non-violence… can quietly become the cause of greater harm.

Takeaways

The real question is not “How do I avoid hurting people?” It is— “What happens if I don’t act at all?”

Dharma is not always gentle. Sometimes, it demands strength over comfort, clarity over emotion, and courage over peace.