Ambition, then, is the fire that can both create and consume. It becomes dangerous when it blinds the heart and mind.
by Kamlesh Tripathi
Guest Commentary
To quote Mark Antony in Shakespeare’s play Julius Caesar:
“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
Guest Commentary
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious.
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it”. Ambition is highly incendiary. It can show the path to greatness or burn everything in its heat. In Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, Caesar’s ambition is both political and personal. He is neither a clear villain nor an innocent victim. His rise to power threatens to jeopardise the balance of the Roman Republic. To Brutus and the conspirators, Caesar’s growing influence signals a danger to Rome’s liberty and its soul. They believe that if Caesar’s ambition is left unchecked, it would transform a free republic into a monarchy. But according to Shakespeare, Caesar’s ambition is as much perceived as proven. He refuses the crown three times. He speaks for the people and wins their loyalty. His “fault,” perhaps, lies not in the greed for power but in his pride. “Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more,” says Brutus. Ambition must be punished before it turns into tyranny. But Shakespeare refuses to make the judgment easy. Caesar’s ambition is not that of a usurper. He is neither the villain nor the saint of the play. In Mary Shelley’s book Frankenstein, the central character, Victor Frankenstein’s ambition is intellectual in nature, rather than political. Obsessed with creating life, he defies natural laws and unleashes a monster he cannot control. His thirst for scientific glory brings about the destruction of everyone he loves including himself. His ambition to play God ends with his own ruin. In the Indian mythology, there are several characters whose fate resembles that of Caesar’s. Ravana, the mighty king of Lanka, was a scholar, warrior, and devotee of Lord Shiva. Yet, his depraved ambition to be unconquerable and possess Sita led to his downfall. As a result, his strength metamorphosed into self-destruction. Finally, it wasn’t only Rama’s arrows that destroyed him, but his own unchecked ambition. The same holds good for Duryodhana in the Mahabharata. His craving to rule Hastinapura resembles Caesar’s political hunger. He could not bear to see the Pandavas prosper. His refusal to grant even five villages, as suggested by Krishna, led to the catastrophic Kurukshetra war. Like Caesar, Duryodhana believed power to be his birthright. Karna’s story offers a fine parallel to Caesar’s personal ambition. Born into secrecy and raised in anonymity, Karna’s entire life is driven by a longing for recognition and respect. His ambition is noble. He wishes to prove his worth against Arjuna and rise above the stigma of his birth. Similarly, Caesar’s early life is marked by political struggle and a fierce determination to climb the ranks of Roman power. Yet both men get entangled in loyalties that blur moral boundaries. Karna’s devotion to Duryodhana, like Caesar’s trust in Antony and others, leads him to defend causes that conflict with dharma. Ambition without a noble cause, Shakespeare and Vyasa both suggest, can make even noble men pawns in larger tragedies. Hiranyakashipu’s ambition to rule the three worlds and attain immortality resembles Caesar’s own belief that he was beyond human intervention, as he proudly declares himself “as constant as the Northern Star.” Caesar’s rise disrupts the harmony of the Roman Republic. Their arrogance invites downfall—one at the hands of Narasimha, the other at the daggers of Brutus & co. Mythology offers a counterpoint in the case of King Mahabali. Mahabali desired to rule heaven, earth, and the underworld. But when faced with Lord Vishnu in his Vamana avatar, he chose humility over defiance, surrendering his kingdom and ego. Unlike Ravana or Duryodhana, Mahabali’s humility redeemed him, earning divine grace and immortality in memory. Here lies a profound contrast with Caesar: where Mahabali bows, Caesar refuses to yield. Shakespeare’s Caesar, standing tall against the soothsayer’s warning, “Beware the Ides of March”, becomes the very image of a man too proud to listen, too ambitious to step back. Ambition, then, is the fire that can both create and consume. It is political when it seeks power, personal when it seeks recognition, and tragic when it forgets restraint. From Caesar to Ravana, from Duryodhana to Macbeth, the pattern endures; the greater the climb, the greater the fall. As Shakespeare and the epics remind us, ambition is not inherently evil. It becomes dangerous when it blinds the heart and mind. To be ambitious is human. To be over-ambitious is to challenge the divine. The lesson of Caesar and his mythological counterparts is eternal. Ambition must be guided by wisdom, or it becomes a double-edged sword. One that wins glory in one stroke and brings ruin in the next. From Caesar’s Rome to Ravana’s Lanka, from Duryodhana’s Hastinapura to Macbeth’s Scotland, the story remains unchanged. Ambition is both the sculptor and the destroyer of greatness.
Kamlesh Tripathi is someone who values a life grounded in satisfaction and simple joys. Originally shaped in part by connections to the United States, Bhutan and Sri Lanka, he carries a blend of cultural influences that guide his perspective. He often recalls his mother’s rice and lentils as a favorite comfort dish. Among the stories that inspire him, he holds a particular fondness for the on-screen presence of Amitabh Bachchan.
