1. On Education - Purananuru

2. Tiruvarutpa - Ramalingaswami

3. Description of Devi - Abhirami Andadi

4. Pattinattar

5. Suffering - Kanda Puranam/Kacciyappa Sivachariyar

6. Divinity in the Essence of Things - Tirumular

7. Aattichudi - Auvaiyar (the second)

8. Tandi Alankaram

9. Royal Exit - Auvaiyar (the first) in Purananuru

10. Nalavenba - Pugalendi

11. An Upanishadic Insight - Nutrirattu/Attaamalakam

12. Hyperbolic Modesty - Kampan

13. Literacy & Numeracy - Tiruvalluvar

14. The Vedic Nature of Siva Nataraja

15. Some Upanishadic Prayers - Brihadaranyaka

16. More Upanishadic Prayers - Taittiriya

17. The New Shiv-Dharma and Caste Sects

18. Dialogie on a Grand Mystery - Yama & Nachiketas

19. Empiricism in the Upanishads

20. How Many Gods?

21. More Upanishadic Slokas

22. Levels of Consciousness and Om

23. Gargi

24. Truth & Caste - Satyakama

25. Brahman in the Upanishads

26. Infrequently Quoted Passages

27. Some Greek Parallels

28. The Ramayana

29. The Author of the Ramayana

30. Thoughts on Manthara

31. Bharat of Kekaya

32. Urmila - Wife of Lakshmana

33. Shurpanakha

34. Ravana the Rakshasa

35. Dasaratha

36. In the Ashoka Grove

37. Discussions on the Ashoka Grove

38. Is the Ramayana Literature of History?

39. Kumbhakarna

40. Jabali

-------------------------------------------------------------

.

.

On the importance of education

uTRuzi udavium uRuporuL koDuttum
piTRai nilai muniyAdu kaTRal nanDRe
oru kuDip piRanda pallO ruLLam
mUttOn varuga ennAdu avaruL
aRivuDai yOnARu aracum cellum

With whatever effort, giving however much,
It's good to be educated, not regret in days to come.
No matter from what tribe, to the man with learning,
Even royalty will say, "Oh learned one, welcome!"

Reflections
Here is a fine example of the value placed on learning in the Tamil world
even in ancient times. The verse speaks of the efforts and expenses that might
be incurred in acquiring knowledge, and says it is all worth it. It reminds
people that caste or no caste, the educated ones will always be preferred to
those without any learning, at least when it comes to royal appointments.
Replace the word by , and the verse is as applicable today
as fifteen hundred years ago when it was composed.

As one looks into the works of ancient Indic thinkers one is amazed by the
variety and insights that many of them bring. From a work like the PuRanAnURu of
the Tamil tradition, wherein this work occurs, we learn much about the social
and cultural history of the times. Clearly, somewhere, sometime, something,
somehow went wrong. Much of the confusion we confront today is the result of
abandoning or not adhering to the wisdom of our sage-poets.

There was, in ancient times, a flourishing kingdom in the Tamil country, in
the most southern regions of the Indian subcontinent. Its capital was the great
city of Madurai, rich since time immemorial in culture and craft, in learning,
and literature. The rulers of the land were the PANDiya kings who often engaged
in battles with adjoining realms of the Pallavas and the Ceras. The fame of the
kingdom had spread not only to the northern regions (both Ashoka and Kautilya
mention the city), but went as far as Rome whose writers too referred to it. It
has been reckoned that the PANDiya kingdom flourished for more than a
millennium, from about the fourth century B.C.E. until the fourteenth century
C.E. when it was overrun by a general of Allauddin Khalji, the ruthless
plunderer who killed his own father-in-law to become Sultan of Delhi, and
severed his allegiance to the caliphate of Baghdad. It was a sad day when
Madurai came under a Sultan's sway.

The verse above is attributed to the great PANDiyan monarch known as
NeDunceziyan (5th century C.E?). The name probably meant one who flourished for
a long time. He was one of the contributors to the anthology known as
PuRanAnURu. His court poet MAngkuDi MaridanAr wrote a long panegyric on his king
who was wise with learning and victorious in battle. Other poets of the
classical age also paid homage to this great ruler of the PANDiya realm. One of
them tells us that this victorious Ceziyan subdued kings who had elephants
adorned with gold, and possesses mounds and mounds of rice. Another poem
describes how he was decked in leafy branches from the margosa tree, before he
marched to battle. He is said to have had a navy too. He was a martial king for
sure, declaring that if he did not keep up his promise to crush his enemies,
poets need praise his kingdom no more. This single line reveals the role and
importance of poets in those glory days of Tamil kingdoms.

In the view of many scholars it was during his reign that the
Sanskritization of the south reached a climax, for he is said to have conducted
sacrifices under the guidance of Brahmin priests and in meticulous accordance
with Vedic injunctions.

V. V. Raman
January 29, 2004

cAdimatam camayamenum canGgaDamviT RaRiyEn
cAttirac cERu ADukinDRa ca?amviT TaRiyEn
Adiyanda nilaiyRiyEn alaiyaRiyAk kaDalpOl
Anandap perumpOkat tamarntiDavum aRiyEn.

As one who doesn't go beyond caste and creed,
And who isn't from the constraints of shastras freed,
Can I ever know Him who is
Without beginning or end, and immersed in bliss!

Reflections
These lines are from the 19th century mystic sage-poet RAmalinga SwamigaL's
TiruvatuTpA. Ramalinga was more than a poet: he was a saint, who not only
thought and spoke movingly about the Divine, but felt from the depths of his
heart for the poor and the wretched of the world. He was compassion incarnate
who could not stand the sight of the hungry. He sought to unite all humankind
into a single family. With such all embracing love that transcended race and
nation, how could he be in peace with the world of caste and oppression that
surrounded him? He saw people praying and singing the praise of God in temples,
who also practiced discrimination of the worst sort, based on birth and lineage.
In this verse, he asks rhetorically how one who is sullied with the notions of
caste hierarchy and outworn Shastras could ever have even a glimpse of the
Almighty who is beyond piety and classifications of human societies, and is in
essence pure bliss. It is thinkers like Ramalinga who bring luster to the Hindu
tradition which has been marred by evil social and superstitious forces over the
ages.

Sri Ramalingaswami's life spanned a little over half a century: from 1823 to
1874. In this brief period, he became preeminent as poet and philosopher, social
reformer and spiritually evolved soul. Through his life and legacy he has
become a precious jewel in the treasure chest of Tamil culture. His
sensitivities were unique and outstanding. He displayed unusual keenness of
mind even in his early years. He was a recluse as a youngster, reflecting and
meditating on higher realms, much to the bewilderment of the people around. A
couple of years later, he lost all interest in the learning and recitation that
went on at school. He often ran to the sanctuary of Lord Murugan, the supreme
symbol of Tamil divinity - there to sing the holy hymns of devotion and ecstatic
love of God. It appears from what Sri Ramalinga says that this outpouring of
love was not one-aided, for in the process he felt he acquired all knowledge,
for he sang to the Lord:

You taught me all knowledge, through you I could see
the illusoriness of this world.

Sri Ramalinga was one of the few to have experienced mystical vision when he
was still an infant, barely six months old. It has been said that the child
displayed clear signs of spiritual ecstasy when it was shown the Chidambara
rahasyam in the temple of Lord Nataraja. This is the sacred spot where the
divine principle is symbolized in its most abstract and all-pervading aspect,
namely AkAsha. The onlookers stood in amazement when they noticed the most
unusual reaction in the baby. In his later years, the poet recalled this in a
famous verse:

When with my mother in my tender age, I beheld
the mystic mystery in Thillai (Chidambaram).
As the curtain was lifted,
the essence of the splendor of the divine
was revealed unto me.

The corpus of Sri Ramalingaswami's literary output is known as the Tiruvarutpa.
The name signifies that these were the result of aruL or divine grace. Here the
lines pour like torrents from a majestic source high above, illuminations from
the celestial sphere, as it were. The Tiruvarutpa includes some six thousand
songs and verses. Not many poets, in India or beyond, have produced such a
massive collection. The work includes prose pieces also.

Saint Ramalinga composed some glorious verses to the Lord, not simply as the
divine Father or Mother, but as the immanent spirit that moves the world.
Steeped as he was in Saiva SiddhAnta where complex metaphysical concepts come
into play, some of Ramalinga's poetry include mystical elements such as suddha
deham, praNava deham, and j? deham, Siva cakram, Siva sorpanam, Siva turyam,
etc. which may be incomprehensible to the non-initiate.

V. V. Raman
February 9, 2004

poruLe poruLmuDikkum bOkamE
arum bOkam ceyyum maruLe
maruLil varunyeruLe
en manattu vaattutu
iruLetum indri oLiveLi yAki
irukkum unDRan
aruLEtu aRikinDRai lEn
ambuyAtanattu ambikaiyE

Oh Thou who art in every material thing!
Oh enjoyment that material things bring!
Oh delusion that from enjoyment comes!
Oh clarity into which this becomes!
Oh darkness that clouds my mind so small!
Oh light of knowledge that clears it all!
Oh effulgence that shines so bright!
I'm unable to fathom your spiritual might!
Oh my goddess Ambika.

Reflections

This verse is from a classical Tamil hymn addressed to the Goddess abirAmi, a
manifestation of Shakti (PArvati), the Cosmic Energy. There is a temple
dedicated to abirAmi in the town of TirukaTTavUr in TamilnADu. The hymn,
consisting of a hundred verses, is know as AbirAmi andAdi. In these stanzas
brimming with exquisite devotion, the poet expresses his reverence for the
goddess in a variety of ways, extolling her appearance, paying homage to her
grace, adoring her, referring to her in various sacred historical contexts, and
invokes her in metaphysical modes also: as the essence of everything, a music
and space and fire and celestial bodies. Composed in towards the end of the 19th
century, this is one of the finest compositions of this kind, and is recited to
this day with deep devotion by many at home and in temples.

In this verse the poet looks upon the Cosmic Mother as the root of everything in
the universe: from gross matter and its illusory modes to the ultimate grace
that leads to enlightenment, and recognizes the inadequacy of the fettered ego
to fathom it all in its human condition.

The author, AbirAmi baTTar was drawn to the deity of his local temple from an
early age. He is said to have been a yogi who went into a mystic trance now and
again, provoking the ridicule of a few people around. One day he was taunted by
a question as to what day it was, to which he said, it was full moon day, when,
in fact, it was new moon. For this Calendrical error he was dragged to the local
king in whose presence he repeated the error. Legend has it that the king
sentenced him to a severe punishment, whereupon the ardent yogi exclaimed to the
Goddess that it was all her fault, and proceeded ex tempore to verbalize the
andAdi. When he was towards the third quarter of the composition, the deity is
said to have appeared in the sky and flung into the air her sparkling earring
which shone in the sky like the full moon. There are other interpretations of
this legend.

There is a genre of Tamil poetry known as andAdi, which literally means
beginning-end. It is so called because it consists of a string of lines or
verses, each of which begins with the word with which the last one ends, such
as, for example, the following set of sentences. An example of andAdi toDai
where the formula is followed in a string of lines would be (in English):
This is the story of the man.
The man was full of goodness.
Goodness is a commendable virtue.
Virtue is not of a single kind.
Kind means being considerate to people.
People are not all the same.
....
When we have verses rather than lines, we have ceyyuL andAdi, of which abirAmi
andAdi is an example. The andAdi format in Tamil poetry dates back to 9th
century. Many AzvArs composed poems in the andAdi format. Many poets composed in
this format. It was been suggested that this was an effective device for
learning poems by heart, and was especially useful in the oral tradition. But it
may also be looked upon as an expression of the penchant for word play which has
been a characteristic a great many Tamil poets and writers

V. V. Raman
February 12, 2004

onDRenDRiru - deivam unDRenDRiru
uyar celvamellAm anDReNDRiru
pacittOr muhampAr
nallaRamum naTpum naNDRenDRiru
naDunInGkAmalE
namakkiTTapaDi eNDRenDRiru
manamE unakkE upadEcamidE

Take Him as the only One
Take Him as the existent One.
Wealth isn't everything.
To hungry faces compassion bring.
In friendship and in righteous ways,
May all your trust you place always.
From the righteous path, not going astray
What's been given to you, take you may
In all of this, oh my mind
May you some good counsel find.

Reflections

This poem is by an eminent siddha poet by the name of PaTTinattAr (15th
century?): an extraordinarily gifted poet who sang of the glories of asceticism,
cared little for material life, and exclaimed how the needs of the piety mode
are but meager. The siddha poets were generally not sympathetic to canonical
modes (the shaAstras), rejected idol worship, and were more interested in yogic
exercise than in standard modes of religious practice. As often happened with
the spiritually inclined who sought an ascetic life, PaTTinattAr must have been
distracted more than once in his early years by the female body, for he writes
in the most harsh tones against women. In this he was not unlike other siddha
poets who regarded women as Menaka: the temptress who distracted the eminent
VishvAmitra from his spiritual path.

PaTTinattAr was a deeply compassionate man, and was most sensitive to sight
of hungry people. Note how, in this poem, after talking about the Divine, he
quickly turns to caring and righteous behavior and to compassion for the hungry.
There are several stories associated with this bright star of Tamil poetry.
According to one, he was a wealthy merchant who traded with lands overseas.
Once, as happened with Shakespeare's Antonio in the Merchant of Venice, his
boat laden with gold was reported to have been lost at sea. He was deeply
distressed. But then news came that it had been sighted. He rushed to the port
to see it arrive. In the meanwhile a hungry mendicant happened to come his door
for a morsel of food. PaTTinattA's wife asked the man to wait for her husband's
return, whereupon the famished beggar left an earless needle with a note to the
effect that wealth improperly acquired, money hidden by the miser, and an
earless needle will all be useless in the end.

Upon his return, the moneyed merchant saw the note and was so moved by its
message that he gave up everything, took to the streets, and began life as a
common beggar, singing the songs of his composition which praised the lord,
pitied and parodied women, and wept for the hungry. We can see an echo of his
reaction in the verse above. The moral of the episode is that pithy
pronouncements even by simple people (a beggar in this case) sometimes carry
wisdom and inspiration that can touch the heart and mind of sensitive people.
His original name was TiruvENGkaDa CheTTiyAr. Since he became an illustrious
poet from the famed city of KAverippUm PaTTinam, he came to be called
PaTTinattAr which simply means "one from the town."

V. V. Raman
February 16, 2003

peTRiDum kuravar AnOr
piLLaikaL tampAl nOnonDRu
uTRiDiR piRaraik koNDum
uRuduuar ceidu tIppAr

maTRavar tampAl anpO
vankaNO adupOl nampAl
paTRiya pavanGkaL tIrppAn
paramanum ivaikaL ceitAn

When parents find an offspring ill,
For cure to another go they will.
The treatment may be a bitter pill
But the parents' love is there still.

So to rid us of the sins we've done
We get the pain from the Supreme One.
Which He doesn't directly bring.
His agents are who do this thing.

Reflections

These lines are from Kacciyappa CivAcAriyAr's KandapurANam (#455) which is a
Tamil recreation of the Sanskrit work ShivapurANam. The author is known to have
been a great scholar in Tamil as well as in Sanskrit. Some believe the work
dates back to the 17th century; others, that it is much older.

A profound theological perspective is presented here to tackle the difficult
problem of theodicy: Why does not a loving and merciful God remove promptly the
pain and suffering of human beings? These lines express in a poetic way this
perennial question. They state the law of karma in an interesting way.

The poet says that just as we need to take bitter medicines to be cured of our
ailments, we need to suffer to rid ourselves of the sins we have accumulated.
And he gives an interesting analogy: Parents are too loving of their children to
administer the pills themselves, and so they pass on the unpleasant chore to a
physician who does the job. In the same way, though God is loving and merciful,
the task of ridding us of the ailment is relegated to another agent, like the
law of karma.

The context of the verse in KandapurANam is the following. The good people of
the world are tormented by the evil personage SUrapadman and his brothers. The
people appeal to Lord Shiva who informs them that they are suffering because of
their past misdeeds. If so, reason the wise men, why doesn't Shiva punish them
Himself? Why does he have to inflict the penalty through a third person? The
explanation which Brahma gives for this is that because of the love that Shiva
has for humanity, as with parent and child, He cannot Himself give the needed
medicine for the disease (of sin) that has been acquired. So he administers the
required pain through an agent: SUrapadman in this case.

Kacciyappa CivAcAriyAr's KandapurANam is regarded as Shaivism's composition
corresponding to Kampan's RAmAyaNam. The work resembles that masterpiece in
length (more than 10,000 stanzas), story line (God comes to save humanity from
an all-powerful demonic miscreant), and in its bhakti-mode (deep devotional
poetry). It is filled with reverence for KandasvAmi or Murugan (and Shiva)
exactly as the RAmAyaNa is filled with reverence for RAma (and VishNu). Kandan
is a manifestation of the Divine to rid the world of the monster SUrapadman who
had acquired enormous prowess by dint of intense meditation: a power he was
misusing; exactly as RAma is a manifestation of the Divine to rid the world of
the monster RAvaNa who had acquired enormous prowess by dint of meditation: a
power he was misusing. Here too there are six cantos.

The inspiring verses are rich in similes and imagination. They are colorful in
their descriptions, and they also embody a good deal of the philosophy of Shaiva
SiddhAnta. However, as sheer poetry the work does not match Kampan's work of
genius, in the estimation of many literary critics. The legends sometimes become
too fantastic to be taken seriously.

There is a widely held belief in the tradition that the very first verse of
KandapurANam had been gifted to the author by Lord Murugan Himself who also
corrected overnight the first hundred stanzas.

Some years ago I began an ambitious project: Of rendering the whole KandapurANam
into English. But in the midst of my several other commitments, by the time I
got to the 300th of the 10,346 stanzas, I gave up. Maybe some day.

V. V. Raman
February 19, 2004

TEnukkuL inbam civappO kaRuppO
vAnukkuL IcanaitEDi madiyilIr
tEnukkuL inbam ceRindirun dARpOl
UnukkuL Ican oLittirun dAnE

Is the joy in the honey black or reddish?
Searching for God in the sky is as foolish.
As abundant is the joy that honey brings,
God is shining in the essence of things.

Reflections
This verse is attributed to the eminent TirumUlar (7th century C.E.?), who is
regarded as the founder of the Tamil Saiva SiddhAnta school. His Tirumandiram
consists of more than 3000 meters, and has been commented upon by a great many
scholars.

This verse very simply reminds us that academic debates and logical analyses of
profound truths often miss the whole point of spiritual experience. Honey
contains the essence of sweetness: this one can know only from experience. One
can discuss and debate the matter of honey's sweetness endlessly, but that can
never give us even an inkling of the taste of honey. Indeed, it would be foolish
to be engaging in talks about honey in our efforts to taste it. "Is honey red or
black?" is a metaphorical way of referring to the analytical approach. Likewise,
says the poet, it is absurd to seek God in particular spaces, for the divine is
all-pervasive. It is only when one recognizes and experiences the spiritual
light that is inherent in every atom of the physical universe that one is truly
enlightened, declares TirumUlar.

Clearly, a sage-poet who has achieved that stage finds the customary modes of
prayer and worship to be superficial and shallow, and theological discussions to
be utterly foolish. He urges us to strive to see the divine in the world around,
to experience ecstasy in Nature and its countless manifestations from dust to
distant stars.

However, it must be remembered that discussions and debates, scholarship and
learning, also have their place in culture and civilization. It would be a
serious error if society abandons altogether intellectual and scholarly
pursuits. What is important is to know the relevance of what we are doing in a
given context. It is important to realize that TirumUlar's injunction is valid
only in the context of purely spiritual pursuits.

aRam ceiyya virumbu

Desire to do the righteous thing!

Reflections
The Tamil word aram corresponds to the Sanskrit dharma which may be interpreted
as righteous behavior. The above instruction reminds us of the Upanishdaic
dhamaM cara: Follow the path of dharma!

Here we are not simply asked to follow that path. We are advised to want to do
it. The A profiound understanding of psychology is revealed here. Once the
desire to do good in implanted in heart and mind, action would follow
spontaneously and for sure. This is somewhat like the Chinese saying that it is
better to teach a hungry man to fish than to give him the day's portion.
The line is from AuvaiyAr, the poetess par excellence of the Tamil-speaking
people. There is a legend to the effect that she was a child prodigy who spoke
poetry when barely four, and had the blessings of Lord Ganesha. She was fully
devoted to the Divine principle from that tender age. When she matured to a
good-looking damsel, her father began to negotiate a suitable groom for her. She
had no wish to marry and become another housewife. She prayed to the Lord to
turn her into an old woman, wrinkles and all, so no youth would want to wed
her. All she wanted was to pursue the poetic path. Her wish was granted, and
that is how this immortal doyenne of Tamil wisdom is remembered: a grand lady of
mature years.

We don't know what her real name was. But she came to be called AuvaiyAr, a word
which means mother or matron There is probably no Tamil speaker with cultural
self-respect who has not heard the name of Auvai, as she is sometimes known
affectionately. Few writers in any culture have enjoyed such reputation for more
than a millennium.

The Tamil world boasts of two AuvaiyArs. The first one whom sacred history
regards as the oldest of four sisters of the great TiruvaLLuvar has left two
memorable masterpieces in the "A is for Apple, B is for Boy" mode by which
children learn the alphabet. Except that in the Auvai-inspired tradition, the
letters introduce the young to values and wisdom rather than to apples, cats,
and dogs. In the same work she also urges us to cool our temper, and never to
give up zest for life.

The first of these collections is called AtticcUDi, and is known for its
capsules of perennial wisdom. The name means one who is adorned with the flower
from the Atti (Bauhinia racemosa) tree, and is one of many epithets for Lord
Shiva. Nowhere is the Shakespearean phrase "brevity is the soul of wit
(wisdom)" more tellingly illustrated than in this immortal collection which used
to be (perhaps still is) learned by rote by youngsters before they learn to read
and count.

A companion work is called KonDRaivEndan, which is another honorific for Lord
Siva. This too is a mound of maxims, each a string of four pithy words. The
genius of the Tamil language sparkles in these precious nuggets, all formulated
with just four words and in rhythmic meters. The work begins by declaring that
Mother and Father are the first Gods to be reckoned. Then we are reminded that
it is very beneficial to worship in a house of prayer. In the same work, we are
advised to forget promptly an unattainable desire, to dwell in a town where
water is readily available, to not keep moping about a loss but to get back to
work again, and so on.

Many kings were AuvaiyAr's patrons. She traveled from region to region. Among
the stories associated with Auvaiyar's life one is that she was once told by a
priest not to sit in a place of worship with her legs pointing in the direction
of the Almighty. He should have said, the icon. AuvaiyAr asked him to show her a
direction which pointed to a place where the Almighty wasn't present.

What makes AuvaiyAr an extraordinary poetess is her ability to condense weighty
insights in very few words. She was not a pompous pedant quoting scripture, nor
a secluded swami, but one devoted to VinAyaka (Lord GaNeSa). Her teachings were
not about God, karma, moksha, and such. She was a down-to-earth teacher who
spoke with simplicity and intelligence on matters that help us become decent,
sharing, and compassionate. She was humble too. "What is has been learned has
the measure of a fistful of mud, " she reflected, "what is not learned is as
vast as the world."

Some three score of Auvai's poem's are extant, enshrined in the Tamil
anthologies called PuranAnUru and AganAnUru. AuvaiyAr, who is considered to be
an incarnation of Sarasvati, stands tall among the women-poetesses of the
world, though she is seldom recognized as such.

ponGkazakam alla puyalE idu
ivaiyum konGkai yiNai alla kOnGkarumbE
manGkai nin maiyarikka nalamadar vanDu ivai
ivaiyum kai alla kAntaL malar.

Not falling hair, but stormy clouds they are.
Not a pair of breasts, but silk-cotton buds they are.
Oh youthful woman, your dark eyes, beetles they both are
And they aren't hands, but kAndaL flowers they are.

Reflections
In the sophisticated framework of any language there are many figures of speech.
One of them is the metaphor in which something is mentioned instead of another
by virtue of their close resemblance, and for describing the second thing more
effectively. There is also a figure of speech in which one apparently rejects
the object/subject which is to be described, and says that it is actually the
other one. This is meant to emphasize even more that which one is trying to
portray in an effective way.

In Tamil rhetoric, this figure of speech is called avanuti (denial of) uruvakam
(metaphor). The above verse is an example of this. Here, the poet does not say
that the falling hair of the young woman resembles stormy clouds, in which case
it would be simile. Nor does he simply refer to the hair as stormy clouds, in
which case it would be a metaphor. Rather, he is saying that the hair is not
hair, but is itself the stormy cloud. And so on. The metaphors are denied. This
is an even more powerful mode of description. To say, "he is not a man, but a
beast," is a more forceful way of describing the negative qualities of a person
than to simply say that he is like a beast.

Poetics had already been well developed in Sanskrit literature when a Tamil poet
by the name of TanDi (twelfth century?) wrote a treatise on the principles that
should govern epics and poetics. Some scholars believe that he was inspired by a
much earlier Sanskrit work called KAvyadarsha, others that it might have been a
codification of Tamil works which were already there. TanDi's treatise is
entitled TanDi-alanGkAram. The lines above are from that work. It is said that
some contemporary writers did not regard with favor such elaborate regulations
of artistic creations. Nevertheless TanDi's work had great influence on later
Tamil poetry.

Whether all the rules set by TanDi added to or diminished the quality of Tamil
poetry has been debated by literary critics. At least one history of Tamil
literature points out that it was responsible for the "decadent literature of
the post-ChOLa period."

In any event, as in the religious context and in art appreciation, analysis of
what is happening is at least as interesting as what is actually happening. But
to be obsessed by such analyses may not always be helpful for a fuller immersion
in what is being experienced, nor in the creative process itself.

What may be noted here is the impact of a theorist on the literary history of a
language.

V. V. Raman
March 25, 2004

ODan marIiya pIDin mannar
nOippAl viLinda yAkkai tazIik
kAdan maRandavar tIdumarunG kaRumA
raRamburi pacumpuR parappinar kiDappi
maRanGgan dAka nallamar vIznda
nILkazan maRavar celvic celkena
vALpOzn dDakkalum.

When a cowardly king from battle flees,
And perishes then from disease,
Brahmins, versed in sacred writing,
Forget the love for their departed king,
Place the body on grass powerful
To free it from the act disgraceful,
They say, "Oh king, May you go on
Like the warriors brave who have all gone
With the heroic bracelet they would not yield
While they were on the battle-field!"
Then they cut the body with their swords,
And bured it, saying these words.

Reflections
This poem is from AuvaiyAr I who probably lived in the 8th century, some
four hundred years before the second Auvai who wrote AtticcUDi. It is in
PuRanAnURu (93.II.4.11). [Her works, rather than those of the second Auvai
are the ones in PuRanAnURu. I had misspoken in my last note.] This poem
reveals an ancient Tamil custom by which a king who had been in battle was
not expected to return to his realm while his army was still fighting: that
would be an act of cowardice. If this happened, then when the kind died a
natural death, there was a ceremony in which priests would place him on the
sacred grass (dharba), recite some mantras, and cut the corpse before
burying it. It was believed that this way his soul would take the path of
the brave chieftains who die on the battle-field.

This poem is said to have been addressed to a king by the name of AdiyamAn
NeDumAn A? one of the royal patrons of the great poetess. Auvai often
urged kings to be good and generous in whatever they did. AdiyamAn had only
the greatest respect for Auvai, and she for her. In another poem which she
wrote upon his death, she recalls with sadness how the days of his generous
giving when she shared meat and beverage with his court were gone for ever.
The themes of this poetess have a masculine ring: about wars and weapons,
heroism and bravery, about the weakness of enemy kings, and the like. But
she has her entries in aham literature too, which speak of love and
sensitivity. In one of these she describes the sunset as a time when the sun
looks for a hill to hide behind, and becomes all red in face, and the earth
turns cool.

With Pliny, there was a younger and an elder one. With Bacon there was Roger
and Francis. With Johnson, there was Ben and Samuel. With Curie, there was
Marie and Irene. With Rama, there was a Sita Rama and Bala Rama. With
Gandhi, there was a Mohandas K., an Indira, and more. But with Auvai, there
is only one name. It is not surprising that for many centuries, and even now
in the popular mind, there was only one Auvai, always pictured as the wise
old woman, and composer of children's alphabetical maxims. It is said that
some imaginative story teller was responsible for mixing up the two. But now
we know that the two are not the same.

V. V. Raman
1 April 2004

munnai vinaiyin valiyAl muDimannan
ennaip piriya irunGkAnil - annavanaik
kANAdu azukinDREn enDRAL kadir imaikkum
pUNAram pUNDAL pularndu.

"Because of my previous karma,
The prince who is bound to me
In the dismal darkness
Has abandoned me.
Not seeing him, I weep,"
The bedecked woman said,
Who by all this had
Like a flower withered.

Reflections

This is a moving verse from NaLa-veNbA, an epic poem in Tamil literature. The
title of the poem means: The (story of) NaLa (told) in the VeNbA (form). VeNbA
is one of the six canonical poetic meters in Tamil prosody. Literary critics
generally say that this is one of the finest examples of that meter.

The story is adapted from the famous episode of NaLa and Damayanti which appears
in the MahAbhArata (Nalopakhyana Parva). It is the story of the righteous king
NaLa who won the hand of the princess Damayanti of Vidarbha in a svayamvara: a
custom by which a princess chose her groom from among many suitors. NaLa's
rivals were various Vedic deities. The god Kali (not kALi) grew jealous and
contrived to lure him to a gambling game which cost NaLa his kingdom. When he
retreated into the forest, Damayanti followed him. There again Kala induced NaLa
to leave his wife one night, making him imagine she would go back to her father.

When Damayanti woke up in the morning she was shocked not to find her husband.
It was then that, when a passer-by asked her why she was in such distress, she
spoke as in the verse above.

This verse is sometimes cited to show the devotion of Damayanti to her husband.
She was not blaming him for leaving her. Rather, she attributes her sorry
predicament to some past action of hers in a previous birth. Aside from
illustrating the classical wifely virtue of never finding fault with one's
husband, the verse also teaches the notion that when we are hurt by no matter
whom, it is wiser to consider it as a punishment for a past misdeed than to
point the finger at the other person. It is such values that make up a culture.
Aside from other messages conveyed in the story-poem, such as love,
responsibility, and pernicious effects of gambling, there are also many charming
poetic descriptions in the work.

The Tamil version of the story (NaLaveNbA) is attributed to the poet PugazEndi
(13th century?) whose name literally means The Holder of Fame. He was a court
poet in for a ChoLa king, but he had a staunch poet-rival there. Fascinating
stories are told about their mutual poetic jealousies.

V. V. Raman
April 15, 2004

naranilan curan iyakkan nAnalan anataNan maTRu
aracanum vaNikan cUttiran allan naRpiracAri
kirakiyum vAnappirattan kETakal canyAci
niraiyinil yArumallEn nicapOta vaTivinAmE

A man, a demigod, a dog, I am not;
Nor a brahmin am I.
A kshatriya, vaishya, shudra, I am not;
Nor in one of the four stages am I.
Not a bachelor or householder,
Not a renunciant or forest-dweller.
I am none in any hierarchy.
Forms of our consciousness are we.

Reflections

This verse is from NUTRiraTTu which is attributed to the saint RamaNa who in
turn presented this as AttAmalakam, a Tamil version of a Sanskrit philosophical
work HastamAlakam. The word literally means "gooseberry in the hand." It is
derived from the expression: to have gooseberry in one's hand which meant in the
language, to say something that is crystal clear.

It is said that once a woman who wished to take a dip in a sacred river left her
infant to the care of an ascetic on the bank. Unfortunately, while the saintly
man was deep in meditation the child crawled into the waters and drowned. When
the mother returned and discovered the tragedy she began to wail. The spiritual
man, realizing what had happened, took the body of the dead child from the
river, and let his own soul seep into it. The child was revived, but it did not
speak. The yogi in the boy's body saw no need to talk. Some years later, the
great ShankarAcArya happened to run into the seven-year mute child. The
philosopher-saint asked the boy who he was, and who his parents were. Now the
lad suddenly spoke, and uttered the above words of wisdom.

The life principle manifests itself in a variety of ways. In the traditional
worldview they may even be as unearthly beings. Here on earth they could be
humans or animals. We as human beings refer to ourselves as of this race or
nation, of that creed or caste. Then again we recognize ourselves as being in
different stages in life: as child or adult, as spouse or parent or grandparent.
In the midst of all these apparent differences and transformations we often
forget that at the core we are all but bits of the same cosmic self. This
Upanishadic insight is what is conveyed in the poem above.

In a society in which one still fights about jAti and VarNa, about Hindu and
Jain temples, it is good to recall the wisdom of our sage-poets. But it is far
more important to internalize these great truths and translate them into
practice.

V. V. Raman
April 22, 2004

EDRiyEn ezuttaRiyEn ezutum vakai nAnRiyEn
pADavakai aRiyEn pATTin payan aRiyEn.
nAvilE vandapaDi nAninGge pADukiREn.
ARu kuTRam nURupizai aDiyEn yAn ceidAlum
aiyA manam poRuttu Adarikka vENDukiREn.

I'm ignorant of pages, ignorant of letters,
Ignorant of writing too.
I know naught of music,
Of the benefits of songs, I don't have a clue.

As the words to my tongue, come at random,
Here I am going to sing.
Even if hundreds of mistakes I make, Sir,
Support to me, bring.

Reflections

Kamban, the greatest of Tamil poets, and one of the greatest in all languages,
compares his effort to narrate the story of Rama to a cat trying to drink up the
ocean of milk, and he pleads with the great Tamil scholars not to take seriously
the words of madmen, fools, and deranged devotees like himself. The poet
MANikkavAcakar, in his SivapurANam declares that his previous evil deeds have
made him utterly unworthy of composing the work because it is impossible for
such a one to engage in pious activities.

To people of far lesser genius than such giants, such expressions of modesty
may seem grossly exaggerated. We read such statements because in Tamil literary
tradition, an author usually presents at the beginning, a formal declaration
expressing his/her humility, often stating that he/she is not fully qualified
to undertake a work of such significance.

This part of the preface is known as avaiaDakkam: The word actually means
humility in an assembly. It is an expression of the author's modest
self-appraisal. Perhaps the origin for this is the fact that in the ancient
Tamil world literary works, especially poetic works, were often presented to a
patron or to an academy of first rate scholars. In such contexts it was deemed
appropriate to be humble. In that framework (what may strike us as) hyperbolic
expressions, whether or love or respect, of humility or praise, were the norm.
The truly wise and learned generally tend to be modest since they recognize more
deeply than others the intrinsic greatness of similar minds.

The verse above is an example of avaiaDakkam. It is usually the opening stanza
of popular poems by common poets.

eN enba Enai ezuttu enba ivviraNDum
kaN enba vAzum uyirkku.

What are called numbers and letters: these two things
Are (like) the eyes for all living things.

Reflections
Writing is one of the greatest inventions in human culture because it conquers
space and time. Through it, knowledge and information can be transmitted across
great distances and from generation to generation. Ultimately, all knowledge is
made permanent for humanity through scripts and books. Counting and numbers are
at the basis of civilization too. Not a day passes when for some practical
purpose or other one does not use numbers, consciously or unknowingly. Handling
numbers (and mathematics, more generally) enables us to accomplish many things.
Francis Bacon said that knowledge is power. TiruvaLLuvar goes even beyond: His
insight is that letters and numbers are power. He mentions not only writing
which is related to knowledge but also numbers which relate to the more abstract
capacities of the mind.

It is remarkable that long before the modern age Valluvar recognized the
importance of both literacy and numeracy. Indeed, he places numeracy (ease with
numbers) before literacy (ease with written words). It may be pointed out that
in the Tamil language, as in few others) the word for counting and the word for
thinking are the same (eNNudal).

The poet compares literacy and numeracy to the eyes: perhaps the most important
faculty of perception. We use the expression: mind's eye. In a sense, letters
and numbers are the mind's more potent eyes, for through them the mind acquires
knowledge and information that would be difficult to access, if not shut off,
from us. To be illiterate or innumerate is truly being blind in many ways.

With poetic license he says "for all living things" meaning just human beings.
In this, as in many other couplets, Tirukkural enshrines values and wisdom that
go beyond religion and ethics.

V. V. Raman
April 29, 2004

Nataraja and Vedic concepts as revealed by Sekkilar by R.Nagaswamy

Excerpt:

The Vedic Nature of Siva Nataraja

The Saiva system of Tamilnadu is based on the lives of the 63 Saiva
saints as told by Sekkilar The account of Sekkilar is based on Saint
Sundara-murti's Thirut-tondat-tokai followed by Nambi Andar Nambi's
Thiru-antati. Sundarar sang the Thiru-Tondar-tokai at Thiru-varur and
according to Sekkilar the first line tillai vaz antanar, was revealed
to Sundarar by Lord Siva of Thiruvarur.

Narrating this account
Sekkilar says Siva taught these words by the same mouth that taught
the Vedas to Sundarar. It is a poetic way of suggesting that the
thiru-tondat-tokai has the same validity as the Vedas. This hymn
consists of eleven verses. We have seen that at every stage, Sekkialr
who also connects Vedas with the Thiru-tondar-tokai mentions the role
of Vedas. The most sacred part of the Veda, containing the
Pancakshara-Namasivaya is found in Sri-rudram-the Satarudriya hymn.
The Satarudriya hymn consists of eleven verses, called anuvakas. It is
in all probability that influenced Sundarar to sing the
Thiru-tondar-tokai also in eleven verses. The identical number could
not be considered accidental. The Tamil Saivam, which has been
dynamic, through out, is based on the Vedas and the Vedic tradition
and is therefore rightly claimed by all the saints as Vaidika Saivam.

The foremost temple that comes in for praise in this system is
Tillai-Chidambaram and the worshippers of Chidambaram are the
Dikshitars, the followers of Vedas. The God of Chidambaram is the
Dancing God. Tamil Saivam and Siva Nataraja are identical and that the
concepts of Siva Nataraja are rooted in the Vedas.

[URL=http://tamilartsacademy.com/journals/volume3/articles/
Vedas%20and%20Vedic%20Saiv\as%20in%20TN.html]
http://tamilartsacademy.com/journals/volume3/articles/
Vedas%20and%20Vedic%20Saiv\as%20in%20TN.html[/URL]

See also:
http://tamilartsacademy.com/thirumuraikal/thirumurai_intro.html[/URL]
(Tirumurai 1 to 7 with transliteration in English).

People who grow up in the Hindu tradition hear many sacred stanzas: the so-called shlokas and mantras of the tradition. There was a time when these were uttered only by the initiated at appropriate times occasions. Today, though there are still controversies about privileges as regards sacred thread and priestly roles, any Hindu may learn and recite any of the
canonical prayers. But not all who do this may be familiar with the sources or meanings of the prayers which have acquired sanctity over the centuries.

Consider, for example, the following:

asatom sad gamaya;
tamasom jyotir gamaya;
mrityom amritam gamaya

From the unreal, lead me to the real;
from darkness, lead me to light;
from death, lead me to non-death.

Few who have grown up in the tradition have not heard this. This prayer is from Yajus verses in the Brihadranyaka Upanishad which is regarded as the
oldest of all the extant Upanishads. The lines are from the last part of the Satapatha Brhmana.

It is prescribed that while the priest is
chanting the mantras during a sacrifice, one who is performing the sacrifice
should be reciting this. In our own times this has become one of the most
widely repeated shlokas in the Hindu world, recited in temples. Sometimes it
is used as an invocation prior to dinner in homes.

In the Upanishad it is explained that unreal and darkness mean death; real
and light mean immortality. The prayer is to seek release from death and attain immortality.

But I prefer to interpret asad or the unreal as an illusory understanding of the true nature of reality, as occurs when the ephemeral is taken for the eternal and the perishable for the never-decaying. Viewed thus, the prayer enables us to understand the deeper aspects of this passing world of experience, for in that recognition we become wiser and more balanced in our
perspectives. Likewise, I take tamas or darkness to mean here ignorance,
not just of the nature of physical reality but of moral rightness as well.

The joyoti or light that one seeks is not just the physical light that helps us see things, but enlightenment: a vision of life and society that respects others, that is caring and compassionate, that is guided by reason and understanding, not by unthinking adherence of outworn practices. The plea to be taken from death to immortality is asking to be released from the cycle of birth and death, and merge with the Cosmic Whole.

As I see it, the wisdom of sacred texts is to be sought not in their literal
interpretations, nor even in the commentaries given to them by revered
thinkers of distant eras, but in the meaningful interpretations that are
relevant in this day and age. Here is where tensions sometimes arise between traditional theology and evolving worldviews. In dynamic cultures, both
retro-looking and forward-looking forces are always there.

What is interesting in the Hindu world is that the sacred verses have an intrinsic spiritual appeal which gives fulfillment to the faithful even when one does not fully understand the message they convey. This is the reason why people often recite them with reverence, even while ignoring their meanings.

Another oft-repeated Upanishadic prayer is:

p? adaH p? idam,
p? p? udatcyate
p?ya p? d?,
p? eva vashishyate.

Complete is that; Complete is this.
Out of the Complete, the Complete emerges.
From the Complete, (when) the Complete taken, The Complete still remains.

Priests recite this on auspicious occasions and worshipers recite it
collectively after the rati. These lines form the opening reflection of s?panishad, also known as svasya Upanishad. This prayer also occurs in
Brihadrayaka Upanishad.

The shloka sounds like the exclamation of one who has had a mystical
experience in which the seer recognized perfection (p?) all around:
here, there, and everywhere. In that experience, the mystic sees the entire
cosmos as a manifestation of Fullness, Completeness, Perfection. Though this
vast universe has emerged from the boundless Supreme, the latter remains
unaffected by it.

If we replace the term complete/full (p?) by infinity, the shloka
expresses the idea that infinity can emerge from infinity, and that infinity
minus infinity is again infinity: an insight with which mathematicians would
resonate.

Hindu thinkers envisioned the Divine as That which is without end (ananta) and without beginning (andi), like the number system (positive and negative). They also considered various categories of infinity, like nominal infinity (referring to extraordinary greatness), epistemic infinity (referring to boundless knowledge), one dimensional infinity (observation along an uninterrupted line of sight), numeric infinity (fraction with zero in the denominator) and temporal infinity (eternity).

These prayers transcend sects and religions. People of all faiths can recite
them.

V. V. Raman
February 11, 2005

Some more shlokas come to mind from the Taittirîya Upanishad. The first that
had an impression on me is part of its invocatory shloka. After paying
homage to the Vedic deities Mitra, Varuna, Âryamân, Indra, Brihaspati,
Vishnu, and Brahmâ, it declares Vâyu (Air) to be the perceptible Brahman,
recognizing that it is the most fundamental element for the sustenance of life. References to Vedic gods also remind us that the Upanishads are
extrapolations of the Vedas. Indeed, most Upanishads are offshoots of Vedic
literature, and are linked to the Âranyakas and the Brâhmanas.

The invocation continues:

ritam vadishyâmi;
satyaM vadishyâmi;
tan mâm avatu;
tad vaktâram avatu;
avatu mâm,
avatu vaktâram.

I will speak about what is right;
I will speak the truth.
May that protect me!
May that protect the speaker!
Let that protect me!
Let that protect the speaker!

We note here the insight that ultimately what matters in life are right conduct and truthfulness. Our highest ideals should be adherence to ethical principles and to truth. That would keep us safe and sound in life, no matter what. In history there are forward and backward steps on two planes: the conduct plane and the knowledge plane. Positive steps along the conduct plane is what enlightenment is all about: the kind of actions, whether by individuals or by nations, that are kindled by caring, compassion, and
kindness, and are beneficial to others.
Positive steps on the knowledge plane lead us to a better understanding of
the world. We acquire this knowledge from dispassionate inquiry and science.
Its pursuit is often colored by emotional factors and past misconceptions.
When one rids oneself of such constraining factors, the resulting
apprehension of truth would be clear and mind-freeing.

Uttering this prayer daily is a mode of reminding ourselves of these values
on a regular basis. This can help even those who don't attach importance to
routine rituals, visiting temples, or fasting on appropriate days.

The next shlokas I have in mind is also a widely known prayer:

sa ha nâv avatu - saha nau bhunaktu - saha vîryam karavâvahai
tejaswi nav adhîtam astu - mâ vidvishâvahai

May He protect us! May he be pleased with us! May we labor together with
vigor! May our studies bring us enlightenment! May there be no discord among us!

Actually, this is a prayer that a master and pupil are supposed to offer together, so that the us stands for the two of them. But it is also pronounced by a group. Knowing the meaning, one would never recite it when one is alone in a worship mode.

This prayer starts with the customary appeal for security which is a
motivation for prayer, but it quickly expresses the wish that the Divine
must be pleased with us. This is a poetic way of saying that we need to act
responsibly, righteously, and in non-hurting ways. These are to be defined,
not by what we think, but by universal standards. This is implied by the
statement that the Divine must be pleased by our actions. The prayer
reminds us of the work we must do. The idea of working together reflects as
sense of community, of working for the common good. Furthermore, the prayer
distinguishes between the acquisition of knowledge and the wisdom that must
accompany it. All the knowledge in the world would be useless if it is not
nourished with enlightenment. Most of all, the prayer seeks peace and harmony in the world.

During my years as a professor at the university I used to recall the following lines from the Tattirîya Upanishad:

â mâyantu brahmacârinah svâhâ,
vi mâyantu brahmacârinah svâhâ,
pra mâyantu brahmacârinah svâhâ,
da mâyantu brahmacârinah svâhâ,
sa mâyantu brahmacârinah svâhâ.

I used to have my own rough translation of this, making it relevant to my
situation. The word brahmacârin traditionally refers to an unmarried male
student and seeker of spiritual knowledge. The term svâhâ is a ritual
invocation at the altar of a sacrifice.
For my purposes, however, I took the lines to mean:

May students come to me from everywhere! Amen.
May students come to me in
different ways! Amen.
May students come to me well prepared! Amen.
May students come to me with self discipline! Amen.
May students come to me in peace! Amen.

I cannot say that my prayers were always granted, or rather that my wish was
always fulfilled. But I felt good I was starting the academic semesters with
a quote from an Upanishad which, in my translation, seemed very meaningful.

Traditionally one utters these prayers in their rhythmic Sanskrit meters in
religious contexts in a worshiping mode. This is fine. But when reflects on
their meanings also, they become so much more beautiful. At least has been
so for me.

V. V. Raman
February 14, 2005

All through India's long cultural/religious history, there have been many
different sects and cults, affiliated to different deities and philosophical
systems, differing doctrines, various swamis/gurus/saints, etc. Of these,
the Vedic-Sanskritic, Shaivite-Tamil, and Shakta-Tantric were major pillars.
Only the first of these was predominantly caste-constrained.

As most of us know, it was the British who coined the word Hinduism to bring
all these under a single religious umbrella. In the process, they
unwittingly unified the religious streams under a single name, as they
unified the intellectual streams on India through the English language.

New movements, affiliated to new swamis and Babas or to past historical
personages (Sri Ramakrishna, and now Shivaji) are nothing new in Indian
history, sprouting like mushrooms on a damp soil, except that in this new
one there seems to be an overt repudiation of the caste system. [The Buddha and Guru Nanak had done this centuries earlier.] Practically all overseas
Hindus have been doing this for more than a century, without deifying the
mother of a historical hero.

If Shiv Dharma brings psychological and spiritual fulfillment to the members
of this new cult, I wish them the very best, especially since they are
moving away from the most serious persistent flaw in the Hindu world: caste
hierarchy.

However, I suspect that when Ganapati chaturti comes around, most Marathis
will come together and celebrate, no matter what schism seems to be
occurring now.

Personally, I don't regard these movements as Brahmin-bashing, but as inevitable rebellions against a social/religious system that is conceptually dehumanizing, and should have been erased by responsible (Hindu) religious leaders long ago.

V. V. Raman
February 15, 2005

As we live through life we learn many things, and our knowledge is steadily
increasing. But there are matters about which we know but nothing. There are
questions which stand our impressively as questions, but they have no
definite answers. One such question pertains to death. It is a grand mystery
hanging as a backdrop in life. There is a famous passage in the
Kathopanishad where this mystery is presented as a story.

Vajashrava performs a sacrifice, offering all his possessions to the gods.
His son Nachiketas asks the father, "To whom will you offer me?" Vajashrava
is upset and says he would offer the son to the God of Death. Whereupon
Nachiketas goes to the abode of Yama (God of Death), waits there for three
days, and confronts the Death-God.
Upon his return Yama, realizing that the young brahmin had been waiting for
three days, promises him three boons to compensate.

Nachiketas wants his father not to be not any more, and wishes to return
home. This is granted. Then he seeks the secret of the altar of a
particular fire-sacrifice that leads men directly to heaven. This too is
revealed to him. Finally, for his third boon, Nachiketas asks: "According to
some, a person continues to exist after death, but others don't believe
this. I wish to know, what happens when a person who dies."
To this, Yama says: "Ask for cattle and horses, for elephants and gold. Ask
for progeny that will live a hundred years. Ask for lands and possessions,
kingdoms and power, beautiful damsels and perennial pleasures, but don't ask
for the secret of Death."

This insightful passage declares in simple terms that while there are no
limits to human knowledge and achievements, we can never know what will
happen to the individual experience after the last breath is heaved. But the
human spirit is not satisfied when boundaries are drawn on its quest. So
Nachiketas does not accept Yama's answer and he persists. He refuses to take
any other boon. The implication is that ultimate knowledge about the
hereafter is of such significance that it is preferable to every conceivable
possession or experience.

Finally Yama, instead of answering the question directly, explains to
Nachiketas that our actions could be for achieving one of two things:
fleeting satisfactions, or what is intrinsically good. Work for attaining
passing pleasures, and you will get nowhere. Work towards the greater good,
and you are on the right track to immortality.

Yama goes on to say that the foolish and the short-sighted imagine this
world to be the only and the total reality. They think that the world will
dissolve from their field of experience when they die. This is because they
don't understand the true nature of the atman. For this, one must have a
master who has himself realized the Truth, for higher spiritual knowledge
cannot be attained by mere reading and reasoning.

This is a crucial idea in the tradition. In order to fully grasp the
significance of the truths implicit in the sacred texts, one needs a guru.
It is through the guru that occult meanings become clear to the seeker.
Those who read and study on their own can learn much in many fields, but not
in the spiritual. Here, intellectual knowledge is inadequate, and may even
be unsatisfying. For example, the non-spiritual reader may find this story
to be interesting, but not quite revelatory about the mystery of death
itself. However, a guru might explain that the episode does give an answer
to the question: Nachiketas' return to his father symbolically refers to
reincarnation. The reference to the sacrificial fire which enables one to go
to heaven means that by leading a proper life, one obtains liberation. In
other words, both re-birth and moksha are possible for one who dies.

Yama also explains to Nachiketas the importance of the mystical mantra om
whose apprehension reveals the nature of Brahman. He states that the atman
is smaller than the smallest imaginable unit, and grander than all of
physical space. Yama compares the physical body to a chariot, our reasoning
to the charioteer, and the mind to the reins. The senses are the horses that
take the charioteer here and there. As the good charioteer controls the
horses with the reins, and does not let them drag him where they will, our
reasoning mind should control our senses and not let us go astray.

Nachiketas learns many spiritual truths from Yama and becomes immortal,
having attained the knowledge of Brahman.

Though Nachiketas is a student in this exchange, in the Upanishadic
tradition he is regarded as a teacher of esoteric wisdom. Shankaracharya
called him an acharya of brahmavidya. This is because of his earnestness,
sincerity, and determination in the quest for higher truths. One thinks that
these are characteristics of a student. Actually, they should be of a
teacher no less.

V. V. Raman
February 18, 2005

The route to ideas, knowledge, and convictions about the world is through
three paths: revelation, speculation, and observation. Traditional religious
scriptures offer us revealed knowledge. Thus, the truths proclaimed in the
Vedas, the Bible, and the Koran are taken as truths by the adherents of the
respective religions. Faith is fundamental in the acceptance of revealed
knowledge. Philosophers engage in insightful speculations which are
discussed and debated by other analytical thinkers. Such are the views of
Plato and Kant, Shankara and Ramanuja, for example. Intuition plays a role
in the elaboration of speculative knowledge. Finally, we have the modern
scientific methodology where empiricism is fundamental. Here nothing is
accepted as valid unless it is supported by extensive observation,
experimentation, and verification. This is the hallmark of science.

In the Western tradition, Aristotle was one of the earliest to insist that
everything we know about the world comes from what we observe. But it was
not until many centuries later - from the 17th century - that this came to
be adopted as a systematic criterion in the acquisition of knowledge about
the world. Thus, in modern science empiricism (observational, verification
route to knowledge) is crucial.

It was long believed that Indian thinkers - like their counterparts in other
great cultures - relied primarily on revelation and speculation in forming
their worldviews. To a large extent this seems to be the case: at least,
this is the impression one gets from many ancient Hindu writings. However,
there is a passage in the Chndogya Upanishad - dating back to the sixth
century B.C.E. or earlier - which talks about a sage who understood very
well the significance of empirical knowledge.
This Upanishad speaks about ritual chants and the primordial significance of
the sun, of breath and food, of the genesis of Vedic hymns and much more. In
the midst of all this, we encounter a personage by the name of Uddlaka
runi. His son Shvetaketu returns home after twelve years of intense study
under a guru. The youth now displays the conceit of a fresh graduate who
thinks he has learned everything. The father detects this, and tells him
that with all his guru-given knowledge, Shvetaketu had not learned about the
essence of perceived reality.

As I see it, the point here is that the traditional wisdom one learns from
gurus which one repeats parrot-like is often only superficial knowledge. It
does not reflect any depth of understanding. There is too much of this in
the religious context.

Then Uddlaka teaches his son about the ultimate. He explains that beyond
the pot which has form and name is the clay which is its essence. Beyond the
golden articles, there is gold which is the essence. Beyond rain and grain
there is water, which is the essence. From the minutest of seed arises the
mammoth tree. Recognizing the hidden truth behind appearances is true
enlightenment.

Next Uddlaka asks his son to sprinkle salt in some water. The next day the
son returns, and he can see no salt in the water, but he is able to taste
it. We cannot see or touch the salt in the water, but we can experience it.
So it is with Brahman, explains the father.
Then Uddlaka tells Shvetaketu that a person is made up of sixteen entities.

He asks him not to eat solid food for fifteen days. His breath, which
consists of water, will not be affected, he says. The son does just that and
returns, only to discover that he cannot recall any of the Vedic chants he
had he learnt. Then the sage asks the young man to eat for fifteen days and
return. The son obeys, and now he is able to recall the chants. The father
explains: "Just as, in a huge lighted fire, if a single ember small as a
firefly is left, and it can be made to blaze by enclosing it in a heap of
straw, the little fire that was left in you, when covered with food, blazed
again. So you remember the Vedas now. The mind consists of food, the breath
consists of water, and speech of heat."

The story shows that Uddlaka runi experimentally proved to his son what he
had stated.

This interesting episode is extremely important in the history of science in
its unusual empirical methodology. In no contemporary writing elsewhere does
one find such a dramatic illustration of the observational verification of
a theory. Because episode is buried in a mountain of metaphysical musings in
a work that is regarded as of primarily spiritual significance, its
scientific relevance had escaped detection until a few decades ago.

Debiprasad Chattopadhyaya, a historian of Indic science, drew attention to
its scientific import. He argued that this exchange between father and son
entitles Uddlaka, rather than Thales of Miletus, to be reckoned as the
first scientific thinker in history. Uddlaka runi, he said, "did in fact
boldly knock at the gates of natural science to be opened," for which effort
he deserves to be called "the first rational natural scientist in the
history of the Indian subcontinent, if not in global history."

V. V. Raman
February 21, 2005

Once I was in a friend's home for dinner. The guests included some
Americans. One of them asked during a conversation if it was true that
Hindus believed there are millions of gods. The host gave a polite smile
which suggested how ignorant the questioner was, but another lady guest, who
was a physician, lashed out, saying that most ignorant Westerners think
Hindus are all fools. The gentleman apologized profusely for his question,
saying he had read it somewhere, and was quite sure it was a mischievous
distortion, but just wanted to know what Hindus thought of this.

I asked the lady why, in her opinion, people get such impressions about
Hinduism. I heard the usual answer: The British and the Christian
propagandists. Then I asked if anywhere in Hindu sacred works it was
mentioned that there are thousands of deities. They rather doubted it. Maybe
in some puranas, someone said. I told them that the origin of that
perception may be found in statements from within the tradition.

In fact, in the Vedic framework, there are eight Vasus, namely: Prithvî
(Earth), Agni (Fire), antariksha (Intermediary Space), Vâyu (Air, Life
Breath), Dyaus (Sky), Sûrya (Sun), Nakshatra (Stars), Soma (Moon); eleven
Rudras; twelve Âdityas, Indra (Thunderbolt), and Prajâpati (Lord of
Progeny). They add up to 33. Each of these is regarded as a manifestation of
the Divine. But ultimately, they are all manifestations of the same single
Divine principle.

This view is articulated in the Brihadâranyaka Upanishad in the following
conversation between the sage Viddagdha Shakalya (VS) and Yâjñavalkya (Y).

VS: kati devâh, Yâjñavalkya? (How many gods are there, T)?
Y: As many as are mentioned in the invocatory hymns of the scriptures, which
is three hundred and three, and three thousand and three. (trayas ca trî ca
shatâ, trayas ca trî ca sahasreti).
VS: Yes, but how many Gods are really there, Y?
Y: Thirty-three
VS: Yes, but how many Gods are really there, Y?
Y: Six.
VS: Yes, but how many Gods are really there, Y?
Y: Three.
VS: Yes, but how many Gods are really there, Y?
Y: Two.
VS: Yes, but how many Gods are really there, Y?
Y: One and a half.
VS: Yes, but how many Gods are really there, Y?
Y: One. (eka iti.)

VS: Yes, but which are those three hundred and three and three thousand and
three (which you mentioned earlier)?
At this point Yâjñavalkya goes on to say that those are all manifestations
of the thirty-three primary gods of the Vedic framework., and then he
explains who the Rudras, the Âdityas, etc. are.

What is interesting in this dialogue is that when Yâjñavalkya comes up with
large numbers for Shakalya's question, though the answer is based on Vedic
statements, the latter does not to take him seriously. This suggests that it
is not always wise to take what we read in the scriptures literally. The
persistent questioning by Shakalya means that one needs to probe more and
more to fully understand what the core meaning of it all is.

The final answer, there is but one God, is as true as the initial one that
there are more than three thousand gods, because the one God is manifest in
countless different forms in air and water, in earth and sky, in sun and
moon and stars, with countless different names. That is the meaning of
saying that God is omnipresent: The Divine is implicit in every aspect of
the perceived universe. This vision of a unity behind the multiplicity is at
the core of the Hindu vision of the Divine.
God, in the Hindu framework, is too grand and magnificent to be declared as
One, and just left at that. To say that the Divine has only one Prophet is
even more restrictive of the capacity of the Divine for self-expression. If
anything, every single manifestation of God, whether as minute atoms or as
mammoth stars, as mindless animals or as thinking humans, needs to be vast
in numbers. Or else, God can be only a finite entity.

Thus it is quite true to say that in the Hindu framework there are millions
of gods. It is equally true to say that there is only one God. The Divine is
like music. There is but one Music, but it finds countless expressions. It
is through a particular song or sonata that we experience music. So it is
that we get a glimpse of God through every form or name.

Some more shlokas come to mind from the Taittirîya Upanishad. The first that
had an impression on me is part of its invocatory shloka. After paying
homage to the Vedic deities Mitra, Varuna, Âryamân, Indra, Brihaspati,
Vishnu, and Brahmâ, it declares Vâyu (Air) to be the perceptible Brahman,
recognizing that it is the most fundamental element for the sustenance of
life. References to Vedic gods also remind us that the Upanishads are
extrapolations of the Vedas. Indeed, most Upanishads are offshoots of Vedic
literature, and are linked to the Âranyakas and the Brâhmanas. The
invocation continues:

ritam vadishyâmi;
satyaM vadishyâmi;
tan mâm avatu;
tad vaktâram avatu;
avatu mâm, avatu vaktâram.

I will speak about what is right;
I will speak the truth.
May that protect me!
May that protect the speaker!
Let that protect me!
Let that protect the speaker!

We note here the insight that ultimately what matters in life are right
conduct and truthfulness. Our highest ideals should be adherence to ethical
principles and to truth. That would keep us safe and sound in life, no
matter what. In history there are forward and backward steps on two planes:
the conduct plane and the knowledge plane. Positive steps along the conduct
plane is what enlightenment is all about: the kind of actions, whether by
individuals or by nations, that are kindled by caring, compassion, and
kindness, and are beneficial to others.
Positive steps on the knowledge plane lead us to a better understanding of
the world. We acquire this knowledge from dispassionate inquiry and science.
Its pursuit is often colored by emotional factors and past misconceptions.
When one rids oneself of such constraining factors, the resulting
apprehension of truth would be clear and mind-freeing.

Uttering this prayer daily is a mode of reminding ourselves of these values
on a regular basis. This can help even those who don't attach importance to
routine rituals, visiting temples, or fasting on appropriate days.

The next shlokas I have in mind is also a widely known prayer:

sa ha nâv avatu
saha nau bhunaktu
saha vîryam karavâvahai
tejaswi nav adhîtam astu
mâ vidvishâvahai

May He protect us! May he be pleased with us! May we labor together with
vigor! May our studies bring us enlightenment! May there be no discord among
us!

Actually, this is a prayer that a master and pupil are supposed to offer
together, so that the us stands for the two of them. But it is also
pronounced by a group. Knowing the meaning, one would never recite it when
one is alone in a worship mode.

This prayer starts with the customary appeal for security which is a
motivation for prayer, but it quickly expresses the wish that the Divine
must be pleased with us. This is a poetic way of saying that we need to act
responsibly, righteously, and in non-hurting ways. These are to be defined,
not by what we think, but by universal standards. This is implied by the
statement that the Divine must be pleased by our actions. The prayer
reminds us of the work we must do. The idea of working together reflects as
sense of community, of working for the common good. Furthermore, the prayer
distinguishes between the acquisition of knowledge and the wisdom that must
accompany it. All the knowledge in the world would be useless if it is not
nourished with enlightenment. Most of all, the prayer seeks peace and
harmony in the world.

During my years as a professor at the university I used to recall the
following lines from the Tattirîya Upanishad:

â mâyantu brahmacârinah svâhâ,
vi mâyantu brahmacârinah svâhâ,
pra mâyantu brahmacârinah svâhâ,
da mâyantu brahmacârinah svâhâ,
sa mâyantu brahmacârinah svâhâ.

I used to have my own rough translation of this, making it relevant to my
situation. The word brahmacârin traditionally refers to an unmarried male
student and seeker of spiritual knowledge. The term svâhâ is a ritual
invocation at the altar of a sacrifice.
For my purposes, however, I took the lines to mean:

May students come to me from everywhere! Amen.
May students come to me in
different ways! Amen.
May students come to me well prepared! Amen. May students come to me with self discipline! Amen.
May students come to me in peace! Amen.

I cannot say that my prayers were always granted, or rather that my wish was
always fulfilled. But I felt good I was starting the academic semesters with
a quote from an Upanishad which, in my translation, seemed very meaningful.

Traditionally one utters these prayers in their rhythmic Sanskrit meters in
religious contexts in a worshiping mode. This is fine. But when reflects on
their meanings also, they become so much more beautiful. At least has been
so for me.

V. V. Raman
February 14, 2005

All our awareness of the world recedes into temporary oblivion when we fall
asleep. What is the nature of the reality that we experience when we are in
the sleep state relative to the one that impresses us in our waking state?

The question has intrigued keen minds since time immemorial.
Recall the famous story in Chinese philosophy about Chuang Tzu who is said
to have dreamt that he was a carefree butterfly hopping happily from flower
to flower. When he woke up suddenly and realized he was Chuang Tzu, he
wondered if he was Chuang Tzu who had dreamt he was a butterfly or a
butterfly which was dreaming it was Chuang Tzu.

The Upanishadic seers had a different view on the matter. The Mândûkya
Upanishad offers a theory of the modes of human awareness. Human beings, it
says, can be in one of three possible states: the waking state, the dreaming
state and the profound dreamless sleep state. It names these as vaishvânara,
taijasa and prâjña respectively.

While awake, we interact with the external world through sensory organs,
feeling pleasure and pain. What we experience in our dreams are not material
things. They are subtle, creating the impression of being real. Here, we
still have the deep desires in which we are often enmeshed. We are still
touched by pseudo-enjoyments and unpleasantness. In the level of deep
sleep, all distinctions between experiencer and the experienced are
dissolved. There is merger of the separated consciousness with Totality.
Though this is bliss, one is not aware that one is a part of the Whole: a
case of bliss in ignorance.

The Mândûkya Upanishad says that there is a fourth stage. It is known as
turîya, and it is the purest state of awareness. This is the true and
legitimate state of the self. In this state, consciousness transcends all
categories. This is the state of cosmic consciousness, and it defies verbal
descriptions. This does not happen with all brains, but only with some.
This is the pinnacle of spiritual enlightenment. Turîya-yoga, which the
Siddhas are said to have practiced, promises such experiences. All these
states belong to the continual changes to which all finite and perishable
things are subject.

Modern science has revealed two stages in sleep: One involves the rapid eye
movement (REM) cycles which occur several times when we dream. The other is
the non-rapid eye movement (NREM) stage with which sleep starts. During
these phases, different types of brain activities are known to occur. It is
interesting that Indic thinkers of ancient times recognized different phases
of sleep, and interpreted them as stages of awareness. This translates in
current paradigm into different types of brain activity. The insight of
Hindu thinkers was in considering the sleep state as another mode of
awareness, suggesting that awareness is a function of the type of processes
in the brain.

Now to a related matter. The most universally recognized sound associated
with Indic traditions is om: a prolonged sonorous invocation which is as
much Buddhist as it is Hindu. Its representation as a written symbol
resembling the number three with a curly appendage with a crescent with a
dot is as much a signature of Hinduism as the star of David and the Cross
are in other traditions. No one knows the origin of this ancient sacred
Vedic sound which has been reverberating in the Hindu world for ages.

Many Upanishads speak about this mystical invocation. The Chândogya
Upanishad begins by saying that we should meditate on om. It also says that
this is a syllable of assent, of agreement. It has been noted that in
ancient Tamil, one used to agree to things by repeating om twice: om-om,
which later become âmâm (word for yes in current Tamil). In the same
Upanishad we read that this sound emerged from Prajâpati, the progenitor of
humankind.

"As the leaves are all held together by the stalk," it says, "in the same way all spoken words are held together by aum."

The Taittirîa Upanishad says that om is Brahman. The Shetâshvatara Upanishad says that
using the body to chant om is like using a stick to rub against a surface to
generate fire: In this case, the fire of the Divine.

The Mândûkya gives another interpretation by relating om with the states of
consciousness. Phonetically the sound om may be analyzed into three
constituent sounds: A-U-M. Vaishvânara or the waking state corresponds to
the A sound; taijasa or the dream state to the U sound, and prâjña or deep
sleep to the M sound. And the sacred syllable, taken as a whole, represents
the fourth state of turîya. It stands for ultimate realization, for supreme
spiritual knowledge, for the transcendental experience of cosmic
consciousness. This is why om is invoked on all spiritually significant
occasions.

Finally, the Mândukya Upanishad also says that all the past, the present,
and the future are enshrined in om. In other words, om is a capsule-sound of
what was, is, and will be; a transformation, as it were, of temporal
eternity into an audible vibration. As much as for their spiritual
loftiness, it is in such poetic, profound, and provocative conceptual
sweeps, that Upanishadic insights become most interesting.

V. V. Raman
February 16, 2005

Practically all great civilizations have had their keen women thinkers. The vast majority of them rarely had opportunities to express themselves. But a few did manage to do that, and some of them managed to assert themselves in a normally male-dominated world. In the Hindu tradition, Gârgî Vâcaknavî was such a one. She is known to have argued with the illustrious Yâjñavalkya who is generally regarded as the author of the White Yajurveda.

Gârgî‚s name occurs more than once in the Brihadâranyaka Upanishad. On one occasion she pushes Yajñvâlkya to a logical impasse by asking, if everything is woven, like warp and woof, in water, in what was water thus woven? On air, came the reply. And on what was air woven?, asked Gârgî. On the ethereal world, was the answer. But what about the ethereal world, persisted Gârgî. So on and on the questioning went, even when the master said that Brahman was the ultimate one. Whereupon, Yâjñavalkya replied, in typical guru-mode, "Ask not too many questions, your head may fall off if you do. You are asking too much about Divinity about which we shouldn't be asking so much."

Thereupon Gârgî Vâcaknavî remained silent: tato ha gârgî vâcaknavî upararâma.

When I read this for the first time, I was most impressed with Gârgî. She was certainly not a yes-woman to even the greatest guru. She made the wise man admit, albeit indirectly, that he could not answer her question. This passage tells us two things: At the deeper level, we learn that questions concerning the Ultimate Mystery can never be answered even by the wisest among us. We learn too from this passage that when logically awkward questions are raised to gurus and swamis, they tend to say that we shouldn‚t be asking such questions or that such questions would lead us into trouble, rather than admit they don‚t know the answer.

Traditionally, the Upanishads are regarded as the treasure-chest of spiritual wisdom, which they certainly are. But no less importantly, sometimes they reveal the weaknesses in human reasoning and they also speak occasionally, perhaps with a touch of sarcasm, about the God-talk of scholars.

Then too, there are instances where the sheer power and poetry of scholars is brought out. Consider, for example, the rhetorical eloquence of Yajñavâlkya when he explains, again in answer to Gârgî, about the nature of Brahman:

"It is neither course nor fine, neither short nor long; has neither blood nor fat. It has no shadow or darkness. It is sans air or space, nor contact, taste, or smell. No sight or hearing it has, no speech or mind. It is without energy, breath or mouth. It is beyond measure, with nothing without or without. It eats nothing, and nothing eats it.

"This is the undecaying principle. Sun and moon stand apart at its command. It causes the subdivisions of hour and day, of months and seasons and years. From the snowy peaks rivers flow along different directions at its command. People flatter the givers, and gods depend on the patrons of sacrifices. Everything at its command.

"This is the imperishable principle. It sees, but it cannot be seen. It hears, but it cannot be heard. It thinks, but it cannot be thought of. It perceives, but it cannot be perceived.."

After listening to this torrent of exposition of the nature of the indescribable Brahman, Gârgi, perhaps remembering that she had been somewhat impertinent earlier to the supreme master, declares to all the scholars who had assembled there that he (Yâjñavalkya) was surely invincible in theological disputations.

We are grateful that there are feminine names like Gârgî, Vâcaknavî , Vadaya Aitreyî and Sulabha Maitreyî and a few others sprinkled in our lore. This gives us the opportunity to show in the face of criticisms that, contrary to what one says, women were always held on a high pedestal in the ancient Hindu world. Perhaps so, perhaps not quite. All we can be certain about is that there are references in ancient Hindu literature to great women-thinkers. That they are few in numbers is a sad reflection of the lack of freedom and opportunity in the classical world for many of our sisters, and to the fact that much of their wisdom has vanished with the spoken word.

But what is relevant is that as recently as in 1994, the Shankaracharya of Puri declared that Arundhati Rai Chaudhuri should get off a podium where she had gone to recite Vedic chants. This was not a pretty sight. The holy man went on to explain that as per the shastras women had no business doing such things. When some women protested, they were summarily thrown out.

Later, the spiritual leader called for a press conference, not to apologise, but to explain that he did not mean to insult the women, but only wanted to preserve the sanctity of the tradition. God-men work in mysterious ways. Long after such Shankaracharyas have left the scene, Gârgî will be remembered.

V. V. Raman
Feb 25, 20

There are still schools and colleges in India where applicants for entry have to declare their caste affiliation. Caste-exclusiveness and caste-prejudice are as ancient as society. But there have also been thinkers who have spoken out, bluntly or indirectly, against these. A story in Chândogya Upanishad refers to this.

A young man by the name of Satyakâma once asked his mother for his paternal lineage (gotram) which is an attribute of all dvijas (those entitled to the sacred thread): kim gotro nv aham asmîti? The mother gave a frank answer: She did not know. In her younger days she had worked as a maid-servant in many homes. Her own name was Jabâlâ. So she suggested to her son that he could call himself Satyakâma Jabâlâ.

The young man went to a guru and said he wanted to become his disciple. Sure enough, the guru asked him, as part of the admissions policy: kim-gotro nu, saumya, asîti?: What is your gotram, dear one.? Satyakâma frankly told the master the story of his mother, and introduced himself as Satyakâma Jabâlâ. The guru was very impressed by this honest answer. He readily accepted him, saying: naitad abhâhmano vivaktam arhati: One who is not a Brahmin could not have stated it thus.

Then Satyakâma was given appropriate assignments from which he learned many spiritual truths. He took care of cows, and bred them too. A bull taught him the four-fold aspect of Brahman: East, West, South, and North which are ruled by Agni (Fire), Prithivî (Earth), Dyaus (Sky), and Samudrah (Ocean), and more such esoteric wisdom. Meditating upon such knowledge, Satyakâma became Prakâshavân: the Shining One.

The Shining One now went back to his guru. The guru was astonished. "Who was your teacher?" he asked. "Other than humans (anye manushyebhya)," replied Satyakâma, and added: "But I wish that you, Respected Sir, teach me, because I have been told by people like you that knowledge learned from a teacher is most helpful in attaining one's goal."

This episode provokes many reflections. For one thing, Jabâlâ‚s confession reveals that in ancient times too, some maid-servants were taken advantage of by the (Brahmin) masters of the household. However, Shankarâcharya interpreted this differently. He said that Jabâlâ was so busy serving guests and with other household chores that she had no time to find out about the gotram of her husband: This does not sound like a very credible explanation, given that the woman says she had been a maid-servant (paricârini), which is not exactly what a Brahmin‚s wife used to do. But it is an honest attempt to show that Jabâlâ was not a loose woman, and that Brahmin masters did not sire sons on their maid-servants.

The guru‚s reaction is interesting. He admires Satyakâma‚s honesty, but is quick to add that only a Brahmin youth can be so truthful. I am not sure how a Non-Brahmin would appreciate a comment like this. It would have been nicer if the guru had said, "Higher knowledge is certainly within reach of one who is so truthful ." Indeed, I take this episode to signify just that. But then, the notion that only Brahmins are capable of speaking the truth was, and in many instances continues to be, an inherent feature of the caste mindset.

Satyakâma's learning from an animal may sound strange at first blush. But it may well be taken as reminding us that there is much that we can learn from the non-human world. Indeed, animals often teach us more by example than by precept. The young man telling the guru that he would like to learn from the master does sound very respectful. However, when he adds that he wants this because that was what others like the guru had told him, it sounds as if this was more a propaganda of gurus than a fact. It must be remembered that the Upanishadic thinkers were bold commentators, and they were not always sympathetic to ritualism and chanting. Sometimes they made fun of such things.

The notion of Brahman being on all the four quarters is a metaphorical way of referring to the omnipresence of the Divine. No matter where you go, you are sure to find God there. Also, the idea that Fire, Earth, Sky, and Water are all aspects of Brahman stems from the recognition that we cannot survive without heat or land, or without the world above: the atmosphere and sun in the sky, and the waters that surround us.

Again and again we find that there are nuggets of truth in the Upanishads regarding the human condition and the societal values of the time which go beyond spiritual truths. Viewed thus, the Upanishads become (at least for me) far more interesting and study-worthy than when they are regarded simply as mystical or metaphysical insights.

It is an ancient question: Is there anything in the universe beyond the matter and energy that have been recognized as its fundamental phenomenal ingredients. Nothing really, says modern science. Most certainly there is, say the traditional religions. Furthermore, religions have given different names and different descriptions and versions of that something which transcends matter and energy, space and time.

In the Hindu vision, beyond gods and god-like beings, there is Brahman (not to be confused with the brahmin caste, or the creator-God Brahmâ). Brahman is the spiritual substratum of the cosmos. It is also a theme in the Upanishads. There is hardly an Upanishad that does not make a reference to Brahman, each in its own unique way.

The Brihadâranyaka Upanishad devotes many chapters and sections to Brahman.

The Chândogya Upanishad describes Brahman as the Whole, and adds that it is from Brahman that we have all emerged.

In the Taittirîya Upanishad, we read that Brahman is the essence of all existence and the source of everything., and that its recognition brings us spiritual ecstasy (ânanda).

The Kathopanishad says: "Beyond the senses is the mind; above the mind is its essence; beyond the essence is the great Self; beyond this is the unmanifest; Beyond the unmanifest is the all-pervading purusha who has no mark. This form is not within any field of vision; He cannot be seen with the eye, He is apprehended by the heart, by thought, by the mind. "

The Mundaka Upanishad describes the imperishable Brahman as that which is "luminous, subtler than the subtle, wherein are centered all the worlds and all who inhabit them,. Brahman is life, speech, and mind."

The Prashna Upanishad makes a distinction between the higher, unqualified, abstract, nirguna Brahman, and the lower, ÃŽshavara, personified, saguna Brahman.

The Shvetâshvatara Upanishad talks about that which is "subtler than the subtle, greater than the great, the undecaying, primeval Brahman which is present in everything."

The ÃŽshopanishad says that Brahman "moves and does not move, it is both far and near, it is within everything and outside of everything."

The Kaushîtaki-Brâhmana Upanishad of Brahman as a person (purusha) who is behind many aspects of the perceived universe: the sun, the moon, lightning, thunder, air, space, fire, water, reflection on the mirror, sound, echo, dream, body, and eyes.

The Maitrî Upanishad describes that purusha as subtle, beyond anyone‚s grasp, and one that cannot be seen.

As I understand it, Brahman refers to a Consciousness that existed even prior to the first instant of cosmic creation. It spans the entire reach of space and time, and spills over to dimensions beyond. Brahman is not a He-God or a She-God that oversees our behavior to reward or punish at some future day of reckoning - though, as in other religions, Hindu mythopoesy also speaks of the celestial heaven (svarga) and hell (naraka). Brahman is rather an innate awareness that lies deep in the core of the universe - not unlike the vacuum fluctuations that palpitate in the physical universe, which twentieth century physics revealed. Brahman is to consciousness what quarks and leptons are to gross matter: the ultimate root of it all. In the Upanishadic view, every sentient being is a feeble echo of the thunderous bang that proclaimed the birth of the universe, not unlike the faint initials of great artist on a magnificent painting.

As it says in Kenopanishad, "If you think you have understood Brahman well, you know it but slightly. For these are but words and descriptions. They have meaning the same way that the phrase sweetness of honey has meaning. Unless one tastes honey one can never know what that sweetness is. For this, as it states in Kathopanishad, "as desires that dwell in the human heart" must be cast away. When this happens, says the Mundaka, "just as the flowing rivers cast off their name and shape when they merge with the ocean, the knower, freed from name and shape attains purusha, higher than the high." The Subâla instructs that the esoteric dimensions of Brahman should not be revealed to one who has not achieved inner peace.

But even in the midst of all this lofty metaphysics, we sometimes see matters of profound relevance to everyday living. The one that I like most is in the Paingala Upanishad where it says that the notion of mine-ness (mameti) is what keeps one in bondage (bandha), whereas the eradication of mameti leads to liberation (moksha). I interpret this to mean that a self-centered life is like being in a prison, while caring for others makes us truly free. In other words, what really matters in life is whether we have touched others in positive ways.

V. V. Raman
March 2, 2005
Maryville, TN

In previous reflections on the Upanishads I mentioned passages which have
spiritual, enlightening, and moral values. Most modern (Hindu) exponents of
our culture refer to these when they speak or write about the Upanishads.

However, there are also passages in these works which reflect aspects of the
ancient Hindu world of which some do not wish to talk or know about. So,
such passages are seldom mentioned in standard writings on the subject.
However, for a fair and intelligent understanding of one's culture one
should be aware of all its facets. Therefore, I will recall some of these
here.

Once I was under the illusion (shared by many Hindus) that vegetarianism is
intrinsic to Hinduism. Some people continue to wave ahimsa as part of
universal Hindu values. When I looked into the epics and the Upanishads in
their originals, I discovered that this is not entirely so. For example, we
read in the BrihadAraNyaka Upanishad (VI.4.18) that if one desires to have a
son who will be learned, famous, and a frequenter of gatherings, will be a
student of the Vedas, and will live a full life, the potential parents
should eat rice cooked with meat and clarified butter. The passage goes on
to specify that the meat may be veal or beef. [In this and the following I
am using S. Radhakrishnan's translations.] The Upanishad also gives explicit
instructions as to what mantras are to be uttered during the intercourse
whose goal is to beget such a son.

In the Upanishadic framework, sexual congress is looked upon as a sacrifice.
It is stated explicitly (BU: VI.4.3) that a women's lower part is the altar,
her (pubic) hair is the grass, her labia are the fire.., an imagery repeated
in the Chândogya Upanishad (V.8.1) where we read that "a woman is the
sacrificial fire, her sexual organ is the fuel, what invites is the smoke,
the vulva is the flame, what is done inside is the coals, the pleasures are
the sparks."

That most of the Upanishads are male-centered also becomes obvious when we
read a passage like the following (BU:VI.4.7): If a woman does not grant a
man his desire, he should buy her (with gifts). If she still does not grant
him his desire, he should beat her with a stick or his hand, and subdue her
with his power and glory, saying "I will take away your glory.'

The caste mindset of the Hindu world is also apparent in some contexts.
Thus, in the Chândogya Upanishad (IV.2) there is the story of Jânashruti
who took with him 600 cows, a gold necklace, and a chariot to offer to the
sage Raikva in exchange for knowing about the deity whom the sage
worshipped. Whereupon the sage rejects the offerings, and dismisses the man
as a shûdra. Radhakrishnan offers the following explanation: "it may be
that the king (Jânashruti) is addressed a Shûdra because he comes for
instruction with an offering of riches like a Shûdra and not with proper
obeisance and attendance as befits the higher castes." No shyness about
political correctness here.

The Chândogya Upanishad declares flatly (V.10.7) that those whose conduct on
earth has been good will soon pass into a good womb, and will be born as a
brâhmin, a kshatria, or a vaishya. But those who behave in evil ways will
soon enter an evil womb, and be born as a dog, a hog, or as a candâla
(untouchable).

Not many enlightened Hindus of the twenty-first century feel comfortable
reading such things. Some re-interpret them in ingenious ways. As I see it,
there is no need for such reactions. Every great civilization has its
positive and negative expressions. Indeed, the greater a civilization the
more some of its unhappy manifestations tend to be. It should also be
remembered that what strikes us as shocking, embarrassing, or untenable in
this day and age was not necessarily so in a different era. It is not fair
to be judgmental about people of a different generation. Rather than condemn
or awkwardly defend our ancestors some of whom were clearly racist or
sexist, what matters is that we ourselves should try not to be so ourselves,
nor permit such behavior in our own times.

In dynamic, growing, and creative civilizations there are always thinkers
who point to what may not be its best qualities. They are the ones who serve
their culture best. In this context, we may recall an episode from the
Chândogya (I.12) in which a certain Baka Dâlabhya goes to study the Vedas,
and sees a white dog. Other dogs gather around this dog and say, "Get us
food by your chants, for we are very hungry." The dogs acted like priests,
and made a mantra-like sound. And they chanted, "Om, may we eat! Om, may us
drink. Om, may Varuna, Prajâpati, and Savitr bring us food! Oh, God of Food,
bring us food here! Bring it here, Om!"
This is clearly a satire on rote ritualistic chanting by someone with a
sense of humor who was also a fearless commentator on orthodoxy.

What a brilliant galaxy of observers, thinkers, philosophers and mystics
those great rishis were who authored what have become classics in humanity's
heritage!

V. V. Raman
March 4, 2005

Worldviews in places far apart have sometimes overlapped. There are similarities between Norse and Roman gods, between Babylonian religion and the Judaic tradition, between Hindu deities and the Greek pantheon. It is known that there were mutual interactions and influences among ancient peoples, but questions as to who influenced whom, and where an idea first arose are still matters of controversy, often colored by nationalistic sensitivity. I have seldom been interested in such matters because, on final analysis, we all belong to Homo sapience, trying to figure out what it is all about.

Wisdom is not the monopoly of any one people, any more than that intelligence is the characteristic of any one race or caste. So, just as we had our rishsis and kavis, the Greeks had their hoi sophoí (the wise ones) and hoi poietaí (the poets). Thales of Miletus was the foremost of the Seven Wise Men (sapta rishi) of Greece. He is remembered, among other things, for his pithy saying: panta udor estin: All things are water. This reminds us of the idea expressed in the Upanishads that water is Brahman. This is only one example of the parallels between some Upanishadic visions and those of some ancient Greek thinkers.

Anaximander, a fellow Miletian, spoke of an immaterial apeiron as the arche (beginning) of everything. His book On the nature of things begins with the statement: "That from which all things are born is also the cause of their coming to an end....." He imagined that in the beginning a seed of hot and cold was separated from the boundless apeiron, whence emerged a huge sphere of flame around the air, like the bark of a tree. There are similar cosmologies in the Hindu world also.

Anaximenes talked of pneuma: air as the ultimate substance. Pneuma refers to something more than the physical air we experience. It is the life-principle, and corresponds to the chih of the Chinese and the prâNa of the Upanishads. It says in the Kaushîtaki-BrâhmaNa Upanishad, prâNo brahmeti: prâNa is the Creator.

Heraclitus of Ephesos declared that fire is at the root of all changes, reminding us of the passage in the BrihdâraNyaka Upanishad where it says that Agni is in the sun, in the rain-bearing cloud, on earth, indeed that men and women are also fire. Heraclitus also spoke of opposite tensions by which everything was characterized by the coexistence of opposite tensions which were normally in a state of balance. The balance is upset when one of the forces gets the upper hand. The break in the equilibrium causes change. This is like the three-guNa theory in Hindu thought.

Parmenides was the greatest of the Eleatic philosophers. His famous line is hen ta panta: all things are one. It very simply sums up the advaitic worldview. But then we do observe changes. Parmenides explains this by saying that these observed changes are not real. They appear to be so because of our inability to recognize the unchanging principle beneath it all. For him, the universe was a large, unchanging, unmoving body which remains the same for ever and for ever. This was Ultimate Reality, not unlike the Upanishadic Brahman. The universe with all its changes is an illusion, in the minds of those who have not realized that Ultimate Reality, he added. The Shvetâshvatara Upanishad reminds us that the phenomenal world (prakriti) is an illusion (mâyâ). Parmenides also argued, like some Hindu thinkers, that instead of trying to explain lightning and the rainbow, we must strive to uncover the true nature of reality.

Empedocles of Acragas was a physician, philosopher, poet, and physical theorist. He believed that he had been a bird and a fish, even a shrub, in previous incarnations. He was not the only Greek thinker to subscribe to reincarnation. According to one interpretation of his writings, he propounded the notion that the world passes through four successive stages which repeat themselves. In the first stage, Love reigns supreme. All the elements were fused together. In the second stage, Strife gradually enters the scene, and begins its disruption. In the third stage, Strife takes over completely, and the elements are separated out. In the fourth and final stage, Love re-enters: little by little, the elements come back together. This was his idea of the cosmic cycle. Parallels with the Hindu concept of the yugas are inescapable. One can go on and on.

Clearly, the visions of the Upanishadic seers were not unique to them. Other thinkers in other regions and climes had similar inklings as to the ultimate. The urge to see unity behind multiplicity, commonalty beneath diversity is an ancient urge that inspires the human spirit in its quest for meaning in existence and purpose to life. The sages and seers of the ancient world, like scientists in our own times, knew no boundaries of nation or religion. They expressed in the language of their times the deepest insights they came upon whether through reflection, intuition, or meditation. It is not surprising that we find parallels between Upanishadic visions and the writings of Greek philosophers.

I vaguely recall hearing from my grandmother the story of Rama breaking a
most extraordinary bow, and thereby winning the hand of the fair princess
Sita. My older brother and sister were also listening to the story which did
not mean much to me, as I was as yet too young to know about winning the
hand of a fair princess. But I was fascinated by the narration in my own
ignorant way.

When I was a little older I used to attend expositions on the Ramayana,
presented ever year by a scholar-musician who was a master in that
characteristically Indian art form in which a religious classic is narrated
with reverence and erudition, accompanied by devotional music, and spiced
with commonsensical wisdom and humorous commentaries on human folly.
Kathâ-kâlashepam, it is called in Tamil, which literally means spending time
by listening to a (religious) story.
I am glad I wasn't mature enough to ask my grandmother why a bow had to be
broken for Rama to win Sita, for that would have spoiled all the charm of
the episode. I am happy too for not having blurted out other such
irrelevancies to the learned man who was re-telling the epic to an audience
that was experiencing the joys that come from listening to a familiar and
moving story. But questions used to pop up in my mind.

Great stories - whether historical or fictional - have to be read or
listened to while grazing in the realm of the imagination, for their truth
lies not so much in factuality as in the meaning, message, and inspiration
they impart. So it has been with me all through the years. The Rama and
Krishna I read about in the epics are not the same that I sometimes pay
homage to in a temple. The epic characters are grand heroes whose words and
deeds may be analyzed and admired, even criticized and castigated here and
there. They are trans-denominational and trans-national, universal like
Agamemnon, Hamlet and Faust. The icons in the temples to which we sing
kîrtans and bhajans are indelible cultural imprints that carry the weight of
centuries with a mysterious spiritual significance to those who have blended
into the tradition.

The Ramayana is the saga of the divine personage Rama and his consort Sita.
The two have become the ideals of truthfulness and chastity in the Hindu
tradition. Few other names in human history have provoked the love and
respect that Rama and Sita have done in millions of Hindu hearts.

The Ramayana has nourished the Hindu spirit and India's culture for many
centuries now. Yet, we have no idea of when it merged into our collective
psyche. When was the Ramayana composed? Even after centuries of scholarship,
no one has a definitive answer. The traditional view is that the work is
several thousand years old. Rama's reign is said to have been during the
treta yuga which, according to Hindu traditional reckoning, was at least a
million years ago. If we take the findings of modern archaeology and geology
seriously, this contention will have to be moderated.

There seems to be some literary evidence to suggest that even before the
actual composition of the epic masterpiece, certain more ancient ballads
treating the story of a Rama and a Sita were popular in northern India. It
has been suggested that it was perhaps from these that a great poet took his
germinal ideas. Specifically, some Buddhist Jataka tales speak of a brother
and sister called Rama and Sita. Sita's name is also mentioned as a furrow
in some Vedic hymns, while there is mention of a King Janaka (Sita's father
in the epic) in the Brihadâranyaka and the Kaushîtaki Upanishads.

A related question is the historicity of Rama and of the other characters in
the epic. In other words, is the Ramayana literature or history? This may be
a matter of enormous interest from the perspective of history and
comparative literature; but it is also an extremely sensitive question from
the point of view of a dynamic living religion. Dispassionate scholars may
explore the genesis of what they regard as one of the most marvelous
creations of the human spirit with great reverence and admiration for the
work. When the eminent scholar Dr. Suniti Kumar Chatterjee wrote on the
Ramayana from this perspective he was severely criticized by orthodoxy,
fearing that questioning the historicity of a divine hero knowledge thus
might shake the stability of ancient practices.

Such reaction is not unique to the Hindu tradition. When scholars began to
examine the historicity of Jesus in the 18th century, there was uproar from
the religious establishment. In some other traditions, there would be more
than uproar. But as long as minds are free to think and express their
thoughts, such explorations will continue. Such inquiries could have a
negative impact on some aspects of religions. In other ways they enrich the
culture by deepening our understanding of our own past.

In the next few reflections I will recall the Ramayana as a magnum opus in
humanity's heritage: a work that, besides its spiritual value, is beyond
question unique as a literary composition.

V. V. Raman
March 9, 2005

I once asked a teacher in my school who had authored the Ramayana.
"Valmiki," he said unhesitatingly.
"And who was Valmiki?" I asked further.
"He was the author of the Ramayana," the teacher said.
"When and where did he live?" I persisted.
"Why do you want to know that?" he replied, somewhat testily. "When you eat
a rasagulla, do you ask who made it, or do you just enjoy it?"

This seemed reasonable, but I was unhappy that my curiosity was not
quenched. Gradually I came to realize that it is an intrinsic feature of the
Hindu tradition: the original authors and originators have slid into the
background, leaving their mantras and messages resound for themselves.

Nevertheless, I continued to wonder many times about who the master poet was
who wrote the saga of Sri Ramachandra in Sanskrit. When did he live and
where? What were his other interests? How old was he when he composed the
work? How was his family like? Who was his guru? How did he put down
thousands of poetic lines long before the invention of paper and pen? How
did the first listeners and readers of the work react to the work? How was
the epic conveyed to distant places in ancient times?

Unfortunately, very little of historical credibility is known on these
matters. Among the lost treasures of humanity's heritage are details on the
lives and doings of the creative minds of the ancient world. We know next to
nothing about the geniuses who first contrived the wheel and the shovel. Our
knowledge of the architects of the Pyramids and the Stonehenge, of the
authors of the Vedas and the epics of India is just as lost in humanity's
erased memory. A veil has come down between us and the personalities of
those great minds: We are unable to see them any more as mortals in flesh
and blood.

But we do have traditions which have preserved tales about those real
people. Thus, the Ramayana is attributed to sage Valmiki. He is surely the
most prestigious name in all of Sanskrit literature. We honor him as
Adikavi: the first of poets. What little we know about Valmiki's life is
gathered from the Ramayana itself, and from assorted writings, like the that
blend fact and fancy with the same teasing indifference to physical
possibilities as many other puranic episodes.

As per the Balakanda, at the sight of a bird which had been cruelly killed
by the arrow of a hunter, Valmiki exclaimed in sorrow. Then he said, "May
this utterance (with its prosodic measure) issuing from my sorrow become the
Shloka mode and none other!" (SokArtasya pravRtto me Shloko bhavatu
nAnyathA.) This has become the legendary etymology for the word Shloka which
is actually one of the five standard meters in Sanskrit prosody, often used
in aphorisms.

In the opening canto of the Bala Kanda we are told of how the sage Narada
revealed to Valmiki the entire epic in answer to a query, and how the
Creator Himself appeared before the poet and induced him to compose the work
as magnificent poetry. In the Ayodhya Kanda we meet Valmiki in a hermitage
which Rama and Sita visit along with Lakshmana. In the Uttara Kanda we read
that it was in Valmiki's hermitage that Sita spent her years after being
renounced by Rama on the suspicion that Ravana had violated her. Lava and
Kusha, the twin sons of Rama and Sita, are said to have been under Valmiki's
care and guidance in their boyhood years.
True or symbolic, there is also a story to the effect that this noble author
of the saga of Rama was once a highway robber who plundered innocent
travelers to add riches to his family. It occurs in the Adhyatma Ramayana
[which is part of the Brahmânda Purana, and expounds the spiritual
significance of the Ramayana]. Here we read that the great Valmiki
confessed to Rama: "I was born in a family of a Brahmin, but kept myself in
the company of thieves and hunters. I lived their life. My wife was a Shudra
woman and I had many children from her. I knew of no other profession and
was therefore turned into a way-layer and a bandit..."

One of his victims once asked him if his kith and kin would share the fruits
of his sins. When the robber put this question to his wife and children,
they frankly told him they would take a share of his loots, but certainly
not of fruits of his sins. Having thus learned the lesson that we alone are
responsible for our actions, even if their benefits may be used by others,
the robber went to the sages for counsel. a variant of the story, it was
Narada who instructed the man to mend his ways. The future poet is said to
have been in a meditative posture for so many years that his whole body was
eventually covered up by a huge anthill. The sages now came back to the
scene and named him Valmiki, which is Sanskrit for ant-hill. Incredible, for
fascinating as most of our puranas are.

V. V. Raman
March 11, 2005

Mantharâ is the evil-minded hunch-back maid who served Queen Kaikeyî,
Bharata's mother and Rama's step-mother. When all Ayodhya was rejoicing at
the announcement of Rama's imminent coronation, Mantharâ barged into
Kaikeyî's chambers, and conveyed the news. The queen was overjoyed, but the
maid was furious. She called the queen a foolish woman for not realizing
that her own son would miss out. When Kaikeyî replied she regarded Rama as
her own son, Mantharâ persuaded her to demand of the king that her son
Bharata be crowned, and Rama be exiled to the forest for fourteen long
years.

In the Mantharâ-Kaikeyî dialogue we witness with sadness the gradual
transformation of a generous Kaikeyî into a mean and malicious woman. Every
trace of love and compassion is erased from her being, as she is goaded to
pierce a deadly arrow in Dasaratha's heart by her demand for Rama's exile.
We see in the Mantharâ episode the power of speech. This simple servant had
an understanding of maternal psychology, but also eloquence. By making
Kaikeyî feel that her own son would be cheated out, Mantharâ succeeded in
injecting venom into the queen's attitude. We note from this episode how
susceptible we are to the influence of the wicked, and how we can commit
heinous deeds when we feel threatened.

Though much hated, Mantharâ is the most important character in the Ramayana,
because she is the most pivotal person in the epic. Without her there would
have been no exile of the hero. Without that exile Ravana could not have
kidnapped Sita, and the tyrant would have misruled for ages. Take her away,
and the Ramayana would have ended in the second book with Rama crowned in
glory. Strange that a deformed and misguided woman made the Ramayana such a
great epic!

Why was this maid so much against Rama? Kamban's explanation is that as a
lad Rama had flung mud balls at Kooni's hump, and she never forgave him.
Tulasi Das says it was Goddess Saraswati who instigated Matharâ at the
behest of jealous gods. He also throws in an ancient prejudice: "the
one-eyed, the lame, and the hunchbacked are always mean and malicious,
especially if they are women and slaves ."
"Rise, you stupid one!," Mantharâ told the queen, "How can you be lying
down when danger is confronting you? Are you not aware that a flood of
misery is about to engulf you? . Exactly as an enemy or a serpent would do
if unnoticed, King Dasaratha has treated you and your son . You and your
family will be destroyed by this wicked king who utters insincere words of
kindness, when he installs Rama as king." she said.

We know she was crooked in mind and in body too. Yet, after Kaikeyî had been
brainwashed, this is what she told the hunchback: "Though gently bent like
a lotus in a breeze, you are good-looking. your body is of slight size with
a fair navel, as if it were shy. Your behind is broad, and your breasts are
wholesome. You have the features of the spotless moon. You look so
beautiful .. Your shanks are close, and your feet are exceptionally long.
You are charming with your long thighs as you walk in front of me, Oh lovely
Mantharâ, who are draped in fine linen!..."
And Maikeyî promised to adorn her maid's hump with a chain of molten gold of
the highest caliber, decorate it with sandal-paste, and place on it a lovely
golden disk with gems. The queen addressed the her as Sundari (beautiful
woman).

The poet reminds us through this that when one listens some advice,
believing it will bring glory and happiness, one becomes absurdly grateful. When the mind is clouded by evil and petty thoughts we pay homage to that which is not in essence good.

This is the sad story of Mantharâ: a despicable character, but she is
indispensable for the epic. We recognize from this episode that we need a
grain of evil to instigate good in the world. Would there have been a Gandhi
without the oppressive British, or a Martin Luther King without racists in
the American South? Or the Ramayana without Mantharâ?

Causality is a complex matter, especially when it relates to human affairs.
Superficially insignificant events and apparently unimportant persons can
cause things to happen that have great impact on the course of history.
Thus, when slavery was abolished, some British plantation owners enticed
bonded laborers from India to work in places from Fiji to the Caribbean. In
due course the Indians grew in wealth and education, became powerful
citizens, and laid the foundations for caste-free Hinduism. A deranged
Austrian painter became the notorious Hitler who caused death and
destruction to countless millions. From the ashes of the war he unleashed
arose a unified Europe, stronger than ever before. In these instances we
find that the road to heaven is sometimes paved with evil intention. This is
the truth that Valmiki illustrates through the character of Mantharâ. She
was indeed an evil creature, but it was her deed that brought to the
attention of the world Rama's greatness.

V, V, Raman
March 14, 2005

When I started reading the Ramayana in the original in four different
languages, I discovered that the standard abridged versions often skip many
interesting sections. My reflections here based on some of the notes that I
took in such contexts.

India's ancient geography is lost: Places like Mohendodaro and Harappa are
described as the seats of ancient Pakistani civilization. Sindh, which gave
India her modern name, is no longer in the Hindu world. Kashmir, which is to
remind us of Rishi Kashyapa, has been seeing conflict for decades, created
by the descendants of converts to Islam generations ago. And of other places
there are hardly any relics.

The Kekaya kingdom in the North-West of India was between Gandhâra and the
River Beas. The puranas say that Kekayans were half Sanskritic. They once
had a king called Ashvapati. His daughter (Kaikeyî) so fascinated Dasaratha
that (long before Mantharâ) he promised his kingdom to her son, if she would
be given in marriage to him.

Kaikeyî's son Bharata was a remarkably righteous person who, like
practically everyone in the epic, had enormous respect and reverence for
Rama, his elder brother.
Bharata was at his uncle's residence in Girivraja when he was summoned to
Ayodhya. He did not know that Rama and Lakshmana gone into exile, and that
king Dasaratha had died. When the messengers arrived, a cheerless Bharata
was narrating to his companions a foreboding dream that had tormented him
the previous night. In the dream he a dejected Dasaratha plunge from a
mountain peak into a quagmire of cow-dung where he was swimming, drinking
oil from the hollow of his palms and laughing intermittently. He smeared his
body with sesame oil. Bharata also witnessed the oceans dry up, and the moon
fall on earth, and the world thrust into darkness. He saw the tusk of the
king's elephant shattered, and raging fires suddenly extinguished. Young
women, of dark and reddish brown complexion, clad in black, attacked the
king, and took over his seat. Then, with red flowers and painted in sandal
paste, the great king departed southwards in a donkey-driven chariot. An
ugly demonic woman who mocked the king was dragging him. Such had been the
scenes in Bharata horrible dream. Now he was asked to return to Ayodhya
forthwith. We are reminded of the Latin poet Ovid's words: Somnia me
terrent, veros imitantia casus: Dreams frighten me that imitate a real fall.

When, upon his return, Bharata heard what had happened, he became furious.
He gave a severe tongue-lashing to his mother, calling her sinful, greedy,
contemptible, and more. Describing this emotional tempest, the poet
introduces two animal-similes in one sentence by saying: Having thus spoken,
the very enraged Bharata hissed like a serpent, and fell down unconscious
like an elephant pierced by a javelin.

Kaikeyî had misread Bharata, and so did Kausalyâ Rama's mother. She
suspected that Bharata was going to greedily accept the crown. However,
learning that Lakshmana too had left with Rama, he began to curse him in the
strongest terms, wishing him the consequences of many awful kinds of sins
for going away with Rama, instead of preventing him from leaving the
kingdom.

Bharata saw Mantharâ bedecked in the jewels Kaikeyî had given her, and
wearing ostentatious robes, looking, says the poet, like a female monkey
bound with a number of strings. When a guard handed Mantharâ to Shatrughna
the latter seized the poor woman with rage and dragged her on the floor.
Tulasi Das describes the scene starkly: "Her hump was smashed, her head
split, her teeth were broken, and there was a stream of blood from her
mouth." Bharata calmed Shatrughna's anger by saying that women did not
deserve to die at the hands of men, and that Rama would be much upset if he
knew they mistreated the wretched woman.

Bharata ordered engineers to build broad roads to where Rama and Lakshmana
were, so that he could march there with his army to persuade or force Rama,
if necessary, to return to Ayodhya and rule the country. Lakshmana mistook
his advance, thinking Bharata had sinister intentions, until Rama calmed him
down. Upon Rama's adamant refusal to return, Bharata went back reluctantly,
placed Rama's sandals on the throne with a parasol. The Rama-Bharata
encounter is reckoned as one of the most moving episodes in the epic. He
ruled the land for fourteen years from outside the capital, in Nandigrâma
where he lived modestly, without any royal splendor.

In the Uttara Kânda we read about a terrible battle which lasted for seven
nights in which three million Gandharvas are said to have perished in an
instant. One has to take the figure as a poetic exaggeration, unless nuclear
weapons were involved. At the end of that war, Bharata's sons Taksha and
Pushkara were installed to rule over those regions.

Such was Bharata, another hero. He was strong, yet unassuming. Valmiki
reminds us through him that many good people are often misunderstood by
their own kith and kin.

V. V. Raman
March 16, 2005

When I was in high school, in a Hindi course at school we had to read a
short story by Maithili Saran Gupt. While talking about this great Hindi
writer, our teacher said that he had written a version of the Ramayana
called Saket, in which Lakshmana's wife Urmila is the central figure. Our
teacher also told us that the poet Rabindranath Tagore had listed Urmila
among the forgotten heroines of Indian literature.

Some years later, I looked into the three major versions of the epic
(Valmiki, Kamban, Tulasi Das) and discovered how true this was. The most
glaring episode is when Lakshmana fervently pleads with Rama to take him
along in the fourteen-year exile to the forest. Rama tries to persuade
Lakshmana to stay in Ayodhya to serve Kausaly and Sumitr (their mothers),
with no mention of Urmila. But Lakshmana absolutely wants to accompany Rama.
What is sorely missing is that he does not inform Urmila of his decision,
nor even take leave of her, let alone consult with her on the matter.

I searched for any other reference to the neglected wife, but could find
nothing. Then, during a chance conversation with a Telugu scholar, I
discovered that there is an ancient song in Telugu that is entitled Urmila
Devi Nidra (Divine Urmila's Sleep). I believe this is the source of a story
to the effect Urmila was an artist who was painting when her husband walked
into her chamber, calling aloud her name. Somewhat concerned, she stood up
hastily, and in the process, spilled the paint from the pot. She explained
to Lakshmana that she was painting a picture of Rama on the day of his
coronation, and was planning to send it to her father Janaka.
Lakshmana explained that because of Kaikey?he coronation had been
cancelled, and he went on to say that he was going away with Rama to the
forest for fourteen years. According to the story, Urmila was happy for her
husband since he had this wonderful opportunity to serve Rama and Sita. She
even asked Lakshmana to go right away, without wasting time with her. She ad
ded something that would seem strange to many. She asked Lakshmana never to
think of her as this would be a distraction from focus on his service to
Rama and Sita which, after all, was the primary motivation for his going
with them. She didn't want to accompany him so as not to take away his
attention from Rama.

We may note two things here. First this is an entirely new creative episode
by a later-day poet, for such an incident is not reported in Valmiki's
original. Secondly, this author has beautifully constructed a story in which
we see Urmila as a selfless and extraordinary wife. At the same time, one
may also interpret her reaction as arising from deep disappointment, not to
say resentment, at Lakshmana's devotion to Rama and Sita at her expense. She
knows that it would be of no avail asking Lakshmana to stay or to take her
along with him, for his devotion to Rama was way beyond his attachment to
her or to anyone else in the world. By letting him go without her, she is
accepting with wisdom what would happen anyway: What is unavoidable is to be
accepted cheerfully.

The Telugu trans-creator of the Ramayana also introduces a scene in the last
book in which Urmila, along with the wives of the other two brothers,
protests Rama's treatment of Sita. They even demand that, if that is how he
would treat Sita, he should kill them.
In our own times, the Malayalee playwright Srikantan Nair wrote a play
entitled Kanchana Sita in which, during the fourteen years when her husband
was separated from her, Urmila undertook serious studies of the shastras
(canonical texts) under the guidance of learned scholars. Furthermore, she
engages Rama in a debate when the hero banishes his wife. When the hero
justifies it on the basis that he had to submit to the will of the people
who suspected Sita's chastity during her stay in Ravana's prison, Urmila
wonders how Rama managed to ignore the will of the people and went on his
exile, inspired by his own will and judgment. Rama does not say, touchÌ∫
Whether Valmiki so intended or not, the story of Urmila is a sad one. A
young bride, beautiful and devoted to her fine and handsome husband, she was
forced to spend the better part of her youthful years in solitude, with no
communication with her beloved. Some have said, we don't know on what basis
or authority, that during those years Lakshmana kept in touch with Urmila,
by means of prnic energy: some sort of magical cell-phone, one would
imagine.

I am inclined to think that Valmiki introduced Urmila and her plight
precisely to provoke thoughtful people to reflect on how it was/is not
uncommon for men - especially the idealistic ones - to plunge into the
pursuit of their grand goals at the expense and to the neglect of their
wives who often bear it with equanimity. Neglect of women and wives is
ancient in human culture. That later writers brought this out explicitly
shows that there are keen observers and thinkers in the Hindu world. But
unless realization affects attitudes and actions, there will always be
Urmilas all over the world.

V. V. Raman
March 18, 2005

I remember once when I was traveling by train from Calcutta to Bombay and
the train stopped at the town of Nsik, a gentleman got out and made a
worshipful gesture on the platform. Back in the compartment he said he
always paid his reverence to the place where Rama, Lakshmana, and Sita had
stayed. It was from here that Ravana kidnapped Sita, he explained, adding
triumphantly that it was also the place where Lakshmana cut off Shurpanaka's
nose, which is how the town got its name. Nasik (nsik) means nose.

Shurpanakha is a tragic figure in the Ramayana. She was no paragon of
beauty. She was a rakshasi, a giantess of horrendous proportions and ugly
features. Her nails were like a winnowing basket (which is the etymological
meaning of her name). Valmiki describes her as having a large belly,
deformed eyes, coppery hair, a frightful voice, hard-hearted and aged, vile
and repulsive, and deformed to boot. In the same sentence where this
description is given the poet refers to Rama as having a charming face, a
slender waist, large eyes, beautiful locks of hair, a pleasant aspect, a
sweet voice, youthful, righteous and amiable, as if to say that the entire
epic is about the confrontation between whatever is ugly and evil with
whatever is beautiful and good.

When Shurpanakha saw Rama, infatuation for him was blaze in her heart. She
wondered why such a man was clad in ascetic garb and what brought him to the
forest where ogres and beasts dwelt. Rama calmly told about his exile, and
asked her who she was, albeit with a touch of sarcasm for he described her
as possessing charming limbs.

Shurpanakha told Rama about herself and her five brothers, and confessed her
passion for him, asking him to become her husband, while also deriding fair
Sita whom she called ugly and unworthy of him. Recognizing perhaps that she
was making a fool of herself, Rama tried to have some fun at her expense. He
pointed to Lakshmana who, he informed, was without a wife. "Take my brother
as your husband, large-eyed beauty," he teased her. When she came to
Lakhsmana, he too decided to have some fun. Humbling himself as a slave at
the service of his brother, he re-directed the ogress to Rama.

The infatuated Shurpanakha now rushed to Rama, and in attempted to attack
poor Sita who was merely observing the comical scene. Rama thwarted this
attempt to assault his beloved and advised Lakshmana not to jest with cruel
and unworthy persons, forgetting, it would seem, that he himself had done
just that.

Furthermore, he asked Lakshmana to "mutilate that ugly, vile, fat woman."
The angry Lakshmana obeyed right away, and cut off the ears and nose of the
unfortunate Shurpanakha. Bereft of nose and ears, bleeding profusely and
writhing in pain, she fled into the woods to complain to her brothers Khara
and Dhushana (Dh?a).

Though in her extreme rage she wanted Ravana to punish Rama, she also
recognized Rama's supreme strength. That is why she advised him to go in
disguise to ravish Sita. But in the end, when Ravana set out to fight Rama
face to face, she begged him not to dare, for she was sure that would end in
a terrible disaster. Though swayed by passion Shurpanakha was also
intelligent.

I never liked the nose-cutting episode. There is something needlessly savage
in this inhuman treatment of a woman by the two noble brothers. Not long ago
I read a tasteless re-telling of this incident by someone who had clearly
not read the original, and was thought he was writing a humorous piece. In
contrast, Sharmila Biswas produced a more sensitive and enlightened
treatment of the story in an Odissi dance drama, raising such questions as:
How could Rama and Lakshmana - said to be incarnations of Vishnu - mutilate
a woman? Most male interpreters simply say that Surpanakha was evil and so
deserved the treatment, and that it was because of the merciful nature of
Rama and Lakshmana that they simply cut off her nose and ears, instead of
killing her right away.

Practically all the great literatures (and histories) of the ancient world
were authored by men whose view of women did not include the respect which
at least some in our own times are trying to cultivate. What this means is
that while it may be unfair to judge past generations by the standards of
present values, it would be dark-age-minded to offer defensive explanations
for such behavior which amounts to justifying it.

Nose-cutting and other forms of mutilation were not uncommon modes of
punishment in many ancient societies. Vestige of such practices still remain
in some languages. Sometimes on warns a child to behave, or else one would
cut off the nose. The practice has been reported in some present-day Islamic
countries.

Whether symbolic or not, Shurpanakha and Manthara, the two personages who
are ultimately responsible for the downfall of Ravana, were both women.
Manthara managed to send Rama to the forest by instigating Kaikeyi which she
did by arousing her jealousy; Shurpanakha sent Ravana to the same forest by
arousing his lust.

V. V. Raman
March 21, 2005

When I first heard about ten-headed Ravana I told my mother this was
impossible. She explained to me he was a rakshasas, and rakshasas were
abnormal beings, huge and with magical powers. Once this was granted, it was
easier to accept the idea. I discovered that the key to appreciating any
mythology or belief-system is to agree to the rules, and then proceed.
Ravana, the best known rakshasa, is a mixture of some fine qualities and
many horrible ones. We get a a glimpse of his stature when we read this:
When furious Shurpanakha showed up without a nose, this mighty rakshasa of
dazzling glory was on the pinnacle of his seven-storied palace, clad in
heavenly attire, adorned with a garland and with jewels studded with stones
that glittered like stars, and surrounded by ministers.

After ten thousand years of austerities, he had obtained from Brahma a boon
by which no god or demon, no bird, serpent, beast or monster could kill him,
nor vanquish him in combat. Armed with such power he wrought untold havoc,
killed pitilessly whoever dared to raise a head. His body was marked by
scars from battles with demons and deities, from which he always emerged
victorious with his awesome ten heads.

Enraged by the sight of his noseless-sister, and aroused by the description
of Sita she gave him, Ravana schemed to grab Rama's wife. With his appetite
for women, he had ravished Rambha who was married to his brother Kubera, as
also the Naga queen. Before the abduction of Sita, he bragged to her about
his prowess. Boasting that he had seized Kubera's aerial chariot, he said
that even gods fled from him in fright. The winds were afraid of him, the
sun cooled off in his presence; bustling leaves and flowing waters stood
still when they saw him. He vaunted about his great capital where buildings
were of gold, the city gates were bejeweled; where, amidst horses, elephants
and chariots, one heard the sound of soothing music. Valmiki devotes several
chapters to a description of Lanka.

Ravana claimed, Archimedes-like, that he could lift up the earth, but
without a lever, with his own bare hands; that he could drink the oceans
dry, kill even Death, and torment the sun. So stupendous was his power.
But he committed the most unpardonable sin of all when he kidnapped Sita. He
had gotten away with similar offenses before. But this time, all his might
was brought to naught. His crime eventually spelled humiliating disaster
and death.

The climactic sections of Yuddha Kanda (War Book) of the epic are replete
with notes on ancient (epic) warfare where mantras and magical missiles
breathe life into archery of the highest caliber. The battle is between Rama
and Ravana, one representing untarnished Good and the other embodying Evil
pure. The scenes are like what we sometimes see in science-fiction movies.

How remarkable that an ancient poet gave so many details on war!
It was a tough battle. In Kamban's version, at one point Rama exclaimed:
"Though arrows numbering more than grains of sand have struck Ravana's eyes,
and arrows sharper than the thoughts of scholars have gone into his wounds,
he is alive!" At last, after countless men and monkeys had died, and the sky
was darkened by the arrows flying every which way, Ravana was felled down by
an arrow from Rama's bow. That was the end of a life that had lasted 30
million days. Kamban says that Rama noticed the fatal wound on Ravana's
back, and felt ashamed that he had killed a fleeing man. This he regarded as
a personal dishonor. In one stroke the poet exposes Ravana as a coward and
Rama as noble.

Ravana is remembered as a vicious giant who ruled Lanka and ravished Sita.
But his grieving brother Vibhishana reminded the world in his eulogy that
Ravana was generous in gifts to mendicants, he enjoyed life, and supported
his dependents. He gave riches to friends and avenged his enemies. He had
practiced austerities, mastered the Vedas, and been a master of rituals. He
had deep devotion to Lord Shiva.

Ravana reminds us of the ancient truth that power corrupts. Francis Bacon
wrote: "It is a strange desire . to seek power over others, and to lose
power over oneself." How true this was of Ravana who had no self-control in
his craving! Power swells people's head, and enables them to subdue the weak
and the defenseless. In the hurt and harm they inflicted, every conqueror
from Alexander and Attila the Hun to Genghis Khan and Ibrahim Lodi, was a
Ravana in his own way.

Most traditional writers portray woman as the temptress to whom man as
succumbs. In the Ravana-Sita episode man tries to seduce a woman, and she
resists. The story tells us that lust, left loose, results in the downfall
of even the most powerful, and that marital chastity is virtue supreme.

Sometimes I have wondered: Sita was saved because of who she was. But what
about the thousands of others who were harvested for his pleasure? The world
often needs a powerful victim to bring down a powerful oppressor and
establish justice in the world. [Recall what happened Lebanon last month.]

V. V. Raman
March 23, 2005

Aside from the usual history, we have in the Hindu world a sacred history
whose elements are etched in the framework of the culture. The personages
and episodes in our sacred history are at the root of many aspects of Hindu
thought and observances. It is difficult to know the origins of this
history, but it could be that it sprang from personages and events of
ordinary history and took on a creative life of its own.

Per this sacred history, there once was a great king by the name of Raghu.
Like other great kings he made many conquests. Kalidasa's Raghuvamsam says
he subdued the Persians (Parasikas) and the Ionian Geeks (Yavanas). Emperor
Raghu had a son named Aja, which means one who was not born. Aja's son was
the emperor Dasaratha who, as everyone in the Hindu world knows, was the
father of the hero of the Ramayana.

Dasaratha's glory is described with poetic flair by Kamban. Rendering this
into English would be like making a papier-machÌ∂ersion of a Michelangelo.
Fully aware of this, let me try to spell out some of what Kamban says: The
qualities of a good ruler are wisdom, compassion, serenity, strength,
unblemished heroism, generosity, meting out justice, and fairness. Dasaratha
had these qualities twice in measure as any other king. His love for his
subjects was like that of a mother for her child. He guided, led, and took
his people along the righteous path. He cured their ailments too. He
traversed the ocean of the indigent by answering to them their needs, the
ocean of knowledge by vast reading, the ocean of enemies by felling them
with his sword, the ocean of pleasures by wisely enjoying them. This
glorious king held sway over turbulent rivers, birds, beasts, and even the
minds of women of questionable morals. From the heights of his well guarded
capital whose hills resembled palaces with precious stones, the world seemed
to the king like his own capital. His spear was often blunted by use against
enemies, and his golden anklets suffered wear and tear as they often rubbed
against the crowns of the kings he subdued.
Sounds awkward in (my) English. But the Tamil is a delight to read. India's
genius for hyperbolic poetry is among her great treasures.

Dasaratha's love for Rama was extraordinary, bordering on abnormal
attachment. He could not live without Rama whom he literally adored. If
Freud had read the Ramayana he would have called excessive love to one's son
Dasaratha complex.

Once during a hunting excursion, the great marksman Dasaratha shot a fateful
arrow in the direction of a gurgling sound, imagining it was from a wild
elephant at a water hole. But the arrow pierced a young ascetic who was
drawing water from a well for his aging blind parents. "Which fool did this
to me!" he wondered aloud, and upon seeing Dasaratha, said, "Be not
tormented by the thought that you have killed a Brahmin, for I was born of a
Vaishya father and Shudra mother." [Neo-Hindu apologists notwithstanding,
caste hierarchy is found in many episodes in our epics.] The remorseful king
duly carried the water to the blind parents. When he told them what had
happened, the father cursed the king that some day he too would die of
putrashoka: the pain ensuing from the loss of one's son, and promptly died.
This was one of two major events in Dasaratha's life which were to serve as
a springboard for the saga of Rama.

The second occurred in the course of a battle. An axle of his chariot lost
grip on the wheel. His queen Kaikeyi who was with him then used her own hand
as the axle. Deeply moved by her service, the king promised her two boons
whenever she would ask. Years later, Kaikeyi chose to ask for the coronation
of her son Bharata and for fourteen years of exile of Rama.

Dasaratha's end came as per the imprecation of the old man in the forest. He
writhed in pain and fell unconscious at the sight of Rama leaving for the
forest, watching the dust rise and fall on the road as Rama walked away. The
next few days were sheer agony. Six nights after Rama's departure, alone in
his chamber with queen Kaushalya, he recalled to her in great detail the
incident with the young man with blind parents, saying: "One reaps the
fruits of one's actions, good or evil. If one cuts a mango grove and plants
straws, what fruits can he expect?" After recounting the whole story, King
Dasaratha exclaimed "Oh Raghava who relieves me from my suffering, who is so
precious to your father! Oh Kaushalya, I cannot see anymore! Oh austere
Sumitra,! Oh cruel Kaikeyi, enemy and disgrace to family!" After uttering
these words, he left his physical frame.
Dasaratha got four wonderful sons as a result of an elaborate sacrifice. He
had the joy of seeing them grow till they were adolescents, he was happy to
see them married. Not long after that, events got out of control. It was an
even greater sacrifice when Rama left, and this turned out to be for the
benefit of humankind. In this sense we are all Dasarathas in our own little
ways, for we put in some effort to obtain things for ourselves. Sometimes we
do greater sacrifices for the welfare of others.

V. V. Raman
March 25, 2005

The Ramayana is a religious work, for sure. But it is also rich in history
and geography, in poetry and philosophy. Valmiki was as much a nature poet
as a keen observer of human nature. His opus is rich in meticulous
descriptions of birds and beasts, plants and trees, rivers and streams and
more.

Consider, for example, some of his descriptions of the botanical garden in
Lanka. Hanuman sneaked into that garden in his quest for Sita. He discovered
it to be abundant in trees like Bhavya, Champaka, Udd?ka, N?kesara, and
most of all, Ashoka (Saraca indica) [sacred for Jains since Mahavira
attained enlightenment under it, for Buddhists since Buddha was born under
it, and for Hindus because Sita was found under an Ashoka tree.] That
orchard had mango trees galore. There were herds of deer sauntering amidst
trees which looked golden and silvery. The ruddy thickets looked like the
rising sun. The plants were in full bloom, countless crimson fruits were
hanging from the branches of mango trees. As Hanuman stepped stealthily in
the grove, he jolted some of the sleeping birds. But he also heard lots of
cuckoos. The creatures were in heat, declares the poet. Sometimes the breeze
caused by the flapping of the wings of the birds made flowers fall on
Hanuman. Thus covered, he looked like a multi-hued floral mountain. The
trees, thinking he was spring embodied, shed their blossoms and leaves, and
looked like gamblers who had lost all in a game, including their clothing.

The giant stride of Hanuman with his long whipping tail battered some trees,
making the grove look like a young woman with disheveled hair with her tilak
removed, and whose red lips, accentuated by shining teeth, had faded away.

Then Hanuman came upon an absolutely magnificent ground with sheets of gold
and silver studded with gems. He saw pretty ponds with crystal bottoms with
various contours containing sparkling water, with steps adorned with
precious stones. They were surrounded by sands of pearls and corals. Tall
golden trees were standing around the ponds.

Valmiki reminds us in this way that Ravana was not a wild savage, but a
super-rich potentate with sophisticated tastes who had grand mansions
erected, magnificent groves planted, and beautiful ponds carved out, all for
his pleasure. We also realize how in the midst of such material abundance
there can occur fatal moral decay.

Hanuman spent the whole night in that garden. At dawn he heard the chanting
of Vedas by Brahmin rakshasas. If you thought some Brahmins were like
rakshasas, this passage tells us that some rakshasas were also Brahmins.

Hymns lauding Ravana were sung to wake up the sleeping king whose attire was
chaotic for he was tossed by a passion for Sita. But now he wore rich and
adorning ornaments and walked to the Ashoka grove which was filled with
fruits and flowers, plants and trees and birds and deer and lotus ponds. A
bevy of a hundred lovely rakshasis followed him. Some were carrying torches
with golden handles. Others bore water jugs, yet others carried circular
cushions. Some of the pitchers they brought were studded with gems and
filled with wine. One woman was holding a canopy which had the shape of a
swan and was shining like the full moon. The rakshasis were transpiring due
to their exertions. So their jewelry got displaced, the sandal paste on
their bodies rubbed off, their hair was messed up, and their faces were
moist. The flowers they wore had shriveled. Some of them were intoxicated,
but all were eager to see Sita.

Hanuman could hear their tinkling bangles and anklets. He spotted Ravana
from his hiding place, his face illumined by torches, his body smeared with
fragrant oils. The rakshasa king was full of lust, looking like Kama (Cupid)
without his bow. He adjusted his garments which were white as foam from
churned milk. Thus did Ravana ready himself to see Sita. Then he approached
Sita who is described here as one with charming limbs and well-formed
breasts, with tresses black like the corners of her eyes.

When Sita saw Ravana, she sat and wept, hiding her abdomen behind her thighs
and her breasts with her arms. She looked miserable in her pain, left there
like a bark on a beach. Her limbs were covered with dirt from the ground,
she looked like a lotus stalk mired in mud. She was charming and yet not
charming. Her thoughts were with Rama as she wept. The poet goes on to say
that Sita seemed like fame that had dimmed, faith that had been held in
contempt, understanding grown feeble; she looked like shattered hope and
doomed prospects, like an order disobeyed, worship intruded upon; like full
moon in eclipse, an army whose soldiers were killed, sunlight obscured; she
was like an altar desecrated, flame extinguished, a flock of birds scared
away ..

Such are some of the similes of poet Valmiki who refers to sunset and
seasons, to moon and mountains, to creepers and creatures all through his
work. He reveals enormous knowledge of nature and of geography. He must have
traveled much and meticulously observed the sceneries. His lines couldn't
have come from pure imagination.

V. V. Raman
March 330, 2005

But I'm intrigued as to why you would want to describe this epic as
'a religious work, for sure'. I have only full praise for persons who
take the puranas-itithasas as works of poetry, like Macbeth, Illiad,
and so on, but once we take it literally, as actual events in
history, as scriptures, as doctrines - then we may be moving into
controversial waters. The way I see it even the vedas as we have
today, is not 'for sure'.

Is there a compelling reason why you use these words - 'for sure'?
Generations to come may be arguing over these selection of words. I
see nothing in the actuality of these Ramayana events.

Thanks.

Pathma

This is a valid and understandable reaction.

I had in mind the view of millions of traditional Hindus when I used the
phrase
Perhaps I should have added,

Thank you for your input.

V. V. Raman
March 30, 2005.

Many Hindus refer to Trinidad as, 'This is Ramayan Country'. This is
because of the status of the Ramayan here; and by Ramayan, we mean,
Goswami Tulsidas Krit Ramayan. The Ramayan has played a critical role in
shaping the Hindu community in religious, social, political and
ideological matters.

Ramayan for most Hindus in Trinidad and Tobago is 'a religious work, for
sure'. In fact, we refer to the text as Holy Ramayan. While in earlier
times, the Bhagvaat Puraan was the popular text of the 'singhaasana'
(gadi/gaadi/seat of the pravachan or kathaa kartaa); the Ramayan of
Tulsidas Ji has become the first text of Hindus here as well as in
Guyana and Suriname.

In 1995, when Indians commerated 150 the anniversary of Indian Arrival,
Goswami Tulsidas was given the title ' "Father of Hindu Caribbean' to
acknowledge the role of Ramayan in the Caribbean. There was also one
International conference on Ramayan in Trinidad.

Ramdilla/Ramleela, which takes the Ramayan into open theatre is popular
in Trinidad, and present in Suriname...Guyanese are now deeply desirous
of organizing the open air theatre there; some only dimly remember
Ramleelaa there, there is interest in its revival now.

Derek Walcott, Noble Prize Winner a few years back, was moved to use
Ramdilla as a metaphor for the Caribbean in his speech on 'Fragments of
an Epic Memory'. In it he describes Ramdilla as , 'faith', not theatre.
Last year, the Kendra, of which I am a member, began Baal Ramdilla, in
which children wrote, narrated and acted many episodes from the Ramayan
in a village called Raghunanan Road, Central Trinidad Young Shiva played
Rama, Kamla played Mother Sita, Joey Maraj played Ravan, Reshma Toolsie
played Manthara - she received the best actor award and Preetam played
Hanooman.
The children all fasted for one month before the Ramdilla.

Here; in TT - Trinidad and Tonago and the wider Hindu caribbean -
Ramayan is Scripture - for sure.

raviji

Sri Aurobindo has made very perceptive observations as to
the 'spiritual' and 'religious' nature of Indian poetry and
philosophy in his 'Foundations of Indian Culture'. The difference in
what made 'poetry' to the Western and Indian mind can be easily
highlighted by the fact that a Milton's 'Paradise Lost' or even a
Dante's 'Divine Comedy' could never be a mind-forming element as did
the Ramayana and the Mahabaratha (even if we do not take into account
the countless 'religious' literature of the various Indian
languages). It is not to mean that a Milton or a Dante were inferior
poets but that the 'poetry' that made their works have something
significantly different and a grasp of which is essential not to
compare the spirit of their works with the 'religio-cultural' spirit
that permeated Indian poetry.

The various chapters titled 'Indian Spirituality and Life'
in 'Foundations...' are those that clarified me when I had similar
questions. Here is a quote:

"Volume: 20 [CWSA] (The Renaissance in India), Page: 178
The whole root of difference between Indian and European culture
springs from the spiritual aim of Indian civilisation.
It is the turn which this aim imposes on all the rich and luxuriant
variety of its forms and rhythms that gives to it its unique
character. For even what it has in common with other cultures gets
from that turn a stamp of striking originality and solitary
greatness. A spiritual aspiration was the governing force of this
culture, its core of thought, its ruling passion. Not only did it
make spirituality the highest aim of life, but it even tried, as far
as that could be done in the past conditions of the human
race, to turn the whole of life towards spirituality. But since
religion is in the human mind the first native, if imperfect form
of the spiritual impulse, the predominance of the spiritual idea, its
endeavour to take hold of life, necessitated a casting of
thought and action into the religious mould and a persistent filling
of every circumstance of life with the religious sense; it demanded a
pervadingly religio-philosophic culture."

ovishvesh

[..and for Hindus because Sita was found under an Ashoka
tree.]

This is a misconception. Sita was found under a
simsapa tree in the ashoka garden.

Vide Sundara Kanda Chapter 14 Verses 42 and 43.

PKRamakrishnan

Tension between scholarship and devotion: Is the Ramayana literature or history?

This is a matter of great interest
from the perspective of history and comparative literature; but it is also a
very sensitive question in a dynamic living religion. Dispassionate
scholars, even with great reverence and admiration for the work, may explore
the genesis of this grand creation of the human spirit. But to those of the
tradition, the work carries far more significance than its literary
richness. Sometimes there is the fear that a purely scholarly approach
might shake the stability of sacred icons and time-honored practices.

The tension between scholarship and tradition is nothing new. It is a
cultural manifestation of the perennial conflict between the head and the
heart. All through human history, in practically every society touched by
civilization, the behavior and beliefs of tradition have been analyzed, not
to say challenged, by inquiring minds. Such efforts often result in newer
insights and greater understanding, but they also cause discomfort, not to
say shock, on many people. In spiritual matters, the conquests of the mind
tend to upset the joyous heart. An impeccable proof to the effect that no
almighty God lovingly holds His protective hand over our heads when we go to
sleep could result in restless and worrisome insomnia in some.

Whether one should accept the evidence of facts and the logic of
arguments, or respond to the tantalizing call of faith that assures
emotional security and spiritual ecstasy is the delicate dilemma that many
have to face in certain contexts. Some make a decisive choice, and having
done this, plead for their own preference as the only right one to make,
sometimes even deriding those who have made a different choice. Wisdom
probably lies in the recognition that there is no such thing as the right
approach in this matter, if only because one is as human as the other, and
not everyone thinks or feels the same way.

We may see in this dichotomy of human inclinations an illustration of the
ancient Hindu wisdom which sees the world and all life as a concoction of
contradictions. The same sky that is dazzlingly bright at noon is pitch dark
at midnight. The same ocean on which boats sail can also drown ships. The
same person who is loving and kind at one time can become harsh and mean at
another.

We may also look at it in terms of what physics calls the principle of
complementarity, by which ultimate reality is recognized as consisting of
apparently contradictory, but in fact mutually complementing, features.
Physicist Niels Bohr used to say that there are two kinds of truths, small
ones and great ones. A small truth is one whose contrary is clearly false.
That milk is white is a small truth, because to say that milk is black is
clearly wrong. But a great truth is one whose contrary is no less true. To
say that religions have done much good is as true a statement as that
religions have done much harm.

Centuries ago, Jaina insight spoke of anek?a v? which recognized the
multiple aspects of higher truths: Any grasp of truth depends on one's
perspective, and so can only be partial. This is an enlightened synthesis of
modesty and wisdom.

As long as we are experiencing one side of a coin, we cannot perceive the
other. But it would be a grave error to imagine that the coin has but one
side. For the analytical scholar to maintain that the spiritual dimension of
the R?yana is without significance would be as partial a vision as that of
the religious devotee who does not recognize that bhajans and images are
meaningful symbols and instruments towards a greater goal, and have evolved
over the ages in human culture. However, it would also be rash to conclude
that those who regard the Ramayana as only literature are devoid of
spirituality, or that those who sing Ram bhajans are necessarily spiritually
more evolved.

One can drink deep of the spiritual fountain of the R?yana if one has
grown up in the rich tradition whose sources are in the India of the ages.
It is equally possible, perhaps no less satisfying to some, to consider the
R?yana as the work of a poet of extraordinary genius. The charm of Aesop
Fables lies not so much in the conversations and actions of the animals as
in the morals they spell out.
Keen thinkers have seen behind the stories and characters of the epic deeper
truths about the human condition and about the spiritual side of existence.

That is why the works of the great masters stand out. There is a subtle
substance in the works of Homer, Dante, Virgil, Shakespeare, and Goethe
that permeates their narratives and rhymes and meters. But what has made
Valmiki unique and unequaled is that from his creation have arisen voices
and values that have breathed life into a civilization that has lasted the
shocks of centuries. His work has inspired more art and music, more dances
and reflections, more festivals and celebrations than perhaps all the others
put together. And this, not only because it is the most ancient of them all,
but also because it has become inextricably intertwined with the life and
ideals of the common person such as the others have not been able to do.

So, when I reflect on the magic that is the Ramayana, I do so with an acute
and humble awareness of its majesty, marvel, and spiritual grandeur. There
are times when Rama and Sita become the foci of my meditation. But when I
reflect on their saga, I do so from the perspective of one who has
experienced it as poetry and as a rich source of India's ancient cultural
history. These aspects of our great epics are usually marginalized, ignored,
or unrecognized. Even scholars often tend to shy away from them.

V. V. Raman
March 31, 2005

There is hardly a mythology without beings stupendously larger than humans.
Titans (Greek), Gigantes (Roman), Bestla (Norse), Fachan (Celtic), and
Rakshasas are all are species of mythological giants. Giants were good, bad,
or both in ancient tales. Later writers like Jonathan Swift in Gulliver's
Travels and Rabelais in Gargantua-Pantagruel created their own mythical
giants.

The giant Kumbhakarna was Ravana's brother. He too did years of austerities
to obtain power. But before he was to receive a boon, the gods begged Brahma
not to grant him anything because he had devoured nymphs, rishis and others,
and might gobble up all the three worlds with his prowess. Whereupon Brahma
summoned Saraswati to cast a spell on the rakshasa. When Kumbhakarna was
about to ask for nityatvam (permanence or immortality), Sarasvati twisted
his tongue, so he asked for nidratvam (state of sleepiness) instead.
[Example of wordplay which Hindu writers enjoyed.] Brahma granted this, but
out of pity, let him be awake one day every six months. So Kumbhakarna
became a sleeping giant of Hindu lore.

Kamban gives a hair-raising description of this giant. He slept on a
stupendous bed in a hall seven yojanas (56 miles?) wide. He looked like the
embodiment of sin. Breeze from his garden, bearing the fragrance of heavenly
karpaga trees was refreshing him. Celestial nymphs were caressing his limbs.
Water was gently sprinkled on his face from moonstones in the pillars of the
hall. The giant breathed so heavily that had Hanuman not been careful, he
would have been sucked into the giant's nostrils. When Ravana's troops were almost routed out, he ordered Kumbhakarna to be
woken up, for the giant was a great fighter who could ability to defeat
anybody.

The methods by which they tried to wake up Kumbhakarna are incredibly
humorous. They took perfumes, garlands, and vast quantities of food to
Kumbhakarna's bedroom. The food consisted of antelopes, bullocks and pigs,
and huge pots of blood as drink. They smeared his body with sandal paste,
burnt incense in the hall, made loud noise, blew conches, and shouted.
Kamban's says that myriad horses (?ram parigaL) galloped on Kumbhakarna's
body. Valmiki says a thousand elephants (v?N?sahasram) ran up and down
his body. Finally, when the giant woke up, all the worlds shook. His head
touched the sky, his eyes were grander than the sea. He gulped 600 cartloads
of rice, countless pots of liquor, and 1200 buffaloes. He gobbled
elephants, even steel weapons! Gargantua's gluttony seems pale and puny
compared the outrageous omnivoraciousness of Kumbhakarna.

Yet, when the half-drunk and glutton went to Ravana's palace and heard about
his brother's misdeed, he reprimanded him with a sermon on how to behave,
and with much wisdom too. Ravana, with a touch of repentance, declared there
was no point looking back, and asked for Kumbhakarna's fraternal love.

Friends console us when we are in trouble, he said, but kinsmen come to our
rescue when we have morally strayed.
Recognizing Ravana's predicament, Kumbhakarna resolved to destroy Rama with
his awesome might. He spoke with extreme confidence that he would route out
the enemy's army and promised to bring Rama's head to Ravana. Then,
ignoring the counsel of those who tried to dissuade him, Kumbhakarna marched
to the battlefield and took hold of the most fearsome arms made of iron,
adorned with garlands, generating flames.

The battle between Kumbhakarna and the monkey horde fighting for Rama,
narrated in a lengthy chapter (LXVII) of the Yuddhakanda, is one of the most
brutal and bloody scenes in any narrative, historical or fictional.

Beatings, gushing blood, maiming and mutilation: the sheer violence in it
all is stunning! The only mitigating factor is that it all sounds all too
fantastic: When Hanuman's chest was struck by Kumbhakarna's weapon, blood
oozed from his mouth and he shrieked so loud that it sounded like the cosmic
thunder at the end of the world.

Kumbhakarna's body was covered by monkeys
galore, but he gobbled up many of them. The parties hurled mountain chunks
at each other. Kumbhakarna's nose and ears were cut, then his arms and feet,
and Rama decapitated the monstrous rakshasa. His body plunged into the sea,
killing crocodiles and other creatures.

Thus ended the life of the tragic-comic Kumbhakarna who lived for but a day
during the entire Ramayana. The poet shelly spoke of death and his brother
sleep. Here the brother woke him up from sleep and sent him to death.

Kumbhakarna, the symbol of sleep and sloth in our framework, was also wise
and loyal to his brother. And he has added color and excitement to the epic.
Like Kumbhakarna, we all wake up periodically from our sleep in eternity.
And during our day that is life, we too can be wise and give good counsel.

We too can be mindlessly consuming. And by misplaced loyalty we too can
wreak havoc and perish.

V. V. Raman
April 1, 2005

Ravana is physically strong but morally weak. There is another personage in
the epic who is rationally bright but misguided in ideals. He was a rishi,
an illustrious Brahmin too, descended from Kashyapa. He was a counselor to
Dasaratha. His name was Jabali.

When Rama embarked on his exile, Jabali was one of the many who tried to
dissuade him from the heroic sacrifice. He described Rama's decision as not
worthy of a wise man, arguing that we all must live just for our own self.
In truth, he said, none is a friend, and one can't gain something through
someone else. We are born alone in this world and we die alone. It is
mindless to be attached to father and mother. Just as we stay for a while at
a resting place when we are on a journey; our family is but a temporary
place of shelter. With such logic Jabali tried to influence Rama into
thinking that he ought not to follow that arduous path with potential for
pain and suffering. He belittled the role of the father as no more than
having been the passing guardian of the sperm from which one is born. Now
that Dasaratha was no more, Rama was undergoing all the hardship for
nothing.

Jabali went on to denigrate funerary rites (shraddha) by which food is
offered to the spirits of the departed. He called this a waste: how could
dead people eat? If one could feed those who are far away, one should be
able to feed one's traveling friends too. Jabali said that those who
instruct us to give religious gifts, perform sacrificial rites, and renounce
wealth were clever schemers who try to draw us to charity for their own
benefit.

Jabali also propounded the materialistic philosophy by which the tangible
world is everything, there is nothing beyond what tickles the senses. He
advised Rama to forget about promises and principles, and return to the
kingdom that was legitimately his.

Rama, the embodiment of virtue and righteousness, was appalled that one who
had served as his father's minister uttered such words. He rejected Jabali,
calling his ideas unwholesome, sinful, unclean and worse. He would follow
the righteous path, not only because that was the right thing to do, but
also because if he abandoned truth and returned, he would become a terrible
role model for the people. "Truth alone is the eternal royal path," he
declared, an ideal that is as valid today as whenever it was spoken. It is
in statements like this that the core wisdom of Indic seers may be found.
Rama went on to elaborate on righteous conduct to the confused Jabali,
reminding us of Krishna's preaching to Arjuna in the Gita; except that,
unlike Krishna (who spoke from his own divine wisdom), Rama kept saying what
Vedic rishis and other sages had told so, reminding us that the Rama of
Valmiki is noble, but still only human.

In this reply of Rama, as stated in Valmiki, there is an intriguing
statement: "It is well known that one who follows the Buddha should be
punished as one would punish a thief, and an unbeliever is equal to Buddha."
A reference to Buddha (600 B.C.E) by Rama who is said to have lived in
another yuga, raises serious questions about the date of Valmiki's
composition, not to say of Rama himself.

When the Ramayana was composed, there were unbelievers (n?ikas) in India,
as there have always been in any dynamic civilization. That a rishi would
make a cynical remark about the shraddha ceremony sounds incredible. Perhaps
the poet wanted to bring to our atention the fact that such views were
entertained even by some in the upper caste. The episode also says that
skeptics and unbelievers often lived in fear of the establishment, and
quickly disavowed their views if those in power were upset. Thus, upon
seeing Rama's reaction, Jabali retracted, saying, "Normally I don't champion
the ideas of unbelievers. I do it only if I think it would serve some
purpose." The purpose here was to bring Rama back to Ayodhya. Since that did
not work, Jabali said that he became a believer again. Indeed, Vasishtha
came to his colleague's defense, telling Rama that Jabali was only
pretending to be an unbeliever in his commendable effort to bring Rama back
home.

As in all great works, there are several conflicts in the Ramayana: The
initial conversation between Manthara and Kaikeyi was a conflict between
jealousy and generosity. The Kaiyeyi-Dasaratha conflict is between
self-centered heartlessness and paternal love. The Rama-Ravana conflict is
between nobility and depravity, between supreme good and supreme evil. And
the Jabali-Rama conflict is between materialistic atheism and enlightened
righteousness. All these reveal that human life is multi-faceted and wrought
with perennial conflicts. Through the poet's exaggeration we see the deeper
roots of superficial confrontations. If these situations had been presented
in a milder manner, we might not be able to see their full implications. By
painting them in all their gory monstrosity the poet helps us better
appreciate where meanness, jealousy, self-centeredness, lust, ignoring
righteousness, and the like can eventually lead us to.

Jabali's story shows that India was a complex civilization with many streams
of thought even in that distant age.