1. Rama's Sister and Brother in Law

2. A Description of the Cold Season - Valmiki

3. Mandodari - Ravana's Wife

4. Bharadvaja

5. Rama of Ramayana

6. Sri RamaCharitaManasa by Tulsidas

7. Ramayana Beyond Valmiki

8. Auvaiyar

9. Tolkappiam

10. Author of Tolkappiam

11. On Charity - Tirumantiram

12. The Azhvars

13. Manikkavasagar

14. Jain Contributions to Tamil

15. SriRangam

16. Tiruppaavai and Andal

17. The Shaiva Triumvirate

18. Cilappatikaaram

19. Manimekalai

20. Jeevaka Cintaamani

21. Nataraja

22. Periyapuranam

23. Kandapuranam

24. Tirukkural

25. Kamban and his Ramayanam

26. Saint Ramalingaswamigal

27. Thyagaraja

28. Bharata Natyam

29. More On Bharata Natyam

30. Ancient manuscripts and O.V. Swaminatha Iyer

31. On the The Infallibility of Shastras

32. V. V. S. Aiyar

33. The Kovils of Tamil Nadu

34. Mahabalipuram

35. Subramania Bharati

36. Ramana Maharishi

37. Thoughts on Bengal

38. Chandidas

39. Maa Kaali and Bengal

40. Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu

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

.

.

Rama's sister and brother-in-law

If one is asked to name Rama's sister, even people familiar with the broad
theme of the Ramayana may be at a loss. But one of Dasaratha's ministers
tells the king: "It is Rishyashringa, your son-in-law, who will ultimately
help you get your sons."

Dasaratha's son-in-law? Yes, indeed, the Sanskrit dramatist Bhavabhuti says
in his Uttara Rama Caritra that Dasaratha had a daughter by the name of
Shanta; he doesn't specify the queen-mother. Shanta was adopted by King
Romapada, ruler of Anga. And she was given in marriage to Rishyashringa who
was the son of Vibhandaka.
The Rishyashringa story, as narrated in Balakanda, is very interesting. The
young man was raised in a forest amidst many deer. Hence his name which
means one with the horns of a deer. He spent most of his youth serving his
ascetic father.

Once Anga was afflicted by a draught. Romapada's ministers said this was due
to Rishyashringa's powerful abstinence. The story of Rishyashringa says that
the country of Angas suffered because of Rishyashringa's extreme continence.
A belief of the times was that if too austere celibacy was practiced in a
realm, there would be drought and infertility in the land. This reflects the
great importance placed on men with intense spiritual discipline for the
good of a country. When the plight of a people turns out to be unhappy, it
becomes all the more important for people of character and spiritual
strength to come to the fore. People of goodwill generate around them
thoughts and feelings of an essentially positive and life-giving nature, and
this is valuable for society at large.
So the ministers suggested that if Rishyashringa could be persuaded to
marry, that would bring rain. But they were afraid to make this proposal to
Vibhandaka since he might get upset. So the question was how to entice the
austere youth?

They schemed and sent a bevy of damsels to the forest where Rishyashringa
lived. When the youthful ascetic was alone, the young women sang and danced
in their colorful attire, attracting the curiosity and interest of the youth
who was fascinated and excited by their presence. The next day, he returned
to the place, and the beautiful women had little difficulty in slowly
alluring him to king Romapada's palace where he was received with great
respect and induced to marry Shanta. Whereupon, it began to rain in
torrents.

Finally, it was Rishyashringa, Dasaratha's son-in-law, who conducted the
renowned sacrifice from which arose the potions that eventually led to the
birth of Rama and his three brothers. The whole story is told in great
length in the first book of the Ramayana.

The episode suggests that even the firmest ascetic can be bent by feminine
charms. No matter how continent one has been, and how many years of penance
one has accumulated to one's credit, vows of abstinence can be broken if
there is strong enough temptation. The plea "Lead us not unto temptation!"
in the Lord's Prayer is based on this wisdom and fact of experience.

Irrespective of how elevated our principle, as long as we are in a well
functioning physical frame, our thoughts, actions, and reactions are
governed by our nervous system. Shakespeare, in one of his sonnets,
describes persons of very strong will and self-discipline, whom we would
call rishis, as those
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow.
He doesn't say they resist all temptations, but that they are slow to react
to them.

The expedition of many voluptuous maidens is to suggest that the greater
the self-discipline of a person, the stronger is the distracting force
needed to deviate from the vows of celibacy. Those with little character
can be more easily corrupted than those of stronger moral strength. But no
one is totally protected in this matter. The move, in George Meredith's
phrase, "from ascetic rocks to sensuous whirl-pools" is unfortunately not
such an arduous one. Circumstances rather than intentions often provoke
people. We overestimate our will-power in exposing ourselves to certain
situations.

Milton, in his narration of the story of Samson and Delilah, wrote, "Wisest
men have erred, and by bad women been deceived." However, in this episode
it is not the idea of woman ruining a man's life that is brought out. Here
after yielding to marital life Rishyashringa is much enriched personally,
and he brings enrichment to the country.
Note the ethical principle: Depending on the context, the same act (in this
case Rishyashringa's celibacy or the breaking of it) could bring about
either bad or good (draught or rain). A Tantrik formula says: "By the same
acts that cause some men to roast in horrible hell for hundreds of eons, the
yogi is liberated." Is killing a human right? Of course not, we would say.
But what about a situation when you have to protect others from a murderer
whom you see massacring people? Is aborting an unborn child right? Of course
not. But what if the fetus is known to be seriously deformed or the mother's
life would be endangered during birth? Epic episodes often carry deeper
meanings.

V. V. Raman
April 6, 2005

India is a land rich in flora and fauna. It has mountains and valleys,
plains and meadows, beautiful lakes, long rivers and ponds galore, fertile
grounds and parched deserts too. It has its seasons hot and cold, and much
in between, it has rains, draughts, floods and storms also. Its physical
features are like its people: impressive in variety, colorful in shade, and
ranging from extreme to extreme.

So when a poet like Valmiki presents to the reader his grand epic he does
not speak only of heroes and villains, of conflicts and confrontations. He
describes the land and its beauty and changes in sceneries. Sometimes he
does this while narrating the story. Sometimes he leaves it to one of the
characters to speak. So it is that early one morning when Rama walks to the
banks of the river Godavari to take his bath, Lakhmana and Sita follow him,
and at that time Lakshmana describes to Rama the winter scene.

A good portion of a whole sarga (canto) in the Aranya Kanda is devoted to
this description of the cold month in the southern regions: both its good
and ill effects. I will try to recast its essential contents in my own
words, without translating it literally:
"The season which you like has come, Rama. It is a blessing to the year,
indded it is like a jewel. There is dryness in the air. The land is abundant
in crops, the water is generally pleasant, and so is fire. The good ones who
have performed their religious rites are cleansed of their sins. The
peasants have reaped their harvests, and cows give greater quantities of
milk. As the sun moves away to Yama's quarters (the south), the northern
regions have lost their charm, looking like a woman without her auspicious
mark. Snow is winter's treasure for the Himalayas which now deserves its
name more than ever.

"It is nice to take a stroll at noon; it is a delight to be touched by
sunshine. The sun is pleasant while shade and water aren't so.
Since it is not so hot, the fog gets thick. Sometimes the cold is bitter in
the wind. There is frost in the blighted woodlands. We can no longer sleep
in the open at night. The Pushya constellation is up there. But the frost
makes the night look dusty, and the nights get colder and longer too. The
moon has lost her pleasantness to the sun, and with its orb rendered ruddy
by the snow, it looks soiled as if by exhalation. It doesn't shine in all
its glory even on a full-moon night, obscured as it is by frost, just as
Sita, when tanned by the sun, looks unattractive. Already cold by nature,
westerly wind, saturated by snow, is bitter cold in the morning. With their
abundant crops of barley and wheat, the land looks attractive early in the
morning when birds like herons and cranes make their sounds. The golden
paddy crops slightly bend over, looking charming and much like date flowers.
Its rays weakened by fog and frost, the sun looks like the moon even at high
noon.

"The sun's radiance is only slightly felt in the forenoon. But it is
pleasant at noon. The sun is slightly red and somewhat pale, and is casting
its charm everywhere. The fields are beautiful too, and the grass is moist
with dew. Even the wild elephant, though very thirsty, pulls back its tusk
from the water sometimes: the water is that cold. Birds near water dare not
put their beaks into it, just as the meek don't get into a fight though they
may be near one. Trees without blossom seem to have gone to sleep, covered
as they are with dew drops and a darkness born of heavy fog. Streams are
barely visible, though we can hear the shrieks of cranes nearby. Due to the
frost caused by the cold and mild sunshine, water on the tops of mountains
taste good. Lotus beds have lost their charm for their flowers have decayed
and even their filaments have withered away."
Valmiki's description of how the scorching summer sun is transformed into a
soft and soothing touch in wintertime is true today as when those lines were
written. But what is intriguing is the reference to snow in the region of
the Godavari. Could it be that there has been a climate change since the era
of the Ramayana? Or was our poet extrapolating from what he had observed in
the hilly regions of the north, I wonder.

The poetic mind sees the world in ways that others don't, and it gives
expression to what it sees in aesthetically meaningful ways. Other poets in
other climes and in other tongues have reflected on winter too. Some seem to
echo Valmiki's reflections. Recall, for example, what Alexander Pope wrote:
But see, Orion sheds unwholesome dews; Arise, the pines a noxious shade
diffuse.

In a stanza of George O'Neil we read:
Now there is frost upon the hill; no leaf stirring in the wood.
There is more to the Ramayana than jealousy, exile, lust, heroics, and war.

One may be reverential to the Rama principle in temple and in songs. The
epic's religious dimension touches the soul of the devout, and that is good.
But if we lose sight of its literary aspects, it would be like attending the
rituals of a wedding and skipping the feast. There is also so much about
India's past we can learn from the Ramayana.

Mandodari was Ravana's principal wife; he had a great many concubines. She was a rakshasi: often translated as ogress. But she had none of thenegative qualities which are associated with ogresses. Even giantess would be a misnomer, for the epic describes Mandodari as a beautiful woman. Kamban informs us that her father was the celestial architect Mayan who madeLanka magnificent, inspired by suggestions from Brahma. Mandodari is said to have been very attractive.

When Hanuman saw her in Ravana's palace, her decacephalous husband was asleep. At his feet were women-musicians, wearing huge ear-rings and gorgeous jewelry of gold, diamonds and gems. They too were sleeping, exhausted and inebriated fromtoo much dancing and drinking. Valmiki says they had lovely breasts, graceful limbs, and were hugging musical instruments. In that chamber there was also a sumptuous couch on which richly ornamented Mandodari of exquisite beauty was sleeping.

For a moment Hanuman thought she must be Sita, and in the joy of his imagined discovery he clapped hishands and kissed his tail, jumped and climbed the pillars, says Valmiki. In Kamban's version, Hanuman spotted Mandodari, with face as beautiful as the moon, in a mansion all her own. In Kamban's customary hyperbole, celestial nymphs were massaging her feet which resembled the quiver of the god of love. Her body was emanating a magical light. Seeing her in such comfort in that magnificent palace, Hanuman was deeply pained. "The whole purpose of my life is shattered," he told himself. "If this be Sita," he went on in despair, "then I too must die along with the fair name and reputation of Rama, and so must Lanka and the entire rakshasa horde."

But he soon realized his error and left Mandodari's palace at once. Mandodari was another victim of Ravana's infatuation, for he lost interest in her and longed for another woman. This was humiliation enough. Then Hanuman slew her son Akshakumara on the battlefield. This was more terrible. Mandodari wailed at the feet of Ravana, beating her body in intense grief, her disheveled hair was touching the soil. Her lamentation when the other son Indrajit died in battle was just as sad and pathetic. She walked around the corpse, as if treading on fire, and fell on his body like a peacock that had been shot down, and swooned. After a while she came to herself and cried: "As a child you grew like the waxing moon. You subdued the powerful ones with you archery. Now I see your head-less body. I am losing my mind. I can't think of living any longer.Oh my sweet and handsome child! When you were but an infant crawling with anklets, you caught two lions, teased them, and played with them. Once you held the moon in your hand, spotted the dark patch on it, and said it was a hare. Oh, how I wish I could re-live that scene! I am terrified because Lanka's king may die tomorrow, having imbibed the poisoned nectar Sita.

"We recall the lamentation in Shakespeare's lines: O lord, my boy, my fair son! My life, my joy, my food, my all the world! When Ravana fell down and died, Mandodari's anguish was even more intense, and her wailing more painful.

Both Kamban and Valmiki devote many stanzas to that tragic scene. Mandodari wondered if Rama's arrows which covered Ravana's entire body, were probing his heart to see if Sita was imprisoned there. She recalled her husband's greatness, his invincibility, and saidshe always believed no man could ever bring defeat him. She referred to the fate that had planted lust for Sita in Ravana's heart, which was to lead him to death. At last, says Kamban, she stood up from the corpse which she had embraced, called out Ravana's name aloud, fell down, and heaved her final breath.

Though a rakshasi, Mandodari was a good woman, and like other Indian heroines she
suffered much, had been abused by men, and was devoted to a husband who ignored her. She went through the agony of seeing both her sons die, and she witnessed the gory end of her dear and misguided husband too. None of the other heroines were subjected to such mental torture.

Mandodari is therefore reckoned among the five great women of Indic lore who are held in very high regard. It is good that she belonged to the tribal class of ancient India, for that was the rakshasa class. Maybe Valmiki painted her and Ravana's good brother Vibhishana in positive terms to remind us that it would be wrong to judge all rakshasas by Ravana's behavior. The denigration of a group on the basis of the misbehavior of, or theunpleasant impression created by, a few is one of the major blunders that many people commit. It is the attitude by which a whole race or nation ischaracterized as consisting of only evil or inferior people. This is an ailment fromwhich many people all over the world suffer even in this day and age. We call it racism.

Perhaps through Mandodari and Vibhishana the poet is reminding us that group hatred is blind to facts and is morally wrong. This may be one of the hidden messages in the Ramayana. Sometimes we extract messages from our own reading and reflection.

What makes the Ramayana part of the larger sacred history of the Hindu world
is that it refers to personages beyond the main story line of the epic.

Consider, for example, the Rishi Bharadvaja - an illustrious sage in the
tradition, and progenitor of a gotram in Hindu genealogy. He was one of its
sage-poets who contributed to the Rig Veda.
In Kamba Ramayanam we read that Rama and his party stopped at Bharadvaja's
peaceful hermitage. The sage is described in great detail by Kamban: His
tuft was plaited, a tree bark served as his loin cloth, and a deer skin
covered his body. He was carrying a parasol, a jug for auspicious water
(kamandalam) and a sacred baton (brahmadandam). He was so learned, it was
as if Vedas were dancing on his tongue. Rama treated him with great
reverence, with flowers, prayer and a triple prostration. Bharadvaja
recognized the prince and wondered why one who could rule the whole world
was there in ascetic garb, When Rama explained, the sage said it was fate
that had intended all this to happen.
Then Bharadvaja offered to host the trio (Rama, Sita, Lakshmana) at his
hermitage which was rich in plants, trees, fruits and sacred water. But Rama
replied that the place too close to Koshala, and would attract many citizens
to come and implore him to return. Bharadvaja understood, and gave them
directions to go to Chitrakoot.

In Valmiki's Ramayana we are told that when Bharata reached Bharadvaja's
hermitage while he was on his search for Rama, the sage asked him bluntly:
"What is your motive in looking for Rama when you ought to be busy ruling
the kingdom which you have inherited as a result of your mother's demand for
Rama's exile? I am rather suspicious. In your efforts to enjoy the kingdom
that rightfully belongs to flawless Rama, I trust you are not thinking of
harming Rama and Lakshmana."

This brought tears to Bharata's eyes, and he pleaded with the sage not to
speak to him thus. He informed the man of wisdom that he (Bharata) was
coming to beg Rama to come back to rule the kingdom. Perhaps this dialogue
is meant to heighten the drama, for one would expect a man of Bharadvaja's
stature to know better. The reader (audience) is also moved to tears when
they hear the noble Bharata being thus accused.

We must remember that the Ramayana is not just a re-telling of ancient
history. It is an epic narrative, meant to sway our hearts with emotions and
to stir our souls, and to paint what constitutes noble and ignoble behavior,
what is right and what is wrong, what is ideal and what is petty, evil, and
coarsely self-centered.

Indeed, Bharadvaja quickly changed his tone and said that he was aware of
Bharata's intent, and that he had spoken in that way only to strengthen
Bharata's resolution further.

Then there is a fascinating scene in (Kamban's) Uttara Kanda in which Rama
and his entourage are traveling in the flowered aerial vehicle (pushpaka
vimanam) on their way back to Ayodhya. During that flight, Sita is curious
about where Rama found Hanuman. In answer, like a tourist guide pointing to
interesting places, Rama shows Sita as they fly over the various spots the
residence of Sugriva, the kingdom of Kishkindya, the Godavari River, the
Dandaka forest, the Chitrakoot Mountain, and Bharadvaja's hermitage.

The vehicle landed for a while at this hermitage. Rama prostrated at the
feet of the rishi. Bharadvaja greeted him fondly and praised him for his
heroic deed of ridding the world of demonic characters. Then he went on to
extol the great qualities of Rama's brother Bharata who had been spending
these fourteen long years virtually as an ascetic, living only on fruits and
vegetables, sleeping on a bed of grass, and chanting Rama's divine name.
Bharadvaja offered to bless Rama with a boon of his asking. To this Rama
said: "I want the vanaras (monkeys) to live with ease, I want them to find
all the fruits, vegetables and roots they need no matter where they roam."
This was granted. [A book, entitled Heilige Egoisten: Die Soziobiologie
indischer Tempelaffen: Holy egoists: The sociobiology of Indian
temple-monkeys, by the primatologist Volker Sommer documents after a decade
of scientific studies, how well this boon has served monkeys in India.]

As with countless other personages in our sacred history, one wonders who
this eminent Rishi actually might have been. The name appears in a variety
of contexts. Quite possibly there were several great men with the name of
Bharadvaja. It is said that they officiated in Vedic rituals. A Rig Vedic
hymn attributed to a Bharadvaja is said to have given rise to the sacred-cow
doctrine in the Hindu world. If the Vedas refer to him as a son of
Brihaspati, the Vishnu Purana gives an interesting etymology of his name. It
says that his mother Mamat?onceived him from two fathers: her blind
husband Utathya and his younger bother Brihaspati. Hence he was called
bhara-dv?am: Born of Two (Fathers). Could it be that this was a poetic
way of saying that the officiant in a Vedic sacrifice often recites the
mantras with eyes closed? Who knows!

V. V. Raman
April 16, 2005

Valmiki's Ramayana begins with these questions which are posed by the poet:
"Is there anyone who merits to be called a perfectly virtuous man, anyone
who fully understands the power of ethical comportment? Who is there that
fully comprehends the value of selfless service, who always speaks the
truth, and is firm in his resolutions? Who has such power and majesty, and
has also mastered himself and subdued anger?..."

To this, Narada answers: "Yes, there is one with all these noble qualities.
He is a prince of the Ikshv? dynasty. His name is Rama. He has full
self-control, he is with glory, is resolute, and free from attachments. He
is intelligent and wise, eloquent and illustrious, a powerful destroyer of
foes. His shoulders are broad, his arms powerful, his chin is sturdy, and
his neck graceful. His chest is broad, his collar strong, and he wields a
mighty bow. With a handsome face and well-shaped forehead, he has a charming
gait too. He has a soft complexion and big endearing eyes. He keeps his
word, he cares for his people. He protects all that is good. He defends
dharma. He is versed in Vedas and science, and in archery. His knowledge is
deep, his memory sharp, and his wit is quick. He is revered and respected
everywhere. He is pious, noble, and of keen mind. The righteous always seek
him just as rivers long for the boundless sea. His knowledge is deep as the
ocean. In sheer firmness he is like the stupendous Himalayas. When in anger,
he may burst forth like cosmic fire (kalagni). Yet, he is patient as Mother
Earth..."

What can one add to this portrayal of the epic hero? We can only sing the
glories of this Ramachandra. Rama becomes relevant because we can't imagine
an intangible faceless God out there somewhere in regions beyond reach. We
need a divinity that is visualizable, in name and in image, conceptual or
real, to elevate our spirits to lofty levels, to give meaning to existence.
If such an avataric divinity deviates ever so slightly from perfection, he
becomes even closer, for he is like one of us. That is why, I feel, the Rama
of Valmiki slips here and there: stubborn in his obedience to father at the
cost of pain and anguish to countless people, indiscriminately exterminating
all rakshasas, harsh to Sita when tossed by jealousy. Rama is human now and
again.

Rama always adheres to Truth. By this we mean that he is committed to all
that is good and noble, to fairness and justice, that he is always upright,
honest, and sincere. Rama's devotion to his father is equaled only by his
father's love for him. But even more powerful is his devotion to dharma.
When Lakshmana begged him not to accede to Kaikeyi, Rama reminded him that
"dharma is primary. My father's command is paramount because it rests on
dharma." He asks Lakshmana to reassure Kaikeyi that her wishes would be
fulfilled. He refused to blame anyone, says it was so ordained. When others
get emotional, angry and annoyed, he remains calm, patient, and equanimous.
But when Sita disappeared, Rama loses all his composure and ability to bear
a burden. The two sargas Valmiki devotes to Rama's plight in this context
are perhaps the most poignant of all. Nowhere else is Rama more human than
here. He wails and he raves. He talks aloud to his beloved, imagining she is
hiding behind the boughs of an Ashoka tree, saying he could see her thighs
behind a plantain tree, and begging her to return because the hut is
desolate without her. He is shamed by the thought that people might say he
is without the power or the caring to have prevented Sita from being
kidnapped. He doesn't know how he would confront Sita's father. He asks
Lakshmana to go proclaim in Ayodhya that Sita was dead and that he too would
die soon. He calls himself the greatest sinner: Why else would he lose his
kingdom and his father, be separated from family, have to leave his mother?
Now, with Sita gone, all those sorrows were back again. Kamban says that
Rama's shock was like that of a soul which had briefly left the body, only
to find out upon its return that the body wasn't there. Or as that of a man
who had buried his immense underground, only to find out that it had all
been stolen.

Rama is the best known of all heroes in history. More people have uttered
and written his name and more often than that of any other. Few has been
worshiped thus. No other name has become a greeting mode. Yet, scholars are
still arguing about whether this personage whose saga Valmiki has so
beautifully narrated ever walked on Indian soil.
Rama is divinity incarnate on the religious plane; on the mythological
plane, he is a symbol of goodness that subdues evil; and he is an
extraordinary role model on the ethical plane. His adherence to truth is
exceptional. His respect for parents surpasses any ideal. His refusal to
throw blame on others is exemplary. His skill in archery and power over
miscreants is awesome. The name of this Lord of the Raghu dynasty, Raja Ram,
who protects those who have fallen, is for ever associated with that of his
beloved Sita in a moving Hindu hymn, and his name has inspire millions of
Hindus over the ages.

The ideals formulated in a culture serve to enhance its image and the
self-image.

V. V. Raman
April 22, 2005

I was drawn to Shri Rama Charita Manasa of Tulsi Das (Sant Tulasi Dasa) by
some of my Hindi and Punjabi friends who invited me to participate in their
Akand Ramayan sessions: uninterrupted relay-reading of the holy book from
cover to cover in 24 plus hours, interspersed with bhajans dedicated to Rama
and Hanuman, culminating in ?ti, and followed by a sumptuous shared meal.
I recognized that in the course of the rhythmic chanting - which could
strike a stranger as a drone - the readers, while immersed in the
recitation, sometimes seeming to be in a hurry to complete the task, were
not always conscious of the meanings of the words and phrases of the 16th
century Hindi.

Like the others, I too derived spiritual enrichment in the process. In the
next few weeks, I read the work in the quiet of my study, with a
Hindi-English dictionary at hand. I discovered how different this Ramayana
is from Kamban's and Valmiki's. At the very outset, Kamban is exceedingly
modest, and asks scholars to forgive him for daring to write the Rama's
saga. Tulsi Das says his work is in an elegant style, and he is harsh on the
(imaginary) critics of his opus, describing them as people who celebrate the
downfall of others and lament when others prosper.

But he also becomes humble in his self-assessment. He says that at the
thought of Rama's grand mystery, he trembles as he writes. He begs readers
to bear with him as he sings Rama's glory. Whenever he mentions Rama, we can
feel his deep devotion to the Lord. He adores Rama as one from whom all
light - of fire, the sun and he moon - emanates. Rama is the vital breath of
the Vedas, the source of all that is good. Rama is God, not just prince of
Avadh. "Though he is without attributes or form, though unlimited and
unchangeable, out of love for his devotees he has incarnated." When the poet
says that the virtues of Avadh are sung in the Vedas, we should take the
term to mean time-honored tradition, because the sacred Vedas don't mention
the Rama of Ramayana.

Like Kamban, Tulsi Das starts with a description of River Sarj?ma's
story is told as if Shambu (Shiva) is narrating it to Uma. The work is
interspersed with nuggets of wisdom. He extols the spiritual glories of
Varanasi; he emphasizes the importance of bhakti (loving devotion) and the
value of unquestioning surrender to God. Talking about Kama's impact, he
notes that if lust were instigated worldwide, all rule of law, religious
vows, responsibilities, self-discipline, rites and rituals, pursuit of
knowledge, philosophy, virtue, prayer, asceticism, everything will flee.

Tulsi Das evokes Rama's greatness with exclamations like: "A hundred
thousand Seshas can't describe the power and glory of Rama. His one shaft
can evaporate a hundred oceans." But he also reflects the mind-set of his
times when he says that even a chandala, a shavara, an idiotic alien, an
outcaste, and the like can be purified by repeating Raghubira's name. Among
the characteristics of the horrible things in Kaliyuga, he says, men would
be subject to women and shudras would be wearing the sacred thread.

Leaving aside the social constraints imposed by the age, the essential
message of Tulsi Das's masterpiece is that there is but one God, that the
Divine took on flesh and blood to save humanity from its intrinsically
sinful nature, and that the Ramayana can redeem us. He proclaims that love
should be shown even to very lowly creatures. Mahatma Gandhi rendered a
stanza from Tulsi Das, which has entered the Unitarian prayer book: "This
and this alone is true religion: To serve thy brethren. This is sin above
all other sins: to harm thy brethren."

Not surprisingly, Tulsi's book has been called the Bible of Northern India.
However, unlike the Bible, this is the work of a single gifted poet who
ranks among the most illustrious bards of India, and among the most
influential poets of the world.

The Ram-Charit-Manas is not a re-telling of the ancient epic. Rather, it is
a divinely inspired narration of the deeds of God-on-Earth, uttered with
consummate bhakti, made magnificent by feelings of crystal purity. The
stanzas touch us, not as meters constructed by a calculating mind, but as
heart-felt melodies brimming with love for the Divine.

As with other great poets, Tulsi Das reads but poorly in translation. The
magic of his work is lost in another language. The frequent mention of
Raghurai's lotus feet (kamala pad) may sound confusingly repetitious to
those unfamiliar with the framework. Unlike Valmiki's and Kamban's, Tulsi
Das's work is not for literary criticism or analysis. It is for the devotee
seeking spiritual connection. It has been as powerful as the holy book of
any tradition, and more so than the Bhagavad Gita or the Upanishads, for it
touches the soul of those who recite it with reverence. It has soothed more
hearts than any other version of the Ramayana. The saintly, the scholarly,
the peasant, the professor, the wretched, and the rich of the Hindi world
heard and experienced Tulsi's Manasa. Few poets have written so much out of
pure love of God, nor raised so many millions to ecstatic devotion.

Many years ago, during a brief stay in Bangkok, I visited the famous Wat
Phra Kaeo: Temple of the Emerald Buddha:, a magnificent structure dating
back to the 18th century. There I was surprised to see murals which seemed
to depict scenes from the Ramayana. Then I went to a temple not far away,
where there is the Reclining Buddha. Here I saw marble panels with scenes
from the Ramayana in bas-reliefs. I haven't seen anything like that even in
India. These were based on the Ramakian, of which I had never heard before,
which is the Thai version of the Ramayana. It has been a part of that
nation's cultural history for many centuries. I learned that once the Thai
capital was called Ayutthaya, and that many Thai kings bore the name of
Rama. Dance drama versions and puppet shows of Ramakien are still popular in
Thailand.

A version of Ramakien was written by King Rama I who ruled the land from
1782 to 1809. Theodora Bofman has translated it into English. In this epic,
King Tosarot of Ayutthya has three wives who, as a result of special
rituals, give birth to Phra Ram, Phra Prot, Phra Lak and Phra Satarud. They
are all incarnations of Phra Narai. Phra Isual had a gate-keeper by the
name of Nontuk (Nandi). It is Nontuk who incarnates as the ten-headed
Tosakanth, king of Longka. Tosanath's wife Monto gives birth to Sida. His
astrologer predicts that she would destroy the demon race. So the infant is
put in a jar which is left in the ocean. She is discovered by King Chanok of
Mithila. Phra Ram once ridiculed Queen Kaiyaket. So, years later, she
reminds king Tosarot of a pledge he had given her, and asks for a 14 year
exile of Phra Ram. There are some adventures here. Tosakanth's sister
Samanakha tries to seduce Phra Ram, Lak cuts off her ear, Sida is abducted,
a race of monkeys of whom Pali, Sukreep and Hanuman are important members,
come to the aid of Phra Ram and there is a climactic war.

I found this version interesting in its own way, but it lacked (for me) the
moral majesty of Valmiki. But remarkably, its impact on Thai culture - which
is Buddhist - seems to have been considerable. Like other permeations of
the Rama story in South East Asia, it has served to propagate the name of
Rama beyond the shores of India.

Temple carvings in Kampuchea going back to the 10th century have the Rama
theme. Characters of the Ramayana are deified there. In the Khmer version,
Reamker, the hero is called Preah Ream, and his wife is Neang Seda. Ravana
is known as Reap. Bali has a Ramayana Monkey Chant. In Java there is a
Ramayana in the Kawa language, and so on.

The Rama story has traveled to more distant lands and climes, as far as
Siberia and Mongolia, cultural historians say. It has undergone regional
metamorphoses, no doubt. In one, Hanuman is the child of Rama and Sita, and
he is fond of women. Even after Muslim conquests and conversions, the spirit
of Rama lingered for long in the culture of many peoples. As if all this is
not enough, there are department stores called Ramayana, and a Thai
restaurant in The Hague has the name Ramakian. Valmiki must be smiling.

Within India too, the saga of Ramayana is impressive. Whereas Valmiki has
been translated several times into English, there is perhaps no translation
of his work in any Indian language. Whether it is Madhava Kandali in
Assamese or Krittivasa in Bengali, whether Narahari in Kannada or
Ezuttacchan in Malayalam, the great poets of India's vernaculars have
trans-created rather than translated the original masterpiece, realizing
that the message of the epic is more important than details of the specific
episodes, and translations of a master-poet can never transmit the grandeur
in the original. There are also other Ramayanas in Sanskrit, besides
Valmiki's, such as the Adbhuta, the Adhyatma and the Bhushundi Ramayanas.
In one Jain version, Lakshmana is punished because he breached the rule of
ahimsa when he killed Ravana.

Versions of the Ramayana have also been published in Persian and Arabic.
Most European languages have some version or other of the Ramayana. Gaspare
Gorresio was one of the first to bring out a complete translation of Valmiki
in several volumes in Italian, already in the 1840s. In 1864 Hippolyte
Fauche brought out a French translation of the epic. More recently an
abridged version, Le Ramayana, was published by Charles Le Brun. A Spanish
El Ramayana has been published In Mexico, and Claudia Schm?rs has written
Das Ramayana in German. In the political rancor against the colonizing West,
many modern Indians tend to forget the commitment of European scholars to
bring to their own people the richness of Indic literature and culture.

Few names in history have spread so far and wide as Rama's. As with Christ
and Buddha, his name has become a household world in many nations and
cultures. It has inspired great painting, poetry, music and places of
worship. But unlike Buddha and Christ, Rama's existence is clouded in the
mist of mythic history, in a timeless realm, as it were, making the Rama
Principle historically eternal. It is on this that I meditate.

V. V. Raman
April 29, 2005

Long before the modern world came to recognize the moral and mental worth of
women, ancient cultures gave the highest respect for womanhood by
personifying wisdom and knowledge as a she. Thus, Saraswati is the goddesses
of Wisdom in the Hindu world, as Athena and Minerva were in Greece and Rome.

There were also women poets in the ancient world. The Tamils recall with
respect and affection Auvaiyar: a woman of keen intelligence who had the
gift for encapsulating wisdom in pithy sayings, verbal vitamins as it were
that jolt us to awareness. Nowhere is the Shakespearean phrase "brevity is
the soul of wit" more tellingly illustrated than in Auvai. Her
alphabetically arranged maxims are both descriptive and prescriptive, and
often within grasp of even young minds.

The first line that I learned from Auvaiyar, like millions of other Tamil
children, is aRam ceiyya viRumbu: Desire (develop a wish) to do whatever is
proper. The Tamil word aRam corresponds to the Sanskrit dharma. Recall the
Upanishadic dharmam cara: Follow the path of dharma! Auvaiyar advises us to
wish to do it, and reveals thereby a deep understanding of psychology, for
once the desire in implanted in heart and mind, action would follow
spontaneously. I can't think of a more powerful mantra to inspire us.

A companion work by her is another mound of maxims, each a string of four
terse words. The genius of the Tamil language sparkles in these precious
nuggets in rhythmic meters. The work begins with: annaiyum pit?m munnaRi
deivam: Mother and father are the first Gods to be reckoned. Then we are
reminded that it is very good 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 refrain from moping about a loss
and to get back to work again; never to give up zest; and so on.

These works by Auvaiyar's, Atti Cuudi, and KonRai Vendan, have acquired
unusual prestige in Tamil culture. During many centuries when writing on
palm leaves was in vogue, children began their education by reciting and
writing the maxims of Auvaiyar, even as passages from scriptures are learned
by rote in some other cultures. Auvai's precepts are non-denominational,
though there is the customary invocation to the Almighty at the beginning.
In the Auvai-inspired tradition, the letters of the alphabet introduce the
young to values and wisdom, rather than to apples, boys cats, and dogs.
Auvai doesn't speak of ?an, karma, gods, meditation, or mysticism. Nor
does she tell us how to achieve moksha. She is a down-to-earth teacher who
speaks wise common sense. She shows the path for balanced and meaningful
living without any metaphysical mumbo-jumbo. She was humble too. "What is
learned has the measure of a fistful of sand, " she reflected, "what is not
learned is vast as the world."

It is said that this blessed woman was a child prodigy who talked poetically
at the age of four. She grew up to be a lovely young woman, but when her
father began to seek a beau to marry her off, she is said to have prayed to
the Almighty to transform her into a wrinkled old grand-ma, white hair,
curved spine and all, for wedded wifehood wasn't her goal in life. The boon
was granted, so says the legend, and the dainty damsel was metamorphosed
into an aged lady and doyenne of Tamil poetry. What a contrast from the
normal obsession to look younger than what the calendar reveals! So no one
knows how she looked as a pretty one, for artists have always sketched her
as a grandmotherly matron: indeed, that is what the name Auvai actually
signifies.

Auvai was not a saint, though she has been called thus by later generations.
But she is perhaps the only poetess in the world who was enshrined in a
temple. Not far from the town of Tulasiar near Tanjavur there used to be a
temple consecrated to Auvaiyar. She richly deserves one, not only for having
enriched her language with verbal gems, but also because those who enlighten
the world through wisdom are truly divine.

As is not unusual when it comes to ancient history, there is more confusion
than clarity regarding the name and personage of Auvaiyar. Books on Tamil
literature tell us that there were at least two Auvaiyars, perhaps three.
The one I have been talking about is reported to have been the poet
Tiruvalluvar's sister. She had many royal patrons. She traveled places.
There are many anecdotes associated with her life. Once she was told by a
priest not to sit in a temple with her legs pointing in the direction of the
Almighty, a not uncommon matronly posture in the Tamil world. Auvaiyar
promptly asked the man to please show her a direction which pointed to a
place where the Almighty wasn't present. He realized he was confusing the
icon for the Divine itself.

Auvaiyar stands tall among the women-poetesses of the world, though she is
seldom recognized as such even within India. As with all great writers, only
those who have read her works know her greatness. She was the closest to
Saraswati in flesh and blood.

V. V. Raman
May 6, 2005

If the origin of languages can be traced to human grunting in efforts to
communicate, that of grammar is far more elusive. We have no idea when, how,
or by whom the grammars and syntaxes of the countless languages were
concocted. But we have writers who present in systematic ways the structure
of languages and rules governing them.

Not many languages can say which is the oldest book in their history. And
even if one could spot such a book, not many such are systematically studied
to this day. Tamil is one of the few such languages. For it does identify
the oldest extant book in its list. It is called appropriately Tolkappiam
which means Ancient Epic (Treatise). It continues to be studied even in our
own times. This is not to say that there were no prior books. Tolkappiam
itself refers to more than a couple of hundred works, but they are all lost.

Every language finds expression in three modes: in its natural spoken and
written forms, in music, and in dramatics. The first of these is known in
Tamil as iya-Tamizh: Natural Tamil. This is the subject-matter of
Tolkappiyam. It deals with a hundred aspects of spoken and written Tamil,
from the first alphabet to a classification of writings.

More than 25% of Tolkappiyam is devoted to an analysis of the Tamil
alphabet. The author describes vowels as life/soul (uyir) letters, and the
pure sounds of consonants as body (mei) letters. Most of the ordinary
letters we use result from a merger of the two, and are the soul-body
(uyr-mei) letters. In English, for example, the letter B is made up of the
sound b and the vowel e, giving the full sound bee.

Tamil is the only language which has two different letters for the sound of
n. One of these is also the last letter of the alphabet, and no (written)
Tamil word begins with this n.

Tolkappiam also mentions what one calls diglossia: the existence of two
parallel languages, one literary or written, and the other spoken. It calls
the two versions centamizh (correct or pure Tamil) and koDuntamizh
(unpolished Tamil) respectively.

The work classifies words into four categories: those in common use, those
used in poetry, those with only regional currency, and those derived from
the north (Sanskrit).

Like its Sanskrit counterpart by PâNini, the work traces the root meanings
of words. In this matter, it is one of the earliest treatises on etymology,
making it a storehouse of information for philologists in their search for
the origins of Tamil.

A fundamental difference between Sanskrit and Tamil grammar relates to the
gender of nouns. In Sanskrit (as in Latin), gender is not always determined
by sex. Thus, nadî (river) and purî (town) are feminine, while âtman (soul)
and panthan (road) are masculine in Sanskrit. In Tamil all these would be of
neuter gender.

Tolkappiyam gives the geographical divisions of the Tamil county into hills,
plains, woods, coastal regions, and desert areas. Each region was known as a
tiNai. In this context, it refers to the five-elements (earth, water, air,
fire, and ether) theory of his time. There is also a thematic (poruL)
classification scheme of writings as matters of subjective (aham) interest
and objective (puram) relevance. The first pertains to love, and the second
primarily to war. There are extensive discussions of the kind of love
possible: mutual, unrequited, and enforced. Then the author talks about the
states of people in love: united, separated, patiently waiting, wailing, and
sulking. Likewise, there are various stages of war: from cattle raids and
invasions to sieges, battle, and victory.

What is remarkable is that so many
aspects of culture and civilization are discussed in a book supposedly
devoted to the grammar of the language.
There is an artificial correlation between each mode of treatment of a topic
and one of the five types of regions of the land. This seems to restrict the
framework in which writers in any given region could write. Scholars tend to
believe that Tolkappiam mentions the writings of the times, all of which are
now lost. It was not meant to impose rules to which later writers strictly
adhered.

This first of all extant Tamil books is attributed to a certain Tirana
Tumâkini. But he has come to be known simply as Tolkappiyar: Author of
Tolkappiyam. Inevitably, incredible legends have grown around his name. He
is said to have been a descendent of Rishi Jamadagni. His master was
Agastiyar. His work was such a masterpiece that his own guru became jealous.

The illustrious Agastiyar was also annoyed with Tolkappiyar about another
matter relating to his wife, and he tried to foil Tolakkpiar's chance of
getting the Tamil Cangam's approval for Tolkappiam. He is said to have
inflicted a curse on the learned grammarian to the effect that he should
never achieve spiritual liberation: a verbal violence which Tolkappiar is
said to have promptly reciprocated on his guru.

Some historians, noting that Agastiar is mentioned in the Ramayana which is taken to have happened more than 4000 years ago, argue that Tolkappiam is at least that old. More balanced scholars date the book as belonging to perhaps the second century
B.C.E.

V. V. Raman
May 11, 2005

Tirumantiram

251: The Charitable Realize the Self
Who the self realise, seek and adore the Feet of the Lord;
Who the self realise, most freely give in charity;
Who the self realise, Lord of Tattvas become;
Who the self realise, Kin to the Lord in dear amity.

Translation by B. Natarajan
------------------------------------

This comes under Aran ceivAn tiRam: Quality of a charitable person

thAmaRi vAraNNal thALpaNi vAravar
thAmaRi vAraRan^ thaN^kin^in RAravar
thAmaRi vArchila thaththuva rAvarkaL
thAmaRi vArkkuth thamarpara nAmE.

tAm aRivAr aNNal tAL paNivAr avar
tAm aRivAr aRam tangi ninRAr avar
tAm aRivAr chila tattuvar AvarkaL
tAm aRivArkku tamarparanAmE.

tAm: themselves;
aRivAr: Who know;
aNNal: The Great One('s)
tAL: feet;
paNivAr: serve;
avar: They.

tAm aRivAr: Those who know themselves;
aRam: charity;
tangi: staying with
nindRavar: who stand
avar: they;
tAm aRivAr: Those who know themselves
chila: some
tattuvar: tattvas, essences
AvarkaL: will become.
tAm aRivArkku: To those who know their self
tamar: their own
paran: kin
AmE: become.

Those who realize the self
Serve the feet of Divinity.
Those who realize the self
Generously give to charity

Those who realize the self
Some essences they become.
To those who realize the self
As their own kin does God come.

V. V. Raman
May 13, 2005

In ancient Alexandria a group of seven tragic poets were known as the Pleiad (after the tiny constellation Pleiades of seven stars). This name was
adopted by a group of seven French poets in the 16th century. These were
instances of a single name given to a group of poets. In Tamil culture we
have a similar situation. Twelve eminent Vaishnava poets are collectively
known as the Azhvars: God-intoxicated poets. As per current historical
reckoning, they lived from the 7th to the 9th centuries C.E. But tradition
and lavish imagination sometimes say they lived between 3000 and 4000
B.C.E., without enhancing by an iota the spiritual depth of their poetic
outpouring.

Music is a powerful channel for the religious experience of the transcendent principle. But music needs words, and the words are furnished by poets. A significant feature of classical Tamil literature is the variety and
richness of its religiously inspired poets and minstrels. Their works
transport the listener to lofty heights even when one doesn't understand
every word. To those sensitive to their euphonies, some of these songs are
even more ecstatic
The works of the Azhvars brim with devotion and love for the Supreme. To
them God was not an abstract principle, not the intangible Brahman, but very
personal. They lauded the Divine as Rama or Krishna, and sang their glories
in exuberant verses. Their compositions are inspired from the epics and
mythic lore of classical Hinduism.

Some 4000 hymns of the Azhvars were put together by a sage named N?muni. His anthology is entitled N?yira Divya Prabandham (Four Thousand Divinely
interlinked Poems). It is venerated as the scripture of Tamil Vaishnavism.

How the first three Azhvars are said to have emerged miraculously on the
same day. And one day all three converged from very different locales to a
place called Tirukolvalur. Poikaiyar, the first of the Azhvars, found a
place at a musician's home to spend the night. Soon thereafter Putattar, the
second one, came to the same home for rest. He was told that this would be
possible if one of them slept in a sitting posture, while the other was
lying down. When this was settled, the third one, Peyar, walked in for
shelter also. Now the option was for two to be sitting or all three to be
standing. All three stood the whole night, not sleeping but composing their
hymns to the sun, to divine love, and to Vishnu, inspired by a vision of
Vishnu they all received.

In this day and age when we are rightly concerned about religious
conversion, and upset by the claim of the missionaries of other religions
that there is no God but theirs, it may be of some interest to recall
Poykaiyar's memorable rhetorical line: "Is there any God other than Mayavan
(Vishnu)?"

Indeed, there was a time in India when conversions were not uncommon from
Shaivism to Vaishnavism and vice versa, as also in and out of Jainism and
Buddhism. Consider, for example, the poet Tirumalisai Azhvar. He is said to
have been a convert from Shaivism, and he became a virulent critic of
Buddhism, Jainism, and Shaivism. In one of his hymns he describes Jains as
ignorant, Buddhists as disgusting, and Shaivas as lowly. All this may be
interpreted (charitably) as expressions of his great love for and unswerving
devotion to Vishnu.

The foremost of the Azhvars is Nammazhvar (8th - 9th century) to whom almost
half (1296) the hymns are credited. He is also known as Satagopan. He is
said to have come from a so-called lower caste. Tradition tells us that
Nammazhvar was in deep trance for sixteen years. As per one legend, the poet
Mathurakavi, upon seeing him, forced open his mouth. Lo and behold! He saw
the Divine inside, and mystical hymns gushed forth. Mathurakavi memorized
these marvelous verses and presented them to the world. It is generally held
that these hymns embody the wisdom of the Vedas. Tirumozhi (Mystic Language)
is said to contain the essence of the Upanishads. The hymns yearn for union
with God, reminding one of some the canticles of St. Francis of Assisi.

A culture is enriched, not only from its material manifestations in art and
music and literary works, but also through its legends and sacred histories.
In this matter too Indic culture has been amply blessed. The hymns of the
Azhvars are kept alive and vibrant to this day, for they are sung all over
the Tamil world, in homes and in one Vaishnava temple or another. They
continue to bring a spiritual joy that sermons, routine chanting, and
prosaic readings seldom achieve. When one listens to them in the precincts
of a temple, one experiences a cultural continuity, for the uttered words
are echoes of ancient sounds, rich in meaning and brimming with devotion. We
experience the sacredness of traditions, for such singing became daily
practice centuries ago. Through verses and songs, through the metrical
rhythm and melodious music, heart and soul are touched. Such is their power.
For all this, we pay homage to the Azhvars of the Tamil world.

V. V. Raman
May 16, 2005

Manikkavacakar (9th century?) is one of the foremost poets in the rich
history of Tamil literature. He is also revered as a saint in Tamil
Shaivism. Much of what we know about this bright star in the firmament of
Tamil tradition is from two sources: the Tiruvaadavoor Puranam and
TiruviLaiyaadal PurANam.

This Vaadavooraar (Man from Vaadavoor) began to compose devotional songs at
a tender age. His reputation drew the attention of the reigning Pandya king
of Madurai. He was appointed prime minister of the realm when still young.
The story is that when he was sent by the king on a mission to purchase
horses from a neighboring kingdom, he was distracted by a sage who is
believed to have been Shiva himself in human form. Inspired by the sage's
blessings and instructions, the poet spent the king's cash to construct a
temple. This infuriated the king, and he threw the man in prison, even
tortured him. But miracles happened, they say, and the saintly poet was out.

He began to sing hymns to the Lord. Words flowed from his lips like
sparkling gems, which won him the epithet of Manikkavacakar: one who utters
ruby-like words.

Manikkavacakar did much to rid the Tamil world of Jaina and Buddhist
influences. Like other poets of that Hindu revival phase in the South, he
attacked their doctrines, and would not tolerate their preachers, especially
when they spoke in public. There was more than a touch of religious
intolerance here. Shakespeare's Mark Anthony said in his speech: "The evil
that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones." It
is just the opposite with Manikkavacakar. Today we remember him primarily
for his Tiruvacakam: a rich collection 656 devotional verses. It is number
eight in a canonical categorization of sacred works. The work begins with
Sivapuranam with the famous line: namaccivaaya vaazka! :May Siva's name
endure!

In the Shaiva tradition, the combination of these five (Tamil) letters
na-ma-ci-vaa-ya is a mantra: a chant with esoteric significance. It is
known as tiru(v)aind(u)ezhuttu: sacred-five-letters. Volumes have been
written on it. The five syllables are said to represent Shiva's five faces,
the five elements, etc. The mantra could mean I bow down to Lord Siva, but
it is also interpreted as naamacivaaya: name of Shiva, and the poet prays
for its enduring persistence. We cannot fathom Divine Wholeness. So we refer
to it by a name. It is through that name that we connect with infinity. When
we pray for that name to endure, we are praying for our own connection with
the eternal principle to endure.
We are all known by the names which are associated with our present bodies.
In another birth, the name won't be the same. But the Lord's name will live
on for ever. So we speak of the enduring permanence of the name of Shiva.
The importance of attaching sanctity to God's name is not unique to
Shaivism. Vaishnavas have their twelve-syllabic mantra, om namo bhagavate
vaasudevaya. As Yaweh or as Allah, God's name should not be taken in vain.
The Old Testament says, "The name of the Lord is a strong power." The Lord's
prayer in the Christian tradition begins with the lines: "Our Father Who art
in Heaven, Hallowed by Thy Name!"

The word vaazhka! means: May (someone, something) live for ever in
auspiciousness! It is used several times in Sivapuranam. It is more than the
French Vive! or the Italian Viva! which simply mean: May (something or
someone) live long! The word vAzka! in this context is also said to reflect
the bliss of the one who chants the mantra.

The Tiruvacakam reveals the ecstasy of a mystic, but also, on occasions, the
pangs of a lover longing for his beloved. He declared he was granted grace
because of the Lord's mercy, and not because he deserved it. As in all
revelatory works, they embody truths of a higher order which only the
initiates can truly decipher.

The Tiruvacakam contains some of the finest poems of the Tamil bhakti mode.
It is difficult for the lay reader to fully appreciate the depth of feeling
and spiritual yearning in Tiruvacakam. Spiritual poetry of this kind is an
outpouring of the heart to the Unfathomable Mystery. Sometimes it seems to
wander in the wilderness like the reckless coloring on canvas by a master of
the abstract school of painting. Some resonate with awe, others are
bewildered, yet others turn away.

Manikkavacakar also wrote another work, called Tirukk?y?which is a work
on love: from romantic love at first sight to marital love and love with
prostitutes. It is intriguing that the saint poet also wrote a work of this
genre. Commentators have explained this by suggesting that the work is an
allegory of the soul in quest of Shiva. Even with this interpretation, it is
not among this poet's works that are recited in temples.

It is said that the poet often went through moments of spiritual delirium
interrupted by deep depression when he felt God was not within reach. After
a series of such alternating phases, he is said to have attained full
liberation in the holy center at Cidambaram.

V. V. Raman
May 18, 2005

When one says Hinduism, one tends to imagine primarily its Sanskritic
components. Likewise, by Indic culture one tends to picture only its Hindu
expressions. Since very ancient times, however, Jainism has also contributed
to the treasure-chest of Indic culture. Jaina thinkers, saints, poets,
philosophers, architects, artists: all have been creative in the north as
also in the south of India. It is sadly true that sometimes in some parts of
the land the adherents of Shaivism and Vaishnavism became so concerned by
Jain successes as to react somewhat violently. This is said to have happened
in the Tamil country, although some have argued that such episodes were not
as serious as they are sometimes stated in history books, or even that they
might not have occurred at all.

Whether this was so or not, we need to learn to forget the horrors and hurt
that our ancestors inflicted on one another in the past, and begin a new
chapter in which we can live in harmony and mutual respect. [This is just my
opinion. There are sincere people who believe that this should not or cannot
happen.] In the context of my reflections, the happy fact remains that
Jaina writers have enriched Tamil lore, culture, and literature.

In Tamil history one refers to the glorious Cangkam period (>5th century
C.E.). The earliest Cangkams were mainly for religious poetry. To this day,
Tamil literary and cultural groups call themselves Tamil Sangams. This word
was introduced into Tamil by Jaina (and Buddhist) monks whose monasteries
are called Sangams. The Dravida Sangha was founded in the Tamil country in
470 C.E. by a Jain monk. Shaiva and Vaishnava poets who fought the Jains
were proud of their association with the literary Sangam.

There is evidence that from the earliest periods, Jaina writers were part of
the Tamil literary scene. For many centuries Jains and Hindus lived in
harmony as they do in our own times. Jain writers were as productive as
their Shaiva and Vaishnava counterparts.

The renowned city of Kanchipuram was once a great center of learning where
different religions were studied. A whole section of this great city used to
be called Jina Kanchi. Eminent Jain scholars taught there. Their educational
institutions were known as samana pallis. Jains were called SamaNars in
classical Tamil. The Tamil word for school (paLLi) is derived from the Jain
name. To this day, some of the relics of the ancient vibrant Jain presence
may be seen in the vicinity of Kanchipuram and in areas around Madurai.

There are more than half a dozen modern Jain temples in Chennai alone. I
remember being told that admission into the sanctum in one of these temples
is not for everyone: only for those who take a fresh bath at the temple.
What a beautiful idea! Certainly far more enlightened than rules which
restrict admission on the basis of castes.

The first Tamil epic, entitled Cilappatikaaram was authored by a young
(iLam) king (kO) who became a Jain monk (aDigaL). There are strong
indications that Tiruvalluvar, the best-known name in the Tamil world, was,
at the very least, influenced by the Jaina ethical framework. Another major
Tamil epic, inspired for sure by some Sanskrit works, is known as Ceevaka
CintaamaNi, and it too had a Jain author. Then there are references to
Kundalakesi and Valaiyapati, two other important works by Jaina (Buddhist?)
writers. These works have been lost. Kundalakesi is one of the five
classical Tamil epics.

According to what one has been able to gather from indirect evidence,
Kundalakesi was about a young woman who falls in love with a man who had
been arrested for robbery. The man is released because he happened to be the
son of a high official. Now he marries that lady. One day she asks him
tauntingly if he was not after all a thief. This infuriates the husband, and
he schemes to kill her. But she outwits him in the plan, and he is the one
who is killed. The self-inflicted widow now joins a nunnery, but cannot
stand the thought of shaving off her head. She leaves the place, and so on.

What is interesting is that this is a purely secular story. Sanskrit and
Tamil had stories on non-religious themes even in ancient times.
When we say puranas, we immediately think of the major Sanskrit ones. But
there are puranams in Tamil also, and of these, two are on Jaina themes:
Sripuranam and Merumantirapuranam. Historians of Tamil literature say that
these works brought in many Sanskritic literary styles and vocabulary into
the Tamil language.

My reason for recalling all this two-fold. First I present this as a
background for two literary masterpieces I would like to discuss later in my
reflections. Secondly, I wish to remind myself (and others who may think
this way) that the true greatness of India's culture lies in its
incomparable diversity, and that Indic culture, though perhaps not unique,
has been blessed with thinkers and writers from many religious traditions.
At a time when cultural diversity is becoming global, and often
confrontational, it will serve us well to honor and recognize the best that
our ancestors have left behind in the form of art, literature, music,
philosophy and the like: the finest elements in any culture.

Places of worship are efforts by the human spirit to pay homage to the
Transcendent, and to express the deepest gratitude to the Unfathomable
Mystery for this thing called human life. Europe has her magnificent
cathedrals in Chartres, Vienna, Rome, Frankfurt, and Canterbury, and
elsewhere. India has her temples, modest and magnificent, strewn all over
the land, like art works in a museum. Upon returning to India after my
graduate student years in Paris, I took a tour of some temples of Tamil Nadu
with a historical sense. I had been to some of them as a pilgrim before.

I recall visiting the famous temple of Sri Ranganatha in Srirangam during
this trip. Situated on a small island between two rivers, this is one of the
most spectacular temples I have seen. But I also discovered somewhat sadly
that Non-Hindus were not permitted to enter this temple. [I am not sure if
this rule still prevails.] This was in stark contrast to the cathedrals of
Europe into which I had freely gone, where I had even chanted a mantra or
two from the pews. Many years later, at the end of a lecture at Berkeley in
California on Hindu visions during which I had mentioned tav tvam asi,
someone asked me if Non-Hindus weren't allowed to enter Hindu temples. I
said it was true in some instances. "The difference between Hindus and
Christians," I added, "is that Hindus don't allow Non-Hindus to enter their
places of worship, but allow them to go to Heaven, whereas Christians allow
Non-Christians to come into their places of worship, but don't allow them to
enter the kingdom of God." There was applause from the audience which
consisted of only Westerners. One gentleman said, "I am a Christian, but I
would allow you to enter the kingdom of God." I wish he had full authority
on the matter.

Be that as it may, the beautiful Srirangam temple is sprawling, and I was
told that one could get easily lost in its maze of buildings and pathways.
Here, as perhaps in no other Hindu temple, we find images of all the ten
avataras of Vishnu. The temple has the mythical Sriranga-Vimana made of
plated gold majestically adorning it. Legend says that the vimana had been
presented to Vibhishana by Sri Rama, and that when the vehicle was grounded
briefly in that town it could not be removed.

I had the privilege of seeing the magnificent icon of Vishnu with golden
hands and feet and dark body reclining on the black coiled serpent Adisesha
with a protective hood with sparkling gems. Vishnu in this pose represents
the Sustainer of the Universe during the inter-manifested phase of cosmic
history; Adhisesha (Ananta) representing both recurring and eternal time in
the cyclic framework of the yuga model. This is one of the most awesome
icons I have seen in any temple.

The famous Thousand-Pillar-Hall (Ayiram-kaal-Mandapam) is here: a
fascinatingly impressive structure in temple architecture. In this grand
hall with its nearly thousand pillars with sculptures etched on them many
generations of devotees have gathered to celebrate various festivals of the
Vaishnava tradition. Here one can listen periodically to the singing,
sometimes with accompanying dance, of the Azhvar prabandhams.

The formal presentation of a new book or work of art to an assembly is
called arang-kEtram in Tamil. It was here that the foremost Tamil poet
Kamban did the arang-kEtram of immortal Ramayanam in the ninth century
C.E. in the presence of eminent scholars and his philanthropist-patron
Sadayappan of Tiruvennainallur.

I stood for a moment at the crowned statue of a blessing Saint Ramanuja with
Vaishnava symbols painted on his forehead and bodies. The remains of this
eminent personage are interred in this temple. This was the first time I
knew of this practice in the Hindu world, and it reminded me of Westminster
Abbey where lie many of England's great poets. It was in Srirangam that this
great scholar-saint composed some of his works on Vedanta and commentaries
on the Bhagavad Gita.

Defying petty gurus who held that sacred works must be beyond the ears of
lower castes, Ramanuja climbed to this temple's summit and recited in loud
voice the mantras, urging one and all to repeat after him. He explained to
them their hidden meanings. What a glorious day in Hindu history! It was
revolutionary back in the eleventh century, but sadly, most people who pride
themselves to be his followers, many in number, revere his name and worship
him rather than follow him in this matter.
The Vaishnava saint Caitanya from Bengal and Orissa, visited Sri Rangam
where he is said to have spent several months as a pilgrim: bathing in the
Kaveri River and visiting the Ranganatha temple every day. Such is the
prestigious history of this place.

I found Tipu Sultan's minarets in visible vicinity a tad incongruous, not to
say offensive. Would they allow Hindu gopurams to stand tall near the dome
of a mosque in Tehran or Cairo? The simple answer is: No, of course not. I
fear there can never be religious harmony in the world until this grotesque
asymmetry is dismantled.

V. V. Raman
May 22, 2005

Lord Krishna is a central figure in the Hindu framework. What is most
striking in the Krishna symbol is that it represents divine wisdom
(Arjuna-Krishna) as well as ardent love (Radha-Krishna). This as a deep
insight into sophisticated cultural evolution: At this level one is
intellectually/spiritually alert and also capable of the highest kind of
love.

Most Hindus have heard of the Bhagavad Gita, some have even read it. Hindus of every caste and sect have experienced love of one kind or another, and love of God in the bhakti mode through bhajans and kirtans. Bhakti is often instigated by the poets of the tradition. When poets sing in ecstatic
binding with the Supreme, they become saints.

Lop?dr?as the only woman-author of Vedic hymns. In the Tamil tradition
Andal (AANDAAL) (9th - 10th centuries C.E.?) was the only woman in the
Azhvar constellation. Recall that the works of the Azhvars are the Vedas of
Tamil Vaishnavas.

Andal's major work is Tiruppavai (Sacred Portrait) which reads like a love
poem, where the love is for none other than Krishna. This love is not just
poetic metaphor; it is a very real longing for merger with a God who is
visualized as all too human in physical form, with charm, attraction, and
capacity for gender love. Tiruppavai's invocations to Krishna are those of a
lover, pining in her separation for merger with him.
Commentators have seen inner meanings and deeper truths behind the veil of
Andal's versiform words. When she describes Krishna's reddish eyes
(ceng-kaN) as shining like the sun (kadir), she is talking about the
blinding effulgence of the Supreme. When she exclaims that Narayana will
give us the drums (paRai), some have said this refers to blessings. I take
it to mean that the Divine gives us the voice and the inspiration to
proclaim the Lord's glory to the world at large. [Incidentally, paRai is the
root of pariyah: a derogatory word that has crept into English for a
lowly-held caste.]

In her other work too, called Naacciyaar's Tirumozhi (the Lady's Sacred
Words), Andal conveys the pangs of an abandoned lover very movingly. She
wails that her bones have become lean, her eye-lids haven't closed for many
days, she is going hither and thither in an ocean of sorrow. All this
tells of a restless soul gone astray that suddenly remembers its cosmic
connection and craves for for rapid re-union with its source.

Andal's Tiruppavai is a moving articulation of bhakti. What is bhakti if
not intense and unswerving love whose focus is not on this person or that,
but on the Divine such as is personified in the mythic visions of the
tradition. One cannot have bhakti for abstract Brahman, but only for a Rama
or a Krishna, for a Shiva or a Murugan. God in human form is a requirement
for the bhakti mode.

Tiruppavai is unique in religious history. Yes, we have parallels in Meera's
songs which have uncanny resemblances in feeling and content to the works of
her Tamil sister. But Tiruppavai is one of the few texts authored by a
woman - if not the only one - that has become part of a canonical scripture.
It is recited and sung in Vaishnava homes and temples in formal and
reverential modes.

The sacred history of Andal is a joyful chapter in Tamil hagiography. One
morning, when Periazhvar (Vishnuchitta) went to the garden to pick flowers
for worship, he came upon an infant girl under a tulasi tree whom he brought
home and brought up. [There still stands a tree which is believed to be that
same one.] He called the child Kodai ((kOdhai: garland). As little Kodai
grew up, she heard all the stories about Krishna in Brindavan, and developed
a fascination for him. Soon this became love for Ranganatha: the deity in
the temple of Srirangam. Kodai used to wear flowers on her head and see
herself in a mirror to check if she would be attractive for the Lord, before
sending them to the temple for worship. One day this was discovered through
a strand of hair in the flowers, and her father became furious. God appeared
in his dream and assured him that He preferred the flowers tried out by his
daughter: her devotion added a special fragrance to the flowers. Realizing
that his daughter was blessed one, the father called her Andal: the
redeemer.

When she came of age, and Vishnuchitta sought a suitable groom for her,
Andal insisted she would marry none other than the Lord in the temple. So
one day the maiden was decked in flowers and adorned as a beautiful bride
for Ranganatha, and carried ceremoniously in a palanquin to the precincts of
the temple. When they had entered the main gate, Andal jumped from the
palanquin and ran into the sanctum sanctorum of the temple, ardently
embraced the icon of Vishnu, and disappeaed from everybody's sight.
Since then, in the Tamil Vaishnava tradition, not only has Tiruppavai become
part of the scriptures, but Andal herself has become an eternal consort of
Mahavishnu.

Thus, through her inspired writings and legacy, Andal has attained
immortality in Tamil literature and culture, and has also secured for
herself a permanent place in the spiritual history of India.

V. V. Raman
May 25, 2005

[This message has been edited by Webmaster (edited May 25, 2005).]

In English literature, Samuel Coleridge, William Wordsworth, and Robert
Southey are collectively known as the Lake Poets. Likewise in the Tamil
world we have a trio of extraordinary poetic geniuses who have not only
contributed richly to the literature of the language but also influence the
course of its religious history.

The scripture of Tamil Shaivism is the Panniru (12) TirumuRai. It is an
anthology of works authored prior to the 12th century by twenty-seven
saint-poets called Naayanars. Their writings include hymns, rules of conduct,
and sacred history. The TirumuRai has always been open to all men and women.
The Shaiva saint-poets preached the ideal of a society where there are no
castes or spiritual hierarchies.

Appar, Sambandar, and Sundarar were the foremost of the Naayanars (7th - 9th
centuries?). Their hymns sing the glories of Lord Shiva. The devout who
chant or listen to them derive a spiritual experience that even a visit to
the temple can barely give.

Appar, the eldest of the three, received the honorific Tirunaavukkaracar:
King of the sacred tongue, for his poetic gift was truly remarkable. He is
said to have been a convert to Jainism for a while. In one poem he sings
sadly about how his fickle heart which abandons one's love and clings to
another, then jumps back again to the first, referring to his brief play
with that faith. But once he was back into Shaivism he walked to every Shiva
temple in the land - and there were many - weeded their lawns and cleaned
their precincts, and created the most moving verses. His lamentation for the
elusive Shiva was sometimes as of a woman craving for her lover. Some
scholars have seen sexual symbolism in Appar's works. But he was also a
Nature poet who speaks of the Lord's feet as the advancing spring tide, as a
cooling experience in a tank located where honey-drunk bees hum in the
shade of a grand tree, as the sight of the joy-giving moon, as music from
the veena, and as the northern breeze.

Sambandar was a child prodigy. Tradition says that he received a blessing
from the Divine Mother when he was just a toddler, and that he began to
create magnificent hymns right away. He is perhaps the most venerated
saint-poet of the Shaiva world. He was ruthless towards Jains and Buddhists
because those religions were fast winning converts in the Tamil world. This
eminent poet is known as Tirujnana Sambandar: Sambandar of Sacred Wisdom.

Sambandar describes Shiva as one who is riding a bull, whose ears are
pierced with rings, whose head is adorned with the ray of the crescent moon,
who is smeared with ash, who is the thief who steals away the poet's heart.
All this sounds rather dry in English, but in the original Tamil they are
beautiful and melodious. Sambandar also says that Shiva's sacred name is the
essence of all the Vedas. The mystic's ecstasy is evident when we read:
"Perennial and changeless joy we feel
For we belong to Sankara who's bliss supreme."

Sundarar, also known as Sundaramoorthy Naayanar appeared some two centuries
after his illustrious predecessors. Listed as the last of the sixty-three
original saints of the Saiva tradition, he extolled the sixty-two others, as
much as he sang in praise of Shiva Himself. He is said to have been married
to two women. Though he was considered a Brahmin, at least one of his wives
was of what used to be regarded as a lower caste. Sometimes he sounds a
little sad, as in the lines below:
"When will the end come, my senses dim, my life be over,
And my corpse is laid to rest?
All this is mere emptiness.
Oh effulgent Lord, up on high,
Even if I forget you, my tongue would keep repeating your holy name."

Fourteen commentaries have been written on the subtle metaphysics of
TirumuRai. They are collectively known as Meikanda Sastras (Sastras which
have seen the Truth).
In the Shaiva tradition, divinely touched souls who live amidst us for the
welfare of humankind are known as Siddhars (Perfected Ones). A siddhar is in
communion with the Supreme, and yet lives in the chaotic and contradictory
world of human activities. Siddhars are not other-worldly mystics who
rejected the world; they are very much for neighborly love and social
service. To them religion is more than inquiring into the nature of the
Supreme or worshiping in temples. They rejected casteism and believed in
bringing knowledge to the common people.

But the siddha mystical movement is not the same as Saivasiddhantam. Siddhas
and Saivasiddhantins have the same scriptures, but they differ in profound
ways. The former emphasize yogic practice and goddess worship, and are
affiliated to the tantric tradition while for the latter lingam-worship is
basic. Both have universalist religious visions.

V. V. Raman
May 27, 2005

During a visit to Chennai many years ago I was strolling on the Marina beach
where there are huge statues of several men and women who have brought honor
to Tamil culture and history. I was drawn to the statue of a woman with an
accusing finger on her outstretched arm. It was Kannaki, the heroine of the
epic Cilappatikaram (2nd century C.E.?). I had read about this work in my
school days; this statute now inspired me to read it again. This is perhaps
the only fictional character (?) to be commemorated as a statue on the
beach.

The theme is perennial: a well-established married man falls for a beautiful
damsel, and forgets his marital vows. Then follow the dire consequences of
his moral slippage. The work is a classic, not for its common theme, but for
its analysis of the human condition, and its lessons on ethical behavior. It
is also replete with information on the social, political, and religious
conditions of the Tamil people and country of those times.

Kovalan of the city of Kavirippattinam is the hero. Kannaki, daughter of a
wealthy merchant, is his faithful wife. Chance factors bring him to a very
attractive danseuse by the name of Madavi while he is in town. He cannot
resist her physical charms. He showers her with gifts, and begets a daughter
with her. Soon he is without any money. He returns home, his wife realizes
the predicament, and offers to sell her valuable anklet (cilambu) to get
cash for the household. So they take it to the capital city of Madurai.
In the course of this journey, the couple meets a Jaina nun and some Jaina
minstrels (c?nas). They learn from them about Jaina worldviews.

Kovalan passes through the gates of the capital guarded by Yavanas (Greeks),
and tries to sell his wife's anklet. A swindler who had stolen the queen's
anklet, notices him. He goes to the king and says he has spotted the thief
with the queen's jewel. The king orders Kovalan's arrest, but one of the
king's men kills our hero with a sword. Kannaki hears about this, rushes to
the town. She wails near her husband's corpse, tells the chaste women of
Madurai that her sorrow is unmatched. The women are moved, they shout in
chorus that Kannaki has been wronged, that the king's scepter is crooked,
that his glory has vanished, and that they have found a new goddess in
Kannaki whom they comfort.

In her sadness and fury Kannaki rips off her left breast, rushes to the
king's court and laments the injustice. She breaks open her anklet and
reveals that the precious stones in it are different from those in the
queen's anklet. The king is shocked and sorry, but Kannaki's curse sets the
palace and the city ablaze. The city-goddess pleads with her and explains
that Kovalan had merely reaped the fruits of some evil deed in a past birth.

Eventually Kannaki also dies. The Chera king Chenkuttuvan commissions a
statute of Kannaki to be carved from Himalayan rock. She was worshiped by
the people.

Cilappatikaram reveals the role of karma and of fate: our experiences are
pre-determined by our past actions (?inai), yet fate is an unpredictable
force that is different for each individual, acting silently to chart the
course of every human life. If the happily married Kovalan had not
encountered Madavi, terrible things would not have ensued. Yet, he may be
reaping only the karmic consequences of his past deeds.

We also notice in this story a fascinating portrayal of the sanctity of
marital fidelity. When one deviates from this, so it would seem from the
chain of events, one can expect unhappy consequences sooner or later. The
story paints the exemplary behavior of a loyal wife and her spiritual power.

It also reveals how, if a king (or any executor of a nation's values), acts
rashly without due deliberation, the whole country would suffer.

Cilappatikaram is not just a story: it is an epic. It mentions Vedic gods,
but does not invoke any god. The work is held in great reverence by the
Jains of Tamil Nadu, not unlike how the Ramayana is treated by Hindus. It
has been said that here too a character in a poetic composition has become
so real that she is worshiped as if she had lived.
Like many other great poets of early Tamil literature, the epic's author
Ilanko Adigal hailed from the region now called Kerala. At the time when
Cilappatikaram was written, Jainas, Shaivas, and Vaisnavas lived in happy
harmony, except that there was gradual acceptance of Jainism by more and
more people, including kings and chieftains.

If one were to make a list of the world's great literary masterpieces,
Cilappatikaram would certainly be in that list. The work has been translated
into English, but, as usual, the version into another language doesn't
incorporate the linguistic brilliance of the original.
Kamil Zvelebil, a noted authority on Tamil, wrote about books like
Cilappatikaram that they "are among the most remarkable contributions of the
Tamil creative genius to the world's cultural treasure and should be
familiar to the whole world and admired and beloved by all in the same way
as the poems of Homer, the dramas of Shakespeare, the pictures of Rembrandt,
the cathedrals of France and the sculptures of Greece." One couldn't have
stated it better.

V. V. Raman
May 30, 2005

If Jains have epics in Tamil, Buddhists have one also. Manimekalai is the
major Tamil Buddhist epic. Interestingly, the heroine Manimekalai of this
work is the daughter of Kovalan of Cilappatikaram through the danseuse
Madavi. When Madavi hears about the death of Kovalan, she is deeply
saddened. She develops great respect for Kannaki with whose lawfully wed
husband she had played with. Now she is ashamed of her behavior. To cleanse
herself of this sin, Madavi enters a Buddhist monastery. She takes her
daughter, whom she regards as Kannaki's own, to the monastery along with
her.

Here Madavi meets the monk and teacher Aravana Adigal who is an important
character in the epic. This elderly man of immense learning and wisdom
guides the repentant mother and her young daughter. Mother and daughter
learn many things about Buddhism from this man, such as the four noble
truths (Buddhist satyas): That suffering is associated with all existence,
that it is caused by ignorance, that it can be terminated, and that this
(nirvana) can be achieved through the eight-fold path. Manimekalai also
learns about the five vows (silas): abstention from taking away life, from
taking things that are not given, from lying, from lustful behavior, and
from intoxicants.

As daughter Manimekalai grows up in the convent, she absorbs many good
things of Buddhism, including ascetic life. One day, she is seen by a prince
who is infatuated with her. Just as Shakespeare's Ophelia could not pursue
Hamlet's love because of her father and brother, Manimekalai could not
reciprocate the prince's love because of her mother's influence. She goes
into a crystal pavilion. When the prince sees her beautiful body through the
transparent crystal, says the poet, Kama (Cupid) shot five floral arrows
into his heart, filling him with deep desire for her whose eyes of lotus
blue hue were very sad.

Manimekalai now retreats to an island. Here, a goddess tells her that in
her previous birth she had been married to a prince. Manimekalai receives a
begging bowl from the deity, with which she returns to the old monastery.

The Buddhist sage teaches her that feeding the poor is the noblest virtue.
Her bowl has a magical quality by which it is an inexhaustible source of
food. She uses this for feeding many hungry people in accordance with the
cardinal virtue she had been taught: relieving the hunger of the poor.

The story continues with more incidents: the murder of the prince who had
loved her, her imprisonment and release, her travels, and her final resting
place in Kanchipuram.

This literary masterpiece contains clear expositions of Buddhist philosophy
and epistemology. It is apparent from this work that just as in our own
times Hindus who have settled down beyond the shores of India still have
their spiritual allegiance to India, Buddhists in the Tamil country had
their hearts and minds in Sri Lanka and Nalanda.

As a sectarian epic, Manimekalai extols its own religious framework: which
is good. But it also tries to show how Buddhism is superior to other faith
systems. There is an episode in which Manimekalai listens to apologetics of
different faiths where one reads expositions of Jain philosophy also. In one
incident, an inebriated man pokes fun at a Jaina monk. In another, a
Brahmin, mauled by a cow seeks refuge in a Jaina monastery, but is denied
entry, but Buddhist monks help him. The implication: Jains are interested
more in non-injury to animals than in showing compassion to fellow humans, a
Buddhist virtue. It is normal for people to sing the glories of their own
tradition. Sometimes, it also gives them a sense of superiority when they
speak ill of others. One scholar (T. Wignesan) points to the author's "
single-minded devotion to the Buddhist proselytizing cause."

Like Cilappatikaram, Manimekalai also reveals many aspects of early Tamil
culture. Some hold that this is the most important source of information
about life in ancient India. Alain Danielou said: "The Manimekalai, one of
the masterpieces of Tamil literature, gives us in the form of didactic novel
full of freshness and poetry, a delightful insight into the ways of life,
the pleasures, beliefs and philosophical concepts of a refined
civilization..." We learn from this book, for example, that long before
Parsis came to India, some groups in the Tamil country used to leave the
corpses as food for vultures and jackals. Long before Christians and Muslims
came, some Tamils used to bury their dead. Sometimes they disposed of the
corpses in pits. Cremation was also practiced. The book refers to a draught
and a famine, and of an exodus from one region to another.

Manimekalai is a literary gem. It has many past-birth revelations and side
stories which make it medieval. Over the ages, the work has been analyzed
by scholars for its epic content, for its prosody, for its historical
context, even for its crass description of a female body-part in one of its
cantos. Perhaps what strikes us, even of this permissive age, as
unprintable in decent literature was not regarded as such in the good old
days.

Manimekalai is one of those classics whose title is known more widely than its author's name which was C?lai Cattanar.

It is said that young Victor Hugo shut himself up in a room for five months
in 1831, and wrote his immortal classic Notre Dame de Paris (The Hunchback
of Notre Dame). Guess how long it took the Jaina ascetic-scholar Tiru Takka
Tevar to compose an epic with 3145 stanzas in thirteen books: Just eight
short days, it has been said. And this was in the 8th - 9th century C.E. His
work is called C?ka Cint?ni. It is regarded as one of the great epics of
Tamil Jaina literature. Adapted from a Sanskrit work, it has been cast in a
purely Tamil setting, and not as a translation.

The devotion of king Saccan?an to his wife Vijayai is commendable, but it
becomes obsessive to the point that he ignores his royal responsibilities,
passing them on to his minister Kattiankaran. Recognizing that passionate
love can blind a man, the minister manages to hatch a plot, and ends up
usurping the throne. The deposed king tries to recuperate the lost kingdom,
but in vain.

He dispatches his wife in a sophisticated aerial vehicle which is shaped and
adorned like a peacock. [The Ramayana's pushpaka vimana is not the only
reference to a plane-like contraption in ancient Indian literature.] The
vehicle, carrying the wife who was with child, lands in a crematorium where
baby Civaka Cintamani (the epic's hero) is born. A tradesman who had come
there to cremate his son, takes to the new-born and adopts him.

Civakan grows to be a young man with many skills and talents. He plays the
Veena, is good at archery, and is very handsome too. He has an eye for
beautiful women. In short, he turns out to be the Don Juan of Tamil
literature. Of course he is not as reckless as Mozart's Don Giovanni who
seduced 640 women in Italy, 231 in Germany, 100 in France, 91 in Turkey, and
1,003 in Spain. Instead of simply making love and running away for the next
woman, like a bee from flower to flower, Civakan marries one after the
other. [He is reckoned as one of 24 gods of love in Jaina mythological
tradition.]

The women Civakan marries include the daughter of someone who admires his
bravery in subduing a bunch of robbers who had plundered the town; a veena
player whom he defeats in a contest; a woman who concocts scents; a princess
he had rescued from a snake-bite; a low caste girl he impresses with his
feats; another princess who is fascinated by his archery; a dejected woman
whom he cheers up, and finally, another princess he fascinates by skilful
dart-throwing.

After all these feminine conquests, Civakan goes on to fight the usurper of
his father's throne, and regains it from him. He also marries a daughter of
an uncle. Then he rules for thirty years in the joyous company of his wives,
obtaining sons from them. Finally, he and his wives retire to the forest
where they attain salvation.

The epic constructs episodes to illustrate the fickleness of women in
affairs of the heart. Consider the case of Anangkam?nai: She is lost in a
forest where she meets a man called Vanacaritan. She is fascinated by him,
indeed craves for him while her husband is pining for her back home. Civakan
takes pity on the husband and gives him some magical formulas by which the
man gets his wife back. In this episode occurs a comment which is just the
opposite of what one takes to be a masculine trait. It says that a woman
closes her eyes in disgust at the wrinkled and ugly features of the man with
whom she made love when he was young and virile.
The epic also propagates
the view that women are by nature attracted to rich men. Being a Jain
convert, the author makes some satirical remarks about Brahmins, such as
their proclivity for gluttony.

Mr. Purnalingam Pillai sees the essence of the story thus: "A monkey feeds
its female with jack fruit snatched from the garden and the gardener drives
them away bereft of the stolen fruit. Jivakan, the gardener, takes back the
realm usurped and enjoyed by Kattiankaran. The strong inherit the earth."

The author of this interesting epic which richly portrays the amorous
episodes of a young man and his several marital flings was a monk. Some
have wondered how and whence its author, a presumed ascetic, acquired so
much knowledge about man-woman love. Some even suspected that the monk may
have secretly had a fling or two which probably provided him with the
material for the work. Incensed by such suggestions, the holy man is said to
have undergone a fire ordeal to prove his purity by holding red-hot iron
bars on his bare hands. He said that one reason why he wrote the story was
to prove that even a monk was quite capable of writing on this theme, even
without direct knowledge and experience of carnal entanglements. Or again,
perhaps it was precisely his lack of experience that made him imagine that a
man could so frequently jump into a series of marriages. On the other hand,
some scholars see in this story proof that polygamy was not uncommon in the
Tamil world of those times.

The book won great commendation from the Cangkam (Tamil literary society).

V. V Raman
June 3, 2005

Periya Puranam brings to mind the sacred city of Chidambaram with its
magnificent icon of Nataraja: surely one of the most widely known
artistic-spiritual symbols of the Hindu world. There are five principal
Shaiva shrines each dedicated to one of the five primal elements of the
traditional worldview: earth, water, fire, air, and space.
As per temple mythopoesy, Shiva once descended to this place to teach a
lesson to certain rishis who had become too arrogant with their knowledge.
The rishis, enchanted by Vishnu as Mohini who accompanied Shiva, erected a
sacrificial fire to counter Shiva. From this fire arose a tiger which sprang
on Shiva who tore it to pieces and used its skin as garment. A venomous
cobra next emerged from the fire, and it too was subdued and used as an
ornament around Shiva's neck. Then came a dwarfish creature - interpreted as
the evil screening us from Truth - over which Shiva stepped and merrily
danced. No ferocity, poison or illusory evil can touch the Divine Principle
which can subdue them all: that seems to be the lesson from this legend.

Be that as it may, this ancient temple, whose construction probably began in
the 7th - 8th centuries, was renovated and embellished by several kings
during the next few centuries until it attained its current architectural
magnificence with grand golden roofs, spacious halls, richly sculptured
sturdy pillars, imposing towers, and more. The sheer antiquity of the temple
is staggering. It was an awesome experience for me when I was at that
temple, and it gave me goose bumps to reflect on the sacred syllables that
had been uttered there for generations, and on the fact that the
crown-jewels of Shaiva poetry: Appar, Sambandar, Sundarar, and
Manikkavacakar had sung their mystic melodies there.

The temple is unique in that it has a room (Chidambara-rahasyam) near its
sanctum sanctorum wherein there is no murti. It has a lance (vel) adorned
with a garland of leaves made of gold. It is dedicated to intangible and
ethereal space (akasha), and stands for esoteric truth. Nearby are also
shrines for Sivakami (P?ati) and Murugan.

The focus of the temple is in the Hall of Cosmic Consciousness (the
Chit-sabha): we see here that stunning representation of Shiva as Nataraja.

This is the original of that most famous image of Hindu culture, more
spectacular than the fading 8th century figure in an Elura cave. Sacred
history records that the cosmic dance of bliss (ananda tandavam) of the
Divine occurred in Chidambaram. That dance is remembered to this day in a
dynamic choreography of bharata natyam. Nataraja, represented as a
bejeweled eternal dancer with four hands, holding drum and fire, and in a
blessing posture, his left foot raised and his right foot crushing a human
form that signifies the Grand Illusion (Maha Maya) of the physical world,
reflects the eternal dynamism of the universe. The dance is said to occur at
the close of every eon in the endless cycle of an oscillating universe.

Much of the Shiva lore is given form in this sculpture: A crowning skull to
symbolize the starkness of annihilation, a crescent moon standing for Divine
grace, the sacred Ganga to remind us of life-giving water, the venomous
cobra around His neck, etc. There is much spiritual grandeur and esoteric
meaning here, much majesty and mystery.

The Nataraja is perhaps the best known sculpture ever have evolved from the
mind and hands of an Indian artist whose name, alas, is for ever lost in the
void of unrecorded history. This supreme work of spiritual grandeur has
inspired more commentaries and reflections than any other work of Hindu art.

It has given rise to rapturous music and traditional dancing in the culture.
It is magnificent in its conception, profound in its symbolism, and
penetrating in its vision of the transcendent.
Some have compared the insight implicit in this symbolism of cosmic energy
to the fundamental findings of modern physics about the substratum of the
world where matter and energy create and annihilate each other in incessant
dynamism. The creation and annihilation of hadrons and leptons, and the
fluctuations of the vacuum, pictured in physics, are the heart-throb of the
physical world, and they bear fascinating parallels to the vision of a
universal spirit dancing endlessly, giving rise to the phenomenal world.

What the Mona Lisa is to Western lay painting, the Nataraja is to Hindu
spiritual sculpture. Like Leonardo's creation, the Nataraja has been
imitated and replicated as none other; it too has been seen by millions over
the centuries; it too has given rise to scholarly discussions and
interesting interpretations. As modified replicas, the Nataraja statue may
be seen in many museums of the world, as well is in Hindu homes.
But there are important differences: The Mona Lisa is mundane mystery; the
Nataraja is esoteric mysticism. The Mona Lisa captivates our physical being;
the Nataraja touches the soul. The Mona Lisa has the serene smile of worldly
charm; the Nataraja has all the mystery of spiritual splendor. The Mona Lisa
is admired; the Nataraja is worshipped; the Mona Lisa radiates beauty; the
Nataraja radiates ecstasy.

V. V. Raman
June 15, 2005

Rivalries among literary giants may be found in all literary histories:
Milton's imitation of Dante, competition between Keats and Shelley, Balzac
and Sand are examples. But they have rarely had long-range effects on
culture as when the Tamil poet Arulmozhi Tevar decided to outdo the Jain
epic Cintamani with a Shaiva masterpiece.

It is said to have happened this way: Cekkizhar (as Arulmozhi
Tevar came to be called, was prime minister of the Chozha kingdom (11-12th
century) during the reign of Kulotunga Chozha when the Jaina faith was
becoming very popular. Civaka Cintamani had won every accolade of the Tamil
Academy. The king was so fascinated by this epic that he was slowly tending
towards Jainism. Cekkizhar, a devout Shaiva, began to experience great
uneasiness about this. He revealed his feelings frankly to the king, and
recommended to him to read Sambandar's work narrating the lives of some of
the Nayanars. The king was impressed by what he read, and asked Cekkizhar to
elaborate its contents into a full volume of sacred history. It is said that
the learned prime minister declared that he could write an epic that would
surpass the Jaina epic.

Aside from being a deep devotee Shiva, Cekkizhar was a first rate scholar
and poet. He wanted to narrate in moving terms the greatness of the Shaiva
saints. For this he not only took inspiration from Sundarar's compendium of
the Nayanar stories (which was at least four centuries old by now), but
visited the various Shaiva temples where the Nayanars are said to have gone
on pilgrimage. He thoroughly studied all the available historical and
epigraphic data before composing his work. Thus was born Tiruttonda Puranam,
popularly known as Periya Puranam: The Big Purana.

Though it is called a purana, this work is not about gods and mythological
beings. Nor is it an epic in the sense of a work with a hero valiantly
fighting evil characters to establish righteousness. Rather it is an
impressive compendium of the lives of the 63 Nayanars, based on the
anthology of Sundarar. Every one of the Nayanars was an ardent Shiva bhakta,
and they all attained spiritual liberation through their unalloyed devotion.

Hagiography is a respectable genre of literature. It recounts in reverential
terms the lives of the saints of a tradition, often incorporating miraculous
incidents. The tenth century English abbot and scholar Aelfric the
Grammarian did this for the Christian tradition in his Lives of the Saints,
as Cekkizhar was to do for Shaiva saints. The Tamil poet explains the value
in such works by pointing out that there are two kinds of darkness: the
external darkness, which obscures the material world; and the internal,
which obscures the spiritual world. The sun illumines the world to remove
the external darkness; Periya Puranam flashes its light to remove the
darkness inside us.

That the Shaiva tradition is closely linked to the Vedic framework is shown
by numerous references to NaanMuRai (Four Vedas) in Periya Puranam. But here
is something interesting in this context: Almost 50 of the 63 Nayanmars
were Non-Brahmins. They included some from royal families, a couple of
shepherds, a potter, a hunter, a weaver, a washer man, a fisherman, and the
like. Intended or otherwise, the range shows the universality of Shiva
devotees and may have been meant to remind us that anyone of any caste or
clan is eligible for ultimate spiritual fulfillment. All that mattered was
deep and unshakable commitment to the Transcendent principle.

The Periya Puranam gives a
due place of honor to many of their wives. These were women who were also
extraordinarily devoted to Shiva, and always by the side of their husbands,
always willing and prepared to serve them, and sometimes performing acts of
extraordinary sacrifice. In the traditional framework, these were qualities
that raised them to venerable heights in people's esteem. One was prepared
to sacrifice her auspicious marital symbol (tirumangalyam); another was
willing to sacrifice her own son, and so on: all for the cause of the
husband.

Not all the stars in a constellation are equally bright. Not all Nayanmars
get equal space in Periya Puranam. Sambandar gets more than 1200 stanzas
whereas some get less than 200. But in every instance the potency of
Shiva-bhakti is brought out. Enadinathar was an expert swordsman who taught
his art to the royal class. He spent all the money he earned on the devotees
of Shiva. His rival Aticuran tried to defeat him in a duel and failed. Then
he challenged him again, this time smearing his face with the holy ash to
mislead Enadinathar into believing he too was a Shiva-bhakta. Seeing a
Shiva-bhkata face, face, Enadinathar does not hurt him, and falls victim to
the sword of the pretender.

Periya Puranam begins with a beautiful invocation to Lord Nataraja with the
crescent moon on his tuft doing the cosmic dance. The poet recognizes in
the opening lines that the Cosmic Mystery is unfathomable even if one
understands everything about its manifested aspect which is the world we
experience.

V. V. Raman
June 13, 2005

Karaikal Ammaiyar (Punithavathi), Princess Mangayakarasi and
Isaijnaniyar (mother of Sundaramoorthi) are the 3 women nayanmars in the list of 63.

And as you say, many wives of these saints have been eulogised in the
Periapuranam including the wives of Tiruneelanaka Nayanar, Tiruneelakanta
Nayanar, Tirujnana Sambanthar Nayanar, Eyarkon Kalikama Nayanar and the
mother of King Kochengat Cholan - all of whom really should be classified 'as if' they are nayanmars, and held in equal stature.

It should be noted that Tilakavathy, sister of Saint Appar, whose prayers to the Lord brought Appar back from the jain religion. This subsequently led to numerous competitions, rivalry, evangelising and intellectual battles between saivas, jains and buddhists.

All the 4 samayacharyas were involved in this proactive Hindu evangelising that ultimately led to the rout of the jains and buddhists from South India. It was these acts of evangelising that led to the samayacharyas composing and singing hymns to the Lord and performing miracles, exactly the very thing that made them saints. Tilakavathy, bethroned to a soldier who then died, and who was discouraged from committing sati, lived for her brother and started him on his path. In a sense she was the first bakti evangelist, and gave rise to Appar the Saint.

Pathma

Kacciyappa Sivachariyiar (12th century C.E.) of Kancheepuram was more than a
temple priest in the Kum? K? Shiva Temple. He was also a scholar
versed in Tamil and in Sanskrit literatures. It is said that one night Lord
Subramania (Murugan) appeared in Kacciyappar's dream and instructed him to
compose an epic on the deeds of Murugan, inspiring him with its first
invocatory line to Ganesha. The very next day the poet launched his
epic-poetic project. At the rate of hundred quatrains a day, it took him
just over a 100 days to complete his magnum opus of some 41,000 lines. It is
difficult for us to imagine how all this was etched on palm leaves, and how
they were preserved for centuries. The achievements of our ancestors are
remarkable indeed.

Vishnu and Lakshmi did not have son or daughter. Shiva and Parvati had two
sons: Ganesha and Karttikeya who is also known as Skanda. Vishnu incarnated
as avataras to rid the world of evil forces. Skanda came down once to
accomplish the same. The Tamil version of the saga of Skanda - which has
interesting parallels with the Ramayana - is the grand epic Kandapuranam,
composed by the poetic genius Sivacariyar, basing himself on the Sanskrit
Skanda Purana.

The story in brief is this: Evil beings (asuras) with Skanda as their leader
were harassing the benign ones (devas). The latter went to Lord Shiva for
help. Six sparks of fire emanated from Siva's Third Eye. They were received
by Agni and promptly cast into Ganga. From Ganga the sparks moved to
Saravana in the Himalayas where they were transformed into six infants
suckled by the nymph Krittika.

When his consort Parvati wanted another child besides Vinayaka, Shiva
directed her to Saravana. There she saw the six infants, and embraced them
in one hearty grasp, whereupon they coalesced into a single body with six
faces and twelve arms. The child was called the Six-Faced One: Shanmukha,
Shad?na, or rumukan. He is also known as Skanda and Kartikeya. In the
Tamil country his name is Murugan: the Beautiful.

Murugan became the general of the army of the devas. In his mission to free
them from Surapadman, he went to Tirucchendur, waiting for the miscreant.
The battle with this demonic being lasted for six days. During the first
five, his brothers and family were destroyed. On the sixth day Surapadman
confronted Murugan, disguised as a mango tree. Karttikeya's lance pierced
the tree and broke it into two which were transformed into a rooster and a
peacock. Murugan made the peacock his vehicle and put the rooster on his
banner. The Tirucchendur temple commemorates Murugan's victory over
Surapadman.

We read in the epic that the asura Surapadman was a Brahmin. Because
Karttikeya killed a Brahmin, divine though he was, he had to pay a price:
His color changed to pitch dark and he became very ugly. It was only after
he took a dip in the sacred Ocean of Milk that he regained his charm and
color.

Murugan (unlike his counterpart Karttikeya in the North) is not a bachelor.
In fact, he has two consorts: Deivayanai, a daughter of Indra; and Valli,
born of a deer and left at the root of a sweet potato (vallikkizhangu), and
brought up by a hunter. Deivayanai sought the hand of Murugan and married
him; Murugan went in search of Valli and married her. The symbolism is that
the supreme principle takes unto itself not only the evolved jivatmas which
seek it out, like Indra's daughter; but also the unevolved ones whom it
seeks out, like the hunter's daughter.

The parallels between Kandapuranam and Kampan Ramayanam are obvious. In both
instances, at the plea of the good ones, the divine manifests itself to rid
the world of a mischievous personage and his entourage. In both, the poet's
genius makes the work as much a literary masterpiece as a scriptural epic.
In both, there are reflections, descriptions and abstract philosophical
expositions. There is even a critique of materialism here.

The set of ten green volumes in which a recent edition of the epic has been
published stand still in my library, a treasure chest of mute words from
which I get the sum and substance of the epic as also aesthetic delight. But
that was not how it used to be. The verses were/are recited to the pious
exhilaration of devotees of Murugan. Cultures are dynamic in their praxis
and only passively alive in books and in the heads of scholars.

Kandapuranam took the worship of Murugan to new heights. The veneration of
this quintessentially Tamil deity in the holy precinct of Pazhani, and the
annual kavadi rituals of ascetic pilgrimage (some of whose self-torturing
aspects might shock the outsider) are inspired by this epic which is as
sacred for the Shaivas of the Tamil world as the Ramayana is for Vaishnavas.

I never cease to wonder at the power of the poets of the Tamil tradition
which derives as much from the unsurpassed genius of the language as from
the profound sincerity, ardent devotion, and unparalleled piety of the bards
of the culture who were certainly among the divinely inspired ones of the
world.

V. V. Raman
June 17, 2005

If a language is like a house, its poets and writers are like its furniture
which add grace and beauty to the house and offer aesthetic delight to those
who dwell in them. Poets and writers lend luster to a language. Some of them
make such a mark in its literary history that in some cases, we can hardly
think of a language without them. In our minds today there can't be English
without its Shakespeare, or Italian without its Dane. Likewise there can be
no Tamil without the sage-poet Tiruvalluvar who lived and wrote more than
1500 years ago. His terse wisdom is contained in the immortal couplets known
as Tirukkural. It has been described as the Tamil Vedas.

Valluvar was associated with the Tamil literary Academy at Madurai. His work
is said to have been initially rejected by that prestigious body. But when
it stood some stringent tests of quality, it was acclaimed as a masterpiece.

The Kural consists of 1330 couplets presented in ten chapters of equal
lengths. The broad themes discussed are: virtue, wealth, and love. Many
topics of practical interest come under these headings. Though the Kural
has been compared to the Vedas, it does not sing hymns to the Gods, nor
preach religious doctrines. God is given the first place in the
introduction, but there is hardly any obscurantism here. The poet goes on to
say that life and learning without recognizing the Divine would be a waste:
"Knowledge and learning aren't worth a jot
If all-knowing God we recognize not".

The reflections are mostly on mundane themes, including loose women and
sexuality. Some of the kurals inform, some instruct, yet others are the
poet's reflections. But all have an undercurrent of intelligence and wisdom.

Here are some thoughts of Tiruvalluvar on rain which most people take for
granted:
"Ambrosia for earth is the shower of the rain
For 'tis rain that doth life sustain.
If skies deny the season's rain,
The work of plows will be in vain".

More than a millennium before La Rochefoucauld's Maximes (1665), the Kural
spoke tersely on friendship, love and more. Tiruvalluvar was a moralist of
the highest caliber. He himself was a devoted husband and a man of
principles. He extols piety, reflects on the happiness that children bring,
spells out the responsibilities of a host, talks about the power of speech,
and esteems gratitude as an important virtue. The Kural speaks about the
Buddhist virtue of curtailing, even erasing desires. It lauds the Jaina
virtue of non-jury to creatures and stresses the Hindu vision of karmic
action and consequence. It respects the highest ethical principle of
non-hurting anyone and helping others, and speaks highly of the generous
person.

The poet speaks of the pure in mind, and also of love and chastity, of
loyalty and devotion in the marital context. One also finds some ancient
science in the Kural where it says that the world arises from sound, touch,
form, taste, and smell which are the results of the five primordial
elements: earth, water, fire, air, and ether. There is epistemology here as
when the poet speaks of the principle of non-contradiction and of the real
and the unreal. Valluvar echoes ancient sages when he declares that only
realization of the Ultimate will liberate one from the birth-death-cycle.

The Kural also contains aphorisms on good government, on spying, and on
other matters as well. Such is its range of topics.
Little of historical authenticity is known about the poet Tiruvalluvar, but
many tales have grown around his name. The blend of fact, fiction, and
interpretation we call literary tradition informs us that he belonged to a
low caste, and was probably the issue of an inter-caste union. Some say he
once lived in what we now call Mylapore in Chennai. But others have said
that he spent his life in Madurai. Some say he was a Jana, others that he
was influenced by Christianity. These comments are irrelevant to the glory
of the Kural.

The Kural has been translated into French, German, Swedish and English.
Partial rendering of the couplets into other languages, such as Chinese,
Polish, Sanskrit and Bengali have also appeared. The work probably deserves
a modern Tamil translation as well since its ancient vocabulary is not
within easy grasp of the average Tamil reader today. The sheer brevity,
word-play, and pregnant word power of the original are often lost in efforts
to reformulate the poet's inspired lines in other tongues.

Many scholarly analyses and commentaries on the Kural have been published.
Some of the utterances of the Kural may seem exaggerated, others may seem
redundant, and when it calls many different virtues the best it is the
poet's way of insisting on its importance. The Kural sheds light on the
mores and values of the Tamils of the time.
There is a modest shrine in Chennai to commemorate the sage-poet and his
life.

V. V. Raman
June 20, 2005

I was introduced to Kamba Ramayanam by my father Sri Varadaraja Aiyar who
taught Tamil literature for some time in Calcutta University. Kamban is
reckoned by scholars, both Indian and international, as one of the greatest
poets that ever composed metrical stanzas in any language. V. V. S. Aiyar
categorically declared that Kamban's work "can challenge comparison not
merely with the Iliad, the Paradise Lost, and the Mahabharata, but with the Ramayana of Valmiki." I wouldn't have believed this before reading
Kamban in full, because to appreciate this assertion, one needs to know
Tamil in some depth. The beauty and brilliance of the original are lost even
in the best translations. Kamban's stanzas are among the most glittering
gems adorning the Tamil world of letters.

In the night-sky of poems and verses Kamban's work shines like the silvery
full moon amidst twinkling stars. The theme of Kamban's masterpiece is of
course Rama and his saga, but the book is strewn with metaphors, similes,
descriptions, imageries, word plays and charming constructions, all chiseled
to the measure and meter of pleasing prosody. Here is part of his
description of Ayodhya in prose:

"That land was so beautiful that one could see everywhere pearls, conches,
gold dust, corals, red lotuses, swans, sugar canes, bees and sweet honey.
Sounds of streams, of working peasants, conches, clashing bulls, and of
happy buffaloes pervaded the air. There were dancers and their admirers.
Graceful peacocks, slender creepers, thundering clouds, gigantic waves,
water lilies attuned to the melodious hum of bees: all this could be seen in
the capital Kosala. The Goddess of Prosperity resided in the lotuses.
Voluptuous women and the God of Love provoked men, while truth and letters
found their way to people's tongues."

Here are some of Kamban's comments on
the women of Kosala:
"Women's waists, and not their minds, were narrow.. Their features put
peacocks to shame. The jewelry they wore on their breasts outshone the sun.
Their eyes excelled in charm the most beautiful fish. Red water-lilies were
like women's lips. When the slender women bent over to bathe, it looked as
if their hips would break. Their graceful walk seemed to mock the walk of
elephants; their wholesome breasts seemed to mock lotus buds, and their
faces seemed to mock the full moon."

Kamba Ramayanam has always struck me as a literary creation more than
religious scripture, a work to be analyzed and admired for its structure and
exuberance rather than to be bowed to and worshiped for its reverential
panegyric of Sri Ramachandra.

Not surprisingly, while Tulsi Das's Ramacharitramanas is recited in pious
postures by the devout, Kamban's work is critiqued and commented upon, and
studied as a text in schools. It is more an epic like the Aeneid or the
Iliad than a hymn to the God of a religion. Scholars have drawn attention
to its subtle comparisons of the tradition of the Tamils with that of the
Sanskritic peoples, often in favor of the former.

Kamban was a devout Shaiva, but his work brims with deep reverence for Rama
as an incarnation of Vishnu. Long before Tulsi Das, Kamban transformed
Valmiki's hero into God incarnate, and presented his work in the hallowed
halls of Srirangam.

As to the biodata of this foremost of epic poets, we have the choice between
fantasy and uncertainty. As with the lives of many of the great ones of
India's rich past, we remember Kamban by the words and books he has left
behind. What little we know about him is largely lore and legend. Thus,
there are at least five versions of who this extraordinary man was. His name
means man with a stick. Some say he was the posthumous child of the king of
Kamban?, others that he belonged to the kamban caste. It is said that when
he was a lad he was adopted by a wealthy man named Sadayappa Mudaliar whom
he unconventionally mentions in his grand epic. Legend says he was blessed
with poetic gift by Goddess Kali, and that once, by means of poems he
uttered he caused the death and the resurrection of a horse. What can
almost equal the India's rishis and poets in creativity are the stories spun
around their names.

Tradition also tells us that when he was commissioned by his patron to
translate Valmiki, Kamban agreed but kept postponing the task. The job was
then entrusted to Ottakk?: a poet of much talent, but not exactly a
genius. Then Kamban started to compose, writing some seven hundred stanzas a
day. Even if Kamban had written but ten stanzas a day, his work would still
be just as glorious. But to some people, the greatness of a great one is
enhanced by the attribution of miraculous powers.
Original in similes, profuse in descriptions, rich in hyperboles, insightful
in observations, masterful in command of words, passionate in narration,
moving in pathos, always reverential to the hero, Kamban's epic is
unsurpassed in majesty and poetic grandeur. The mere awareness of the
existence of a work of such caliber should add to one's appreciation of
Indic culture.

V. V. Raman
June 22, 2005

Ramalingaswami (1823 - 1874), little known to Non-Tamils, was a great poet,
philosopher, social reformer and spiritually evolved soul of the Tamil
world. He is said to have experienced mystic vision when still an infant
when he displayed signs of spiritual ecstasy in the presence of Chidambara
rahasyam in the temple of Nataraja in Thillai (Chidambaram). Onlookers stood
in amazement when they noticed this most unusual reaction in a baby. In his
later years, he recalled this in a famous verse:
"As a child with my mother in Thillai, I received the flash from up on
high.
The curtain of your mystery was raised; I saw your splendor, all amazed."

In elementary school, Ramalingam was a recluse, reflecting and meditating,
much to the bewilderment of the people around. Soon he lost all interest in
the learning and recitation that went on at school. He often ran away to a
sanctuary of Lord Murugan to sing hymns of devotion in his boundless love of
God. He is regarded as a saint.

Ramalingaswami was not only the most prolific, but also the most eminent
nineteenth century poet of the language. His literary output is known as
Tiruvarutpa: That which arose from arul or divine grace. Six thousand songs
and verses poured out from his heart like torrents from an unknown majestic
source. Few poets have produced such a massive collection of poetry. His
love of Tamil was so great that he declared with conviction: "Tamil is the
language through which one can attain pure shiv?b?esoteric wisdom)
most easily."

Like a gifted instrumentalist who plays popular tunes as well as complex
ragas, Ramalingam wrote in simple terms intelligible to the person on the
street as well and in sophisticated meters embodying subtle metaphysics.

Steeped as he was in Shaiva Siddhanta, he wrote about mystical themes like
suddha deham, pranava deham, jnana deham, and civa cakram: technical terms
incomprehensible to the non-initiate.

Compassion is deep feeling for another person's suffering. Like other
capacities of the human spirit, it is magnified to incredible proportions in
rare individuals. The great Siddhartha was one such, and so was Ramalingam.
Most of us feel sorry for the plight of the poor. But how many are so
tormented by the suffering of others that we can't stand to see them in
that state? Ramalingam was one such person who felt intense pain when he
witnessed any human being in suffering.
He wrote a sermon in which he discussed compassionate attitudes and
compassionate actions. He said that divine grace was obtained by the
practice of compassion towards fellow creatures. He preached that serving
the needs of the poor and the hungry was the highest form of worshipping the
Divine. He stressed over and over again that no amount of temple-going,
doing pujas, and singing hymns would lead one to salvation as long as one
neglects the sufferings of fellow humans. It is important to dwell on this
aspect of the saint's teachings, for it reminds the routine believer that
religion is more than mantra and japa. Caring and compassion are more
important than pious prayers to murtis and periodic pilgrimages to holy
centers: a notion that, it would appear, has not fully sunk in the psyche of
many Hindus even in our own times, though this profound spiritual insight
that has been uttered by countless enlightened souls of the tradition.

Like Mahavira Jainism, Ramalingam loved and respected all creatures.
Somewhat like Saint Francis of Assisi, he said that if one recited God's
glory to them, even birds and beasts would begin to crave for spiritual
experience. He spoke out like Buddha against animal sacrifice. He could not
stand the idea of men catching fish, and wished this could be stopped. He
felt a kinship even with plants, and moaned that when he saw a withering
crop, he withered too. Such reactions were born of intense empathy with all
life forms.

Ramalingam was deeply touched by the inadequacies and injustices in the
world. He felt that Hindu society was in dire need of drastic repair in
thought and action, in values and worldviews. He was unique among the giants
of 19th century Hindu reformists in that unlike the others, he did not take
inspiration from European writers and Western social models. His gurus were
not Voltaire and John Stuart Mill, but the Tamil saints Sivajnana Sambandar
and Manikkavacakar. His life and ideas were shaped by such saints of the
Tamil tradition and by the grace he had received from above.

Unacquainted as he was with the European mind, either in its enlightened or
in its aggressive modes, Ramalingam was indifferent to what the White Man
said or thought about Hindu society. In this, he could serve as a model for
some Indian thinkers and writers of our own times, who are obsessed with
what the Western scholars think about us, and are too eager to show to the
West that we are not, or ever were, lagging behind. Ramalingam never wrote
in English to impress the foreigner or to apologize to him for blemishes in
his own culture. He spoke to his people out of love for them and from
revulsion for the evils he saw around him. His goal was not to protect
Hinduism from missionaries, to impress the British, or to tell Europeans
that Hinduism was better than Christianity, but to better his society.

Ultimately he was as an enlightened and authentic Hindu, free from
psychological insecurity vis-a-vis other cultures; steeped in tradition,
deeply read in its wisdom, and profoundly religious in the old-fashioned
sense.

Ramalingam was like Sri Ramakrishna: god-intoxicated by the vision he had
had; like Sri Aurobindo: learned in the scriptures and mystic to the core;
like Swami Vivekananda: insisting on serving the poor. But he had no English
or French speaking disciple to spread his name and gospel to the world at
large. So he is not as well known as the others.

More decades ago than I care to count, I was briefly in the little town of
Thiruvaiyaru with a friend of my father. I recall visiting an important
Shiva temple here. But more significantly, I visited here the house where
Saint Thyagaraja (1767 - 1847) had composed some of his magnificent
melodies. I was too young to appreciate the significance of the place then.
When, more than I decade later I was in Bach's birthplace in Eisenach, I
experienced a flashback, and briefly went back to that house in spirit. That
home must be revered, I wrote in my journal, as one of the hallowed spots in
India. Indeed it is a place of pilgrimage for those who know about the Tamil
music tradition.

Like science, music is a lofty expression of the human spirit. In the Indic
tradition, music is as ancient as the Sama Veda which goes back to the
second millennium before the Common Era. Like science again, the power and
beauty of music transcend barriers of nationality and race. In Tamil music
history, 18th century saw an unexpected turn with the birth of three
extraordinary musical giants in the Tanjavur region which is nourished by
the Kaveri River: Thyagaraja, Muthuswamy Dikshitar and Syama sastri .

Thyagaraja is the best known of that trio. He is a star of the first
magnitude in the firmament of Carnatic music. His father was a rhapsodist
who used to expound Valmiki's Ramayana in the king's court. His mother used
to sing hymns in praise of Rama. The son imbibed deep devotion for Rama from
both parents. It is said that he spent many hours reflecting on the epic God
and reciting His name interminably.
Thyagaraja studied music under one of the most illustrious composers of the
age: Sonti Venkataramanayya. This Telugu Brahmin instilled in him a fondness
for beautiful Sanskrit-rich Telugu. Thyagaraja himself had Andhra ancestry.

His great-great grand-parents had immigrated to the Tamil country.
Thyagaraja cast episodes from Rama's life and from popular puranas into
moving music with soul-stirring beauty in Telugu. Often his music brings
tears of joy to the avid listener. He sang joyously in praise of Rama, but
he was equally generous in his homage to other bhaktas as well. In his
invocations to saints like Namadeva, Gyanadeva, and Tukaram we recognize the
Maharashtrian influence on the Tanjore of those days. Thyagara never sang in
praise of a patron. When a prince promised him favors in return for songs on
the royal greatness, the composer is said to have respectfully declined the
offer.

The songs that flowed from Thyagaraja's heart were not contrived
constructions of a calculating composer, but the powerful outpouring of love
and longing for the Divine. What Milton Cross wrote about Johann Sebastian
Bach is just as true of Thyagaraja: "He lived but to worship god and to
write music." We cannot fathom by what magic music becomes God's instrument
to give us a taste of mystical rapture.

Carnatic music theory is quite sophisticated with a host of technical terms
like svaraj?, varnam kriti, and more. But one can derive great enjoyment
from it by simply listening. The three giants of 18th century Carnatic
music added richly to the keertanam and kriti modes, and Thyagaraja added
kritis to sangatis. Thyagarajas'a kritis are in a variety of ragas, which
range from the very popular ones like Kamboji and Sankaravarnam to
relatively recondite, ike Nalinakanti and Chandra Jyoti.

Many Tamils are knowledgeable on these. One reason is that in most
traditional families music education is/was a must. Moreover, Thyagaraja's
works are celebrated in music festivals wherever there are people from the
southern regions of India. In some of these festivals, members of the
audience perform. Their talents range from modest capacities for producing
musical sounds to impressive musical talents. The events pay homage to the
master by bringing back to life his wondrous creations.

In the traditional framework, action (karma), knowledge (jnana), and
devotion (bhakti) are the recognized paths (margas) to God-realization.
Thyagaraja adopted music (g?) as another marga. For him, joyous bhajan
songs were not just prayers in tunes, but powerful means for attaining
spiritual fulfillment. His divyanama sankirtanams and utsava sampradaya
kirtanams were meant explicitly for this purpose.

The harikatha kalakshepam is a unique art form in Hindu culture. Here a
master raconteur narrates epics and puranic stories in delightful and
uplifting ways. He fuses poetry and philosophy, drama and music, humor and
history, and presents them all with allusions to ancient literature and
modern predicaments. In South Indian culture, the verses and melodies of
Thyagaraja are invariably a part of this.

At least 400 of Thyagaraja's songs are still sung. His music has inspired
many to both singing and creativity. His name has become synonymous with
Carnatic music. Thyagaraja was a saint who not only experienced the highest
order of spiritual fulfillment for himself, but also helped many generations
to have a taste of the same.

V. V. Raman
June 27, 2005

Great painting and sculpture, grand music and poetry have emerged from
evolved religions, but Hinduism is the only major religion with which dance
is also associated. Of the several classical dance traditions in India,
Bharata Natyam is perhaps the best known.

Bharata Natyam is based on subtle metaphysical propositions, and expresses a
worldview that is part of the Hindu framework. That worldview is that the
entire universe is a dynamic entity which is, in effect, the cosmic dance of
the sublime Creator. In Vedic imagery, the world was formed from the dust
stirred up by the rapturous Divine Dancer. The energy sustaining the
phenomenal world is a manifestation of the ultimate principle that
undergirds all existence. This magnificent conception is symbolized in
Nataraja.

Bharata Natyam is an elaboration of the poetic idea that a little of the
cosmic dynamism can be reflected in beautiful movements of the female body
which is a manifestation of the aesthetic dimension of the universal spirit.

Through complex facial transformations, gesticulations and rhythmic steps,
the changing moods and deepest ecstasy of the creative principle are
conveyed to the spectators. The variety of drum-beats and vocal thuds with
which the dancer's jingling steps merrily resonate during the thillana are
meant to convey this unadulterated joy.

In classical times, only women performed this temple-centered dance. The
institution of temple dancing is fairly old in Tamil culture, sometimes with
erotic undercurrents and even licentiousness on the part of the dancers and
the men within whose grasp they came. So women who performed the dance were
held in low esteem. After all, they were enjoyed visually and otherwise by
men who were not their wedded partners.

All this changed in the 1930s, and the dance began to gain respectability
and secular popularity, thanks largely to the enthusiasm and commitment of
two individuals: E. Krishna Iyer and Rukmini Devi Arundale. It was Krishna
Iyer who gave it the current name of Bharata Natyam, and Rukmini Devi
established a fine institution (Kalakshetra) in Chennai which has produced
some of the finest exponents of this dance tradition.

There is a cute but questionable etymology to the effect that bharata is an
acronym for bhava (emotion), r? (music), and tala (rhythm). I have some
doubts about this, if only because the use of acronyms is not a feature of
Indian languages. The artificiality in this etymology becomes apparent when
we realize that if we stick to Sanskrit and not to English orthography, the
dance should be called bhaaraataa naatyam.

Be that as it may, there is a text, ancient and somewhat modified perhaps in
its extant versions, entitled Natya Shastra. It is attributed to a certain
Bharata, and scholars date it back to the first or the second century C.E.
This is a treatise on the performing arts: drama, music, and dance.

Indomitable legend tells us that once Bharata was privy to a celestial stage
performance, after which he was instructed by Brahma to write a dissertation
on the subject. He was asked to incorporate the recitative aspect from Rig
Veda, action from Yajur Veda, music from Sama Veda, and emotion from Atharva
Veda. Thus, the Hindu theory of dramatics, choreography, music, and
aesthetics may be traced in its entirety to fount of Indic culture: the
Vedas. Contrary to general impression, the Vedas are not just stotras
addressed to divine beings and mantras for sacraments, but they have also
served as inspiration for practically everything that was to blossom in the
land, just as Greco-Roman worldviews and Judeo-Christianity are at the core
of Western culture.

Measured movements synchronized with music are the essence of all dancing.
This requires sharp ears and a heightened sense of rhythm. In Bharata
Natyam, arm movements are just as important, and they are combined with
changing configurations of hands and fingers, always signifying something in
telling a story. Thus, for example, one palm may represent a mirror while
the danseuse acts as if she fixes her hair while looking at it. In another
posture she may represent Shiva with the crescent moon on his head. There
are countless manual movements called mudras, each connoting a particular
idea. These are etched in the magnificent sculptures at the temple in
Chidambaram.

There are various facial expressions. These include head movements,
eyebrow-movements, flickering eyelids and rolling eyeballs, cheek movements
and nasal dilations, all suggesting something or other. The face is like the
monitor of the computer. Without it, we can never understand the complex
goings-on in the hard-drive (the brain). Hindu thinkers recognized the
quintessence of theatrical acting: that through facial expressions one can
convey a whole range of feelings: love, joy, surprise, fear, sorrow, anger,
disgust, vivaciousness and also inner peace. These make Bharata Natyam one
of the most intricate and thorough mime-systems in the world. Add to this
fast and complex footwork, rapid twists and turns, and you have an idea of
how exhaustive is the theory of this exquisite dance. This uniquely Tamil
art-form radiates a marvelous aspect of India's rich culture.

V. V. Raman
June 29, 2005

There are a number of stories re: the source of Bharata Natyam including the
following: that its theory was first propounded by the sage Bharata who had
seen apsaras perform it, that Arjuna taught it to the Tamils when he was
visiting the South, that it took inspiration from the dance of Nataraja in
Chidambaram, etc.

According to scholars who have studied the history dispassionately, the
dance actually developed in its current form only in the 18th century when
Tanjore was under the rule of the Marathas. At that time there were four
great artistes in the Tanjore court of a Maharashtrian king> They were
Chinnayya, Ponnayya, Sivanandam and Vedivelu. They are said to have laid the
foundations for what has become Bharata Natyam. Not all these were Tamils.

Then in the 20th century it was revived by E, Krishna Iyer and Rukmini Devi.
To say that the BN had its origins in the Tamil country - which it seems to
have had - is not an expression of chauvinism, especially given that the
Andhra people have their own sophisticated dance: the Kuchipudi; Kerala has
its own Kathakali, Orissa has its Odissi, etc. Arts and literature have
evolved all over India in abundance, and each has its regional origins as
well as Pan-Indian aspects.

Today we can go to a bookstore and buy books by Homer, Virgil, and
Confucius, Valmiki, Tolkappiyar, and other ancient authors. But how were the
ancient writings preserved before the invention of paper? Not in bound
volumes such as we have today. Babylonians had their clay tablets, Egyptians
invented the papyrus, in Europe they came up with the parchment, and in
India they used leaves.

It is hard for us to imagine that many of our great literary works were once
etched on leaves which had been dried and prepared for this purpose. The
authors wrote line by line the countless treasures of plays and poetry,
prose and philosophy many (not all) of which have now been transformed into
more easily accessible modes. There are still several thousand palm-leaf
manuscripts in Tamil alone. At one time, many homes had collections of
palm-leaves from which people read with great care and respect. The word for
newspaper (patrika) reminds us of this. Curiously, leaf also means page in
English.

Just as we discard old magazines in a common garbage heap, in the Tamil
country people used to dump damaged manuscripts in a river. A special day
was assigned on the almanac every year for community dumping of damaged
leafy pages. In the tradition there is a story to the effect that once the
leaves (edu) on which Sambandar's Tevaram (a canonical Shaiva work) was
inscribed were cast in the flowing Vaigai. Miraculously the sacred leaves
(tiru-edu) were carried upstream until they landed at a place which became
their home (akam). This was brought about, says the sthala purana, by Lord
Ganesha who took on the form of a fish and piloted the leaves upstream. So
the town was called Tiru-edu-akam or Tiruvedakam. This miracle is celebrated
there as a major festival.

Much of the ancient literature available today is the result of painstaking
probing by scholars. Thus, we would know nothing about Manimekalai or
Cilappadikaram had it not been for the tireless efforts of the great
scholar. OoVƒÔaminatha Iyer (1855-1943).

OoV? developed an early fascination for Tamil literature, and was guided in
his further studies by an eminent scholar by the name of Meenakshi Sundaram
Pillai. OoVÕ°as once asked to interpret some ancient palm-leaf manuscripts.
They turned out to be hitherto unknown poems. This set him on a trail to
discover more such as yet unearthed works. In due course he brought to light
a gold-mine of Sangam literature: a remarkable achievement for one man.

Normally such discoveries are made by a whole generation of scholars. OoV”
bought out modern editions of some 74 major works, including such classics
as Pattuppaatu and Purananuru, all with copious annotations.

OoVƒÔ?natha Iyer recounts it all in his autobiography where he also gives
a glimpse of the poets of his time who were essentially wandering minstrels.
Whenever he came to know about the existence of a leaf-manuscript in
someone's home, he went there to see it and acquire it for publication. On
one occasion, the owner refused, saying it was a Jain work which was to be
worshiped in a Jain home, and not meant for people of another faith. OoV¡
πplained that the Tamil treasure must be enjoyed by one and all. He feared
that perhaps many works had been lost by such people. He wondered if such
narrow minds would ever see the light. After several attempts, OoVµuanaged
to get hold of the stack of palm leaves. Then he had to decipher the ancient
writings which were not unlike hieroglyphics. Little by little, he managed
to reconstruct the whole. It was one of the many manuscripts of
Cilappatikaram from which the current edition was constructed. This is a
fascinating detective story in literary history.

This incident also illustrates how far we have come from the Dark Age when
literary and religious treasures were jealously guarded by orthodoxy from
the reach of minds which were regarded as unworthy or impure by virtue of
birth or religious affiliation. We owe much to scholars like OoVƒÔaminatha
Iyer for retrieving ancient manuscripts from their lost or forgotten abyss
in palm leaves. Many of them are still preserved in the sanctuary of a few
libraries: in the Saraswati Mahal Library of Tanjavur, in the International
Institute of Tamil Studies in Chennai, in the Kanchi Kamakodi Mutt, in the
Madurai Tamil Sangam, in the National Library in Kolkata, and elsewhere.

In his autobiography, OoVÙ recognizes G. U. Pope's love for Tamil language,
and his contributions to Tamil literature, without displaying any of the
Christophobia that afflicts some modern commentators. After all, like it or
not, the curiosity and intellectual explorations of European scholars did
spread the good words of Non-European literary treasures way beyond their
original shores. There is a library, named after this great scholar, in
Besant Nagar, Chennai. It houses thousands of palm-leaf manuscripts. We
remember OoVƒÔaminatha Iyer for his erudition, his tireless dedication to
ancient Tamil works, for his breadth of vision, and for his services leading
to a Renaissance of Tamil literature. Scholars of such depth, caliber and
universal outlook come but rarely in history.

The Infallibility of Shastras

> The task of historical critical analysis is not the same as defending
> a particular text. It may serve as the basis of demonstrating why a
> particular teaching is no longer relevant or valid today and help to
> retrieve those that are.

>Dr. Anand Rambachan

Tulsidas's /Ramcharitmanas/ is the
holy book most sacred to me, and it is a part of my daily life. At the
same time, I have written and spoken very critical of some of the
material in it. I have also suggested that the text has been modified
since its original, since some of the teachings are totally inconsistent
with those found in all the other texts attributed to him. As scholars,
we have to wear many hats, and be comfortable doing so. While I respect
the value of tradition, heritage, and sacred literature, I also value
the ability to accept what is good, whatever its source, and reject what
is not, whatever its source.

Dr.Ramdas Lanb

Many Puranas, like the Bhagavata Purana, are meaningful, inspirational, and
enriching as part of Indic culture. Some may not be so.

However, Purana-shastra includes Manu-dharma-shastra and other such texts,
which have many good things but which also contain quite a number of
irrelevant, unacceptable, and unconscionable things. In fact, many of our
religious leaders today are reluctant to make the moral progress we call
for with respect to caste and untouchability because they wish to respect
and adhere to many of the injunctions in the (purana) shastras.

Nothing should be expunged from scriptures, because such a step would make
us forget our real social history. However, it is okay to accept some parts
and reject other parts of the same.

Our approach to scriptures will depend on how we view them: Whether as
human-created documents in a given social/cultural context, or as
God-dictated documents.

In the first instance we may be bold enough to say some of their contents
are unacceptable and plain wrong. In the second case, we dare not say anything negative about them.

A necessary condition for the social progress, moral awakening, and
intellectual freedom of any society is the recognition that even the most
sacred writings are but creations of human minds.
Human minds can compose the most sublime things, but also err grievously in
moral injunctions and in interpretations of natural phenomena.
Therefore, there is nothing in a tradition that is so infallible that it
cannot be challenged, even thrown out in newer contexts.
While the poetry and philosophy of the ancients can still inspire and add to
our aesthetic life, not all the prescriptions and injunctions of ancient law
givers, whether from the Old Testament, the Sharia, or of Manu, need guide
us in the most fundamental values of human dignity, equality, justice for
all, and the like.
Adherence to principles and practices simply because they are so stated in
revered texts has often held back societies from evolving into more sane and
civilized phases.
What we regard as the best in our own times, whether in science or in moral
philosophy, may have to be, indeed will be, improved upon or replaced by
future generations.

Can a lawyer be a scholar? Can a scholar be a stock market reporter? Can a
translator of the Tirukkural pretend to be a Muslim? Can an Indian patriot
say he wants to settle down in Brazil? We may say yes to all these
questions, if he happens to be Varahaneri Venkatesa Subramaniam Aiyar (VVS),
also known as VaV? Aiyar (1881 - 1925).

VVS was a voracious reader of both English and Tamil literatures from his
boyhood days. He studied law and practiced it for a while in Tiruchi, then
went on to Rangoon to do the same. A Tamil businessman sent him to London
for higher studies in exchange for which the young man was to send him
regular reports on the London stock market.

There, in the early years of the twentieth century, VVS became involved in
the Indian independence movement through lectures and demonstrations, and
assisted his friend Savarkar in the translation of his book The War of
Indian Independence, 1857 from Marathi into English. Scotland Yard had a
watchful eye on him, and VVS did the most fantastic things to wriggle out of
the clutches of the British police.
Already in the first decade of the 20th century he proposed that Indians
should immigrate in large numbers to Brazil, not as menials, but as farmers
and businessmen. Following an ancient Tamil saying (tiraikkadal ‰Ry?
raviyum t€—: Look for wealth by venturing beyond the seas!) he urged his
compatriots to make their homes in distant lands. In one of his letters to
his father he said he had decided to settle down in Brazil because he knew
he would be arrested and jailed if he returned to India.

British agents intercepted the letter, and looked for him in every ship from
Europe to Brazil while, unknown to them, VVS was in Paris, growing a beard,
and faking Muslim demeanor. He moved to Rome before taking a ship to
Constantinople in the guise of a Middle Eastern trader. From there he
voyaged to Cairo, and boarded a boat full of Hajj-Muslims to Mecca. With the
Holy Qur'an in his hand and periodic prayers with the crowd he fooled
everyone into believing he was an ardent Allah-aficionado. By such ruses and
roundabout routes, and with fanciful pseudonyms like Vikram Singh and Rustum
Said Aiyar reached Bombay. From there he sailed to Ceylon, and managed
eventually to reach the French-Indian possession of Pondicherry. This was
one of the most thrilling suspense stories in the history of Indian
independence, worthy of a Bollywood blockbuster.

Pondicherry was a haven for Indian patriots in those days. The poet
Subramania Bharati, the mystic philosopher Sri Aurobindo, and the fiery
revolutionary V. V. S. Aiyar were among the most illustrious of them.
Through their extensive publications they instigated riot and rebellion in
British-occupied India. In Pondicherry Aiyar established a center for
training the young in physical skills and sharp-shooting. One of his
trainees assassinated a British bureaucrat in 1911. VVS was living proof
that a vegetarian Tamil Brahmin could become a fierce freedom-fighter.
Even in the midst of all the trouble and turmoil rocking the country,
Aiyar's love of language and literature did not diminish. When he received
information that the French were planning to deport him to Algeria, Aiyar
hurried to make his famous English translation of the Tirukkural, so as to
leave a legacy behind.

Thanks to a general amnesty in 1930, Aiyar returned to India, continued to
publish articles for Tamil magazines, and served in the editorial board of
the journal Desabhaktan. He was arrested for a seditious editorial, and
imprisoned for nine months.
After his release from prison, Aiyar established a Tamil gurukulam, an ideal
boarding school where students would learn ancient wisdom, modern thought,
science, arts, literature and history, as also practical trades and
craftsmanship. Here, contrary to the goal of a casteless society which he
was trying to achieve, he permitted two Brahmin youngsters to have their
meals separately and away from their Non-Brahmin classmates on the
insistence of their parents. Aiyar was an enlightened man, but he had been
forced to sacrifice a principle to respect the feelings of a couple of
patrons of the institution. This provoked a controversy, and even brought
Mahatma Gandhi into the furor.

V. V. S. Aiyar's life came to a tragic end in 1925 when he jumped into the
surging Tamparaparani to rescue his daughter who had fallen in the river:
He was carried away by the rapids. Death took him away before he could
complete his scholarly study of Kamba Ramayanam. It was another quarter of a
century before this work was published after the addition of the last
chapter on Sita by others. After an inspiring introduction, a summary of the
story, an analysis of the poetic and conceptual structure of Kamban's work,
the book analyzes the major characters of the epic with numerous citations.
It reveals Aiyar's sweep of knowledge, his insights and literary skills.
The mark that this great patriot, author, and lover of literature has left
behind in our collective memory has made him an immortal in India's history.

V. V. Raman
July 4, 2005

The splendor of classical Indic civilization is reflected in a great many
places and contexts. Most of all, it is in the countless temples, great and
small, that we find the visually aesthetic aspects of Indic culture. The
landscape of India is studded with some of the most magnificent places of
worship erected by human labor of love for God. In this matter, Hinduism and
Christianity have something in common: for the cathedrals of medieval Europe
and the many smaller churches all over Christendom also reflect an
outpouring of reverence on the part of the faithful for the God of their
tradition.

There is not a village, town, or city in India that has not been sanctified
by a temple. Temples stand like the heart-beat of the culture, to be there
for as long as the civilization. Every region has its temples, and
consciously or otherwise India has one major temple for each of the four
cardinal directions. At the southern point stands the Ramesvaram temple
which goes back, per the associated sacred history, to the age of the
Ramayana: for it was here that the epic hero, an incarnation of Vishnu,
worshiped Lord Shiva as he embarked on his war against Ravana, another
Shivabhakta of no mean attainments.

Kovil (or koyil) is the Tamil word for temple. Practically every kovil in
the South - as elsewhere too - has its own sthalapurana: a local mythopoeic
account of how the koil came to be. Invariably, this is a narrative in which
a god or goddess of the lore had appeared there at its inauguration,
breathing magic into its history. Every kovil is built in strict accordance
with the architectural rules spelled out in canonical texts. So they all
have their garba grihas, mandapas, gopurams, tanks, etc. There are
festivals for the enshrined murtis (consecrated icons), during which the
devout throng in large numbers for special worship services. Often a
procession of the principal murti is taken around with solemn dignity. Then
again, most kovils are dedicated to a specific deity as one of the many
manifestations of the Divine, often with a location-specific name. Thus,
Shiva is Nataraja in one place and Sankaranarayanar in another; Vishnu is
Sundararaja in one temple and Rangaraja in another; Murugan is called
Dandayudapani in one temple and Swaminatha in another; Shakti is variously
known as Meenakshi in Madurai and Kamakshi in Kanchi, etc. There is rich
variety in kovil names and narratives.

The murtis are installed in an elaborate ritual by which a spark of the
Divine enters the inert material out of which the artist had sculpted it.
From that moment on, it is to be viewed and venerated as per prescribed
rules, and treated as a living spirit: with symbolic baths, changes in
attires, food at prescribed hours, and so on. As in diplomatic conventions,
there are protocols in the maintenance of the murtis in Hindu temples.

Many of the big kovils were initiated in the glory days of the Cholas and
the Pandyas, as also of the kings of Vijayanagaram. They are rich in
recorded history, containing precious epigraphs and valuable data. Built
with massive stones and meticulous sculpture, many kovils are grand beyond
imagination, with complex halls, hundreds of pillars, corridors and
statuettes of poets and saints. All these result in a majesty that is
enhanced by the weight of centuries. Protected from iconoclastic hordes for
longer periods than the ones in the north, the kovils of the Tamil country,
and of the south more generally, did not suffer as much from plunderers with
a phobia for "idols."

Much of what I have said is valid for the upper-caste temples all over
India. There are also in the Tamil country, as elsewhere in India,
countless kovils of village deities, modest in stature and construction,
where one periodically sacrifices creatures, small and large. Temple
sacrifices go against the laws of modern India, but such laws can't be
rigorously imposed. Just as it is not easy to erase the caste-mindset of
dvija Hindus because of generations of cultural conditioning, it would be
unrealistic to expect one section of Hindus to wake up one morning and say,
"From now on we will not offer a goat or a chicken to Iyenar or Munadian."

From one perspective, these practices may seem primitive compared to other
rituals, but they have served as outlets for the spiritual longings of
millions of people relegated to the so-called lowers castes. As with
casteism, only education and enlightenment will erase mindless bloodshed in
the name of God.

Sometimes, I have felt uneasy in the queue which can be broken by monetary
inducements to get a glimpse of the deity. But this does not diminish my awe
at the hallowed structures which beckon the pious from near and far. I merge
with the din and drone permeating the air, and piously circumambulate the
altar. I receive with reverence sanctified fruits and spoonfuls of holy
water. I reflect on the temple's history, real and imagined, and make a
silent prayer for the welfare of all, known and unknown. Most of all, I
feel a humility vis-a-vis is the unfathomable Transcendent Mystery.

To feel the daily pulse of Hindu spirituality it is enough to go to any
temple in India. To experience Hindu temple architecture at its best, one
must visit a major koil or two.

V. V. Raman
July 6, 2005

Not far from the city of Chennai there stands the legacy of an ancient city
which once served as a port from the Tamil country. From here sailed ships
in times gone by which were laden with merchandise, but they also carried
preachers and men of wisdom. These spiritual ambassadors spread the cultural
richness of India to other South Asian lands and islands whose impact we see
to this day. Today this place is known as Mahabalipuram.

Thousands of skilled craftsmen carved out magnificent rock sculptures here,
leaving behind monuments that stand proudly as a splendid reminder of Indic
creativity. Today Mahabalipuram is primarily a tourist stop where the
curious and the leisurely rub shoulders, clicking away their cameras with
admiring eyes as they stroll and stare.

When I visited the place for a second time a few years ago, I was once again
struck by the wonders that have been worked on the rocky hills: Not just
sculptures and art works and bas reliefs on huge boulders, but entire
temples hollowed out of massive granite. I marveled at huge elephants
following one another on the side of a curved rock, above which are crowded
carvings of smaller divine beings. I walked through what looked like a
corridor on whose walls are beings frozen in stone for centuries. On
another rocky wall is a crowned being holding the leg of a seated female.

One can go on and on, seeing a Nandi bull here and a Kali there, a lion and
other beasts, and scenes from the Mahabharata too. Below ground is the
famous Arjuna's penance which was probably nearer to the coast at one time.
This is impressive: more than forty feet tall and almost a hundred feet
long, with many deities, humans, snakes, and animals. Scholars have debated
on their significance. Some say they depict serpent worship, others that
this is an artist's rendition of the genesis of the Ganga from cold
Kailasha. The huge monolithic temples in various shapes and sizes, called
rathas, are named after the Pandava brothers and for Draupadi. I went
briefly into the so-called Trimurti Cave and admired the Brahma, Vishnu, and
Shiva there, each with a pair of flying beings above and worshiping humans
below. What planning and creativity must have gone on prior to the execution
of these wondrous works, let alone the sweat of the rock borers and the
dedication of the sculptors, using heaven knows what chisels and hammers!

The whims of history are sometimes strange. The rock temples of
Mahabalipuram, which are the pride of Tamil Nadu today, were the work of
Pallavas. These, as records show, were clans with unsavory habits, thieves
they say, who took over the established Tamil kingdoms and remained dominant
for at least two centuries. At one time they were hated as upstarts. To
this day, pallavar means a rake or a knave in Tamil. But in due course, like
the Normans in England or the English language in India, the Pallava kings
contributed much to the culture of the land they had usurped.

The carvings in Mahabalipuram date back to the seventh century, and were the
result of the patronage of King Narasimha Varman (630 - 668). The place came
to be called Mamallapuram in his honor, for mamallan meant Great Warrior. It
has been suggested that the current name is probably a transformation of
this earlier one. One result of this metamorphosis was to regard the region
as where Vishnu, in his avatara as Vamana (Dwarf) taught king Bali a lesson
in humility.

Mahabalipuram, by whatever name, was a dynamic center even in the days of
ancient Rome and China. Perhaps there were older temples there. Ptolemy of
Alexandria refers to the place. Once it was probably a place of pilgrimage
and religious observance, and is now an impressive museum of ancient rock
temples.

Not all the splendors of India are as fresh and full of life as they once
were. Time and tide have worn out many, sometimes burying them underground
where they would have been be lost for good, were it not for the diligence
of archeologists. That the British exploited India economically and
dominated her people politically is beyond question. For this we rightly
condemn them. Yet, notwithstanding the assertions of postmodern patriots
that they were out to obliterate our culture, it was British investigators
who deciphered Pali scripts in Sri Lanka, unearthed Ashoka's Stupa,
discovered Ajanta and Ellora, resuscitated many aspects of submerged Indic
civilizations, as well as parts of Mahabalipuram, and overall injected a
sense of ancient history in 19th century Indian mind. To recognize this is
not a relic of colonial psychological slavery, but adamant refusal to give
the devil its due in the interest of truth and fair play is.

In any case, when one visits places like this, the glory that was India about
which we read in history books suddenly comes to life. Every tangible relic
of a bygone age is a reminder of a once-robust phase in a people's history.

Standing on the shores of Mahabalipuram I wondered about the rise and fall
of civilizations and the complex historical forces, often sprouting out
unexpectedly, that have forged India's long history.

V. V. Raman
July 8, 2005

I first heard the name of Subramania Bharati when the Calcutta Bharati Tamil Sangam was established. My father was one of its founders, and all the poet's books were in his library. Bharati is, by common consensus, the foremost of 20th century Tamil poets. He was eloquent in expression, direct in message, and powerful in impact. He infused the masses with a sense of national pride, and yet took them to lofty global visions. He wrote with fiery nationalism when India was being swept from north to south and from east to west with unbending determination to rid the land of alien domination.

This beckoning voice of an awakening people was born in the town of Ettayapuram. which is named after a certain Ettappan of dubious reputation: he had betrayed the patriot Veerapandya Kattabomman to the British.

Bharati's genius for Tamil became apparent very early. He studied Sanskrit in Varanasi, and Hindi in Allahabad. He taught Tamil literature for a while and worked in a daily called Swadeshamitran. He attended the 1906 session of the Indian National Congress where he met Sister Nivedita (the British convert to India's cause), and became her admiring disciple. When he was about to be arrested in 1908 for inciting rebellion, he escaped to Pondicherry. From here, his poetic and political outpourings began to flow like a powerful torrent that swept the hearts and minds of millions.

Bharati was imbued in India's ancient lore. From the Vedas to Kalidasa, from the Mahabharata to the Sangam poets, he had absorbed the meters and mysticism, the insights and imagery of his rich heritage. But he read and admired English poets and thinkers too. He had a special fascination for the romantic lyricists of England.

So he wrote on themes both ancient and modern. His Panchali Chapatam (The Vow of Panchali) is no mere translation of the famous episode in the Mahabharata wherein, when her personhood was violated by the unscrupulous Kaurava brothers who tried to strip her, Draupadi (Panchali) vowed to avenge the act. The episode was used as an allegory on the plight and promise of an India whose integrity had been sullied by alien intrusion. Likewise, the rape of Belgium by Germany during World War I would remind Bharati of asuras attacking rishis in the puranic age.

When Bharati wrote on Vedic themes, it was not just a rendition of ancient hymns in Tamil. He reminded his people that crowding at a thousand gods was not exactly what the Vedas taught. "Don't you realize," he sadly exclaimed,
"that in the eternal Vedas knowledge alone is God? Don't the shrutis declare that Shiva is pure consciousness?" "May the Sun of knowledge rise and reach us!" he prayed, "And may the devils of darkness perish!" He described nature, but also the human condition. His Koel Pattu (Song of the Blackbird) narrates the experiences with the bird in the woods, and is replete with meanings beyond the description of a koel in a mango grove. It suggests the power of love, the longing of the individual soul for the supreme.

In his collection called Kannan Pattu (Songs of Krishna), he adopts the classic mode of regarding Krishna as friend and lover, as God and savior, as father and mother. Some of these poems have been put into melodious music.

The poet took pride in his language and culture. "Among the languages I know, as sweet as Tamizh, I haven't found any," he wrote as a true lover would say about his beloved. "The very mention of pure Tamil Nadu's name is like the infusion of nectar in my ears," he declared, taking poetic license in a mixed metaphor, and breathing patriotic pride in the hearts of the masses.

His universality knew no bounds, as shown in the lines:
"The crow and the sparrow are our kin, hills and trees are of our crowd,
No matter where we cast our eyes, 'tis our own selves we see around."

He was universal in his sense of liberty and justice. "If there's no food for a single man, we'll destroy the entire world," he cried out in poetic fury at the sight of the starving masses. This should serve as a rallying motto for the United Nations. In the context of foreign domination, he stirred the hearts of his people by proclaiming with patriotic fervor, "Even if everyone in the entire world stands against us, we shall remain fearless!"

Like all enlightened Hindus, he despised casteism. "Gone are the day," he dreamily declared, "when the Brahmin was called Superior Man (aiyan), the alien was called Lord (dorai). We are slaves to no one on earth; we will serve only the Perfect One." His work ethic: "We shall worship the plow and the wheel, and treat with contempt the lazy lot."

Already in the first decade of the 20th century Bharati cried out for women's emancipation: "Those who thought that women are unfit for learning are dead and gone! The fools who thought that women must be kept under lock and key are dead and gone."

Sadly, not all the words of Bharati reflect reality. But they still echo the deepest longings of those who truly love Mother India and humanity.

V. V. Raman
July 11, 2005

Saints and sages come in a wide variety, and they are not the monopoly of
any particular place or people. Among these evolved souls who have risen and
left a mark in the Tamil world in recent times Ramana Maharishi is perhaps
the most illustrious. He also graced the spiritual landscape of the 20th
century India.

There is no telling how a book may impact an impressionable mind. When young
Venkataraman (as he used to be called) read the Priyapuranam - a collection
of the biographies of the great saints of the Shaiva tradition - it was a
turning point in his life. He was struck by the extraordinary ways in which
love for the Divine had transformed the Nayanars. The death of his father
when the lad was barely twelve had already made him pensive. And now this
book held a beckoning hand to him for spiritual life.

It has been said that during a pilgrimage to the Meenakshi temple in Madurai
the boy experienced a strange sensation: feverish, yet soothing. And then
one day, when he was all alone he suddenly felt that he was dying. He lay
down on the floor, and fantasized that he was no more in his physical body.
In his imagination he saw his body being carried to the ghat and cremated.
Now he began to wonder about his post-mortem state, and felt assured there
was more to existence that corporeality.
This experience took him to a different level of consciousness. Material
things began to lose their luster. In an all-embracing mystic vision he
could see no more the distinctions between good and bad, pleasant and
unpleasant, beautiful and ugly. Nothing seemed to matter any more: not
friends or relatives, not teachers or schools. The Indic ideal of detachment
took over in full gear. But one thing still mattered: visit to the temple.

He went there, not to pay the customary obeisance to the garlanded murti,
but to make a link with the saints and the deities who were there, to get a
touch of divine ecstasy.

Venkataraman's personality was changing drastically, and this did not sit
well with the family. His well-meaning guardian-uncle reprimanded the young
man. One morning, pretending to be going to school, the young man left home
for good, trudging all the way to the sacred hill of TiruvAnnamalai in his
cosmic quest.

There he stayed on the sacred mount for the rest of his life, meditating and
in perennial peace. Soon an ashram grew around this holy man, drawing
thousands of people from all over the world, for he became a maharishi by
his renunciation and light. People thronging there included scholars, common
folk, businessmen, industrialists and more: all to pay homage to the great
soul and be touched by his spiritual glow.

He came to be called Ramana Maharishi. His had achieved the serenity that
eludes most people. He was in harmony with man and beast, with river and
mountain. Monkeys and birds and squirrels would come and eat from his hand.

Again and again he would urge eager aspirants to think for themselves, and
ponder the question, "Who am I (nan yaar)" A simple question, but one that
can jolt us when pursued seriously. All enlightenment would flow from the
flash that answers this query.

Ramana Maharishi wrote no books, for he did not pretend to be a scholar. But
he often uttered simple worlds of wisdom. Devotional poetry used to flow
from his heart, mostly in Tamil. It has been recorded that one day, with but
little introduction to Sanskrit meters, he composed verses in that sacred
language. Anthologies of his sayings have been published. He is said to have
taught by his silence rather than through a torrent of words, for mortal men
and women would feel in his presence a clearing of their confusions that
learned professors could not accomplish.

This remarkable saint propounded no philosophy but the Delphic gnothi seat on
(Know thyself). He lived the life of an ascetic in an ashram, reminding us
of the great rishis who founded Indic civilization. Sometimes he would pray
to a personal God (as for his mother's recovery from a serious illness).

More often, he regarded Brahman with the cosmic vision of Upanishadic seers.
Some have reported that when Ramana Maharishi left his earthly frame "an
enormous star had trailed slowly across the sky." It was perhaps a
coincidental meteoric flash, but it gave poetry and grand moment to a matter
of cultural significance to the rishi's devotees.

Thus did a youth in his teens who left his family and friends for an unknown
destination, propelled by an irrepressible urge to pursue his spiritual
quest, attain enlightenment. Was it the sadness caused by his father's early
death, or was it inspiration from the Lives of Saints? Was it frustration
with English grammar in school, or was it the glow in Madurai Meenakshi? Or
was it perhaps an unkind uncle who drove the youth in his quest for God? Who
can tell? But this simply clad personage became one of the great saints in
the long tradition of India's rishis, exuding peace and love, reflecting all
the glory of an awakened soul.

Every region of the India has its history and culture, as with the countries of
Europe. Bengal, an important cultural and linguistic entity in this mosaic that
is India, is one such.

It was my privilege to had lived there for several years of my life. During this
period I absorbed and learned to appreciate many aspects of Bengal's rich
culture and language, though, restricted as I was by Tamil Brahminical codes, I
never tasted, let alone enjoyed choto mcher chachra, or any of the many
fish-delights that titillate the Bengali tongue.

My association with Bengal enriched my life in many ways: It gave me an
opportunity to delve into another flower in the bouquet of Indic culture. I
learned to speak one of the most mellifluous languages. It has given me hours of
musical enjoyment. It taught me how to appreciate a culture not my own. Though I
have been away from Bengal for a good many years now, I have been regularly
vesting Kolkata, each time marveling at the continuing growth in cultural and
artistic dynamism of that great city.

The landscape of Bengal is variegated. It has its fertile plains nourished by
the Ganga and the Brahmaputra, and also tall mountains rising to more than
10,000 feet. It has its primal jungles rich in swamps and timber, renowned for
the tiger, now an endangered species, that bears Bengal's name, and also India's
most populous city.

Already in the Mahabharata, there is reference to the king of Bengal (Vangaraja)
who participated in the Battle of Kuruskhetra. In high school history I read
that the region was part of Ashoka's realm, that the Mauryan Empire of the third
century included Bengal. Then it was part of the Gupta Empire. The region became
an independent state by the seventh century with the ascendancy of King
Shashanka of Gaur. Then followed several dynasties: the Palas who were
Buddhists, the Mallas, and the Senas.

As within Europe, there used to be internecine invasions and conquests within
India too. And just as the Huns suddenly attacked European kingdoms from
elsewhere, India too was invaded by bands of ruthless conquerors from beyond. As
Attila the Hun defeated Siegfried the Frank and Gunnar of Burgandy, Khijli the
Turk ransacked Nabadweep and vanquished King Laxmana Sena of Bengal. This was
the beginning of a series of invasions which brought Bengal step by step and
more and more under Muslim rule, until, sad to say, the people of Bengal (as of
the rest of India) were salvaged from Islamic potentates by British occupation.
It is hard to argue that it would have been better for the people of Bengal to
have continued under Siraj-ud-dawla and his heirs rather than to have been taken
over by the British for an unfortunate historical interlude. The unenviable
alternatives - at least for Hindu Bengalis as for much of Hindu India - was
between the devil and the deep blue sea. Coming under the British was like
jumping from the fire into the frying pan. From the pan there was a possibility
of eventual escape.

Among the ironies in India's history, what is called the country of Bengal is
not in India. As if to rub in this unhappy turn, that is an Islamic nation. It
is as if Tamil Nadu (the word-equivalent of Bangla-Desh) were a separate Muslim
nation. It is small consolation that similar things have happened elsewhere
also: from Albania and Palestine to Indonesia and Malaysia where other religious
traditions have been supplanted by the Islamic. There is no telling what twists
and turns the course of history will take.

I must say in fairness that this is only my (Hindu-colored) view. Syed Asraf
Ali, a Muslim scholar in Bangladesh and great lover of Bangla, has a very
different perspective on this. He wrote: "After the Pals came the Sens who ruled
over Bengal for nearly one hundred years. To them also Bangla was the language
of the untouchables.

It was the conquest of Bengal by the Muslims in 1201 AD that ushered in a new
era for Bangla, providing it a congenial environment and proper facilities to
thrive into a major language. When the Muslims first conquered Bengal there was
hardly any Bengali Literature worth the name. Nor was the language cultivated by
the educated class."

In any event,, the Tamil world recalls with pride its ancient literature,
spirituality, and philosophy. The weight of Bengal's cultural richness is in
more recent centuries. No Agastiyar brought Bangla to the people. The lyricist
Joydeb (Jayadeva), reckoned as the first poet of the Bengali people, belonged to
the 12th century. He is said to have graced the court of Laxmanasena, a victim
of Muhammad Bakhtiyar Khilji's plundering intrusion. Then followed a few more
poets in the medieval period. However, the wave of Bengali literature began to
swell in leaps and bounds only from the 19th century on.

Indeed, the 19th century and the first half of the 20th were Bengal's glory
period in heroes. During this time Bengal was extraordinarily productive in
writers, poets, philosophers, spiritual leaders, scientists, and more. Other
regions too had their share of these. But more of them from Bengal gained
pan-Indian and even worldwide reputation than from other parts of India. I will
be reflecting on some of them in the next few essays.

V. V. Raman
Wilmette, IL
July 18, 2005

Baru Chandidas (15th - 16th century) was Bengali's ?-kavi: the first great
poet who wrote in Bangla. His name signifies devotion to an aspect of Durga
known as Chandi. The cult of Chandi is popular in East and West Bengal even
today. A collection of medieval Bengali songs in praise of Aranya Durga is
called Chandimangal.

Chandidas's works are largely love poems, frank and simple. "Love is nature; it
is the riches of the arts; it is in the very air we breathe," he said. He sang
about the onset of love (purva raga), about the secret rendezvous of lovers
(abhisara), about encountering the lover (sambhoga milan), about the parting of
lovers (mathura), and such.

This gifted poet was profuse in devotional compositions. His songs elevate the
listener to heights of spiritual joy. His poems are an integral part of Bengal's
religious music Looking upon man-woman relationship as a reflection of soul-god
merger is the essence of a poetic tradition called sahaja. Chandidas's works
belong to this rich corpus of literature. Here, carnal intimacy and the thrills
of illicit union are freely versified. It is related to tantric beliefs.

Chandidas's masterpiece in this genre is entitled Srikrishna Kirtan. Dr
Karunamaya Goswami points out that this work "was a source-material for the
multi-directional growth of Bengali poetry and music in the decades that
followed."

Chandidas's life story is fascinating. He was Brahmin by birth. He became
infatuated with a washerwoman called Rami. Society wouldn't tolerate such
inter-caste amours. So, like Romeo and Juliet, it was struggled in secrecy.
Tormented by inhibitions, which thwarted access to his beloved, Chandidas
composed beautiful verses to express the depth of his feelings for Rami. He
wrote odes to her, called her the light of his eyes, proclaimed she was as close
to his heart as the garland he wore, and declared she was Gayatri and even a
goddess. As Ronsard immortalized HÙ—ne in a sonnet, Chandidas made Rami
remembered by posterity. Artists seldom recognize the sources of their fruitful
frustrations: in Chandidas's case, part of the credit for instigating him to
poetic heights must go to the bigoted Brahmins of Birbhum.

The orthodox guardians of caste purity found out about the clandestine liaison.
There was a scandal in the village. In an effort to appease the protectors of
sacred-thread sanctity, Chandidas's brother Nakul invited the pure-of-birth for
a sumptuous feast to ritualistically redeem (prayaschitta) his brother's grave
sin of loving a low-caste woman.

When the learned men versed in the shastras were formally seated for the feed,
in walked the lowborn washerwoman in tears, jolting the austere guests. They
were outraged that an impure temptress of a highborn male had barged into that
assembly of God-knowing pundits. We don't know what ensued, for the translator
of Chandidas informs us that "the manuscript from which these songs were copied
comes to an abrupt end. The pages that followed the description of the feast
were eaten by white ants."

This gave free room for imaginative legends. According to one, when Chandidas
approached Rami, her arms grew to four in number, Goddess-like. The pundits saw
Vishnu in Chandidas and Shakti in his beloved.

Another popular episode is that the local ruler employed Chandidas as a court
composer. When news of his affair with Rami became public, he was dismissed from
his priesthood at the Bansuli temple. The sultan hoped the priest would give up
his unbecoming affair. When this didn't happen, he sent a messenger to persuade
the errant poet to change. The messenger discovered that Chandidas and Rami were
no ordinary lovers, but individuals of high spiritual enlightenment.

Chandidas was invited back to court. One day, when he was reading a poem, the
sultan's wife saw him from behind a curtain and lost her heart: the poet was as
handsome as his poetry was enthralling. The king discovered this and condemned
the man to be crushed by an elephant. Chandidas appealed to his beloved in a
poem: "Listen, dear Rakakini, I am to die for the queen's infatuation. Come,
save me now!" She is said to have answered in anger. Such stories have become
part of the lore of our people.

They say there were at least three other poets with the name of Chandidas. Less
is known about them. The village of Nanur where Baru was born fondly cherishes
the memory of the man they once called pagla Chandi: crazy Chandidas.

Aside from his poetic genius and spiritual stature, Bengal remembers Chandidas
as the originator of performing arts in the tradition, for the seven-canto
Srikrishna Kirtan with its 418 verses and more than 30 ragas and raginis is a
play with songs and dialogues. It was the starting point of musical drama in the
Bengali world. It is also one of the earliest kirtans: a Vaishnavite musical
worship mode.

India has been fortunate in the many great poets who have given much spiritual
and cultural enrichment to many generations. Chandidas belongs to this blessed
galaxy.

V. V. Raman
July 22, 2005

Many cities and countries in Christendom have their patron saints. Thus, there
is St. Genevi? for Paris and St. Patrick for Ireland. In Indic culture, some
cities and regions are also dedicated to a God or Goddess: Thus, Kolikata is
under the protective wings of Mother Kali: Maa Kaali, as she is called in
Bengali.

The cosmic spiritual energy, i.e. the principle that causes changes and
transformations in the world, is known as Shakti in Hindu vision. But for
Shakti, the universe would be a static calm. Shakti infuses the world with
dynamism, making things happen.

Devi is the personified aspect of Shakti. There is a hymn in the Rig Veda
dedicated to Devi. We read here that Devi walks with the primordial principles
(Vedic deities) and bestows blessings on those who do the rituals. She gives
wealth and she dwells in everything. She is the source of our food, and of
everything we see and hear.

The 700 verses of Devi Mahatmyam recount the genesis and exploits of Durga/Kali
whose mission was to rid the world of Mahishasura: the buffalo-morphic demon who
was wreaking havoc in earthly and godly realms. This esoteric work begins with
an austere invocation of Mahakali who is described as having ten faces, ten legs
and holding in sword, disc, mace, arrows, bow, club, spear, missile, human head
and conch, with three-eyes, adorned with ornaments on all her limbs, and
luminous like a blue jewel.

The genesis of Durga is eerie. For she is said to have arisen from a mystical
radiance that issued forth from Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva, all in great rage.
Shiva's light lit up her face, Vishnu's light gave her arms, and Brahma's light
formed her feet. Other divine beings also contributed to the emergence of Durga
from this confluence of lights, from hair to toe. Kaala (Time) bestowed upon her
a sparkling sword and shield. She even received a cup filled with wine from
Kubera. Thus endowed, Durga gave a loud roar of delirious laughter, causing a
reverberation of the world around. Everyone from earth to heaven wished her
victory in her undertaking to eradicate evil.

One by one, Durga decimated the many generals of Mahishasura, who bore such
names as Ciksuram, Camara, Udagra, and Asiloman with their tens of millions of
chariots and horses and elephants. Finally, the gory confrontation with
Mahishasura ensued. Durga stepped over him, mercilessly pierced his heart with
her trident, causing a gruesome gush of blood. She flung him in the air. When he
fell back, she struck him until he breathed his last. After this emotion-charged
event, Durga went into uncontrollable rapture. She jumped and danced, shaking
meadows and mountains. Even Shiva could not arrest her tumultuous earth-shaking
ecstasy. So, as she raved and wandered wildly, Shiva lay down on the path of her
random leaps. In her intoxicated jubilance, Durga stepped on her lord's chest.
This brought her to a stunned stop. In that shocked state, she opened her mouth
and her tongue hung out. In this aspect in which she is dripping blood and
looking ferocious with her red eyes wide open, she is known as Kali: Eternal Time.

All this reiterates a conviction deeply etched in the Hindu psyche: No matter
how powerful or tenacious evil is, it will ultimately be annihilated by the
powers of the good. I see another hint at human history here: When evil is
routed out, the forces of good may sometimes turn terrible. Beyond the ugliness
in the demeanor in the executioner, revolutions could turn sour after the tyrant
is dethroned. The blood baths after the French, the Soviet, and the Mao
revolutions are re-enactments of Durga running amuck.

Kali sports venomous snakes and a garland of skulls, corpses for earrings and a
girdle of severed heads. Like Nataraja, there is much symbolism here. Kali's
open eyes refer to her never-faltering wakefulness. Her dark complexion is of
the nocturnal sky that has no bounds. The white of her teeth, the red of her
eyes, and her state of intoxication are said to reflect the three gunas
(inherent qualities that make up the world). Shiva at her foot is said to stand
for the inseparability of permanence (cosmic consciousness) and change (Time),
and so on. Mahishasura is our tamasic aspect, which Kali subdues.

Kali is worshiped in other parts of India too. But she has pride of place in
Bengal. Recall the saying: jaikhane Bangali shaikhane Kali-bari: Where there are
Bengalis, there is a Kali temple. In Kirtibas's (Bengali) Ramayana, Rama prays
to Durga before launching his attack on Ravana. The poet Ramaprasad Sen invoked
Kali thus: Delve deep into the heart's deepest depths in Kali's name . and make
your way to her abode."

Historians say at one time Vaishnavas and Shaivas wanted to draw Shaktas to
their respective fold. Shaivas were more successful. So, in Bengal Vaishnavism
and Shaktism co-exist. It is also said that human sacrifices were associated
with Kali worship even in early 19th century. India's cultural and religious
history is rich, complex, and multi-faceted, and sometimes unpalatable. Because
of this last aspect, its narration is not always directed only by facts and
scholarly inquiry.

V. V. Raman
25 July 2005

More than five decades ago, I used to go now and again to a kirtan headed by
a certain Krishnananda Brahmachari in Calcutta. This swami was in his
mid-thirties, sporting long hair and a flowing beard, always attired in
saffron silk, with a friendly smile and some charisma. He used to sing songs
on Lord Krishna heartily to the accompaniment of the harmonium which he
played with great ease. One of his favorite songs began with "Sri Krishna
Choytanyo Probhu Naityanondo." It was here that I first heard the name of
this great saint who was one of Bengal's eminent God-intoxicated personages.

His impact on the spiritual life of Bengal and Orissa has been enormous.
The icons of Radha and Krishna in loving and inseparable proximity and the
rapturous music glorifying their union arose from this 16th century saint.

The sect that emerged from his teaching is still a major force in Bengal. To
it is due much of the credit for the immense popularity of Krishna-bhakti in
Bengal and beyond.
It was in Nobadveep in the district of Nadia (Bengal) that he was born as
Bishombhor Mishra in a Brahmin family as their second son. The first one had
been named Nityanado by the parents. The intervening eight daughters died
prematurely.

The children lost their father when Bishombhor was yet a little boy. He was
married in his teens. He set out to wander in pursuit of spiritual truths,
during which time his young bride died. He traveled to Gaya to perform
obsequies for his father. Here he was initiated into a mantra by a guru
named Ishvara Puri. It is said that this brought about a drastic change in
him. He experienced an intense call from Above, and he renounced everything.

Bishombhor came to be known as Chaitanya: Pure (evolved) Consciousness.
Sri Chaitanya was blessed with keen intelligence and an extraordinary
capacity for emotional experience. He saw little meaning in rites and
rituals, and less justification for caste. All one needed for religious life
was intense love for God: a love that has little to do with logic and
routine rituals. His message is in Sikshastakam: just eight verses.

How to incite that unadulterated love? Not by discourses and debates, not by
offerings and pilgrimages, not by reading and reflecting, but by impassioned
singing and dancing to the Lord's name. Chaitanya realized that music can be
not only soothing, but instigating as well. When devotional songs and
ecstatic dancing are gradually brought to a crescendo to the accompaniment
of drums and cymbals, the participants can lose touch with the surroundings
and go into a spiritual frenzy of joyous experience that is as close to
contact with the Divine as one can possibly experience in the physical
frame. This technique is practiced widely through kirtans. It is different
from the rehearsed hymns of choir music one hears in Christian churches
which touches one's mind with elevating thoughts and stirs one's heart to
religious feelings, without making one forget oneself.

In the course of his signing, the saintly Chaitanya would sometimes swoon.
Modern science may interpret such episodes as resulting from glandular
secretions and the biochemistry associated with unusual neuron firings, but
from the religious perspective, they were manifestations of a trance that
comes from divine communion.

Such uncommon modes, especially when their practitioner decried the
ritualistic rules of the pundits, were often looked upon with much disfavor.
One scholar tells us that "the doings (in the Chaitanya-mode) of these
devotees met with scorn and ridicule, especially at the hands of the
worshippers of Kali." Instead of giving up the practice, Chaitanya and his
followers took to the streets and carried on what struck their opponents as
hysterical rhythms in joyous processions which stirred the onlookers on and
drew them in.

All this came from the conviction that full surrender to Radha-Krishna would
liberate us from the illusory world and make us realize Vishnu as the only
God. Brindaban Das notes that religious practice was in a dismal state in
Bengal until Chaitanya arrived and transformed it, moving people away from
orgies and obscurantist cults.

Sri Chaitanya traveled far and wide. He debated Sankaracharya's
interpretation of Vedantasutra in Varanasi. He went on to Puri and joined
the Jagannatha procession. He played a major role in setting Vaishnavism on
a firm footing in Bengal-Orissa.

Opinions differ as to how the Master's physical life came to a close. Some
say that the ocean took him away; others that he merged with the icon of
Jagannatha in the temple at Puri. Yet others hold that he disappeared
mysteriously. Whatever the case, Sri Chaitanya's spirit is still vibrant in
the air. The singing of Krishna's name, inspired by pure love for the
Divine, such as he taught, continues to bring joy and peace to countless
hearts, not only in Bengal and Orissa, but lands across the seas as well.

Such is the greatness of the spiritual giants in human history, of whom Sri
Chaitanya was one. Their magic and mystery touch us all, though their
message is not always incorporated into our lives. We revere those we cannot
emulate in life.

V. V. Raman
July 27, 2005