1. The Brahmo Samaj

2. Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar

3. Keshab Chandra Sen

4. Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay

5. Bande Mataram

6. Kalighat Temple and the name Kolkata

7. Sri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa

8. Swami Vivekananda

9. Sri Aurobindo

10. Sri Aurobindo 2

11. Rabindranath Tagore

12. On Gitanjali

13. Ashutosh Mukherjee

14. Subhash Chandra Bose

15. On Rabindra Sangeet

16. Nirad C. Choudhury

17. The Rishis of Indic Tradition

18. Saptarishi

19. Atri Rishi

20. Pulastya Rishi and his progeny

21. Kashyapa

22. On Liberty

23. Astral Connections, Death & Cremations

24. Inner Worlds and its Occupants

25. Durvasa Rishi

26. Narada

27. Jamadagni Rishi and Parashurama

28. Vasishtha

29. Vishvamitra Rishi

30. Patanjali

31. More On Patanjali

32. On Patanjali and Meditation

33. Yajnavalkya

34. Science in Indic tradition

35. Sushruta

36. Caraka

37. Aryabhata I

38. Varahamihira

39. Brahmagupta

40. Vedas, Soul of India

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The Brahmo Samaj

The transition of a society from ancientness to modernity is a slow and
complex process. It takes many twists and turns, and comes about from the
relentless attempts of dedicated workers. There is often a tug between an
orthodoxy that tries to hold back meaningful changes and revolutionaries who
want to uproot everything of the past.

Sometimes, however, changes are brought about through new branches of
traditional religions. One tries to preserve what is best in them and
discard their unacceptable features. In 1828, Raja Ram Mohun Roy made such
an attempt by founding the Brahmo Sabha. This was not a new religion, but a
new movement (a sort of navyashastra) to re-formulate Hinduism with
enlightened values. It proclaimed the immanent unity of an omniscient God,
emphasizing the monotheistic side of Hinduism. It spoke of the soul's
immortality and its responsibility towards the Almighty. It stated that the
goal of religion is not only to worship God but also to seek truth. Most of
all, it taught, in the words of Ram Mohun Roy, that "the true way of serving
God is to do good to man." Brahmo Samaj also explicitly rejected puranic
tales and murthi worship, as well as caste hierarchy. It preached against
child-marriage, female infanticide, and the inhuman horror of sati: all
prevalent in his days.

When Ram Mohun Roy went to Europe, he entrusted the leadership of the new
movement to Debendranath Tagore. This Bengali aristocrat created an elite
fraternity who read and analyzed selections from the Upanishads, not unlike
Christian Bible study groups. Four decades later, in 1868, the institution
changed its name to Brahmo Samaj.

Debendranath Tagore was more than a scholar and thinker. He was also a
spiritually inclined person. He used to go to a village near Bolpur, there
to meditate in the shade of a Chattim (Salstonia scholari) tree, like what
the Buddha did under the bodhi tree. Crowds began to come and sit around
him, as in the days of the Upanishads. He would talk to them about life and
meaning, about religion and morals. He analyzed passages from Hindu sacred
books, but also from the Bible and the Qur'an.

This was revolutionary: reflections on the scriptures of different faiths
under the same roof, done with sensitivity. This reveals a breadth of vision
that comes naturally to the Hindu spirit. Unfortunately, there are trends
in our own times to counter such perspectives. Proclamations of one's own
superiority and invectives directed to other faiths, not uncommon in
Christian and Islamic traditions, is inching its way into the Hindu world
too, instigated by the not unreasonable thesis that tolerance is what let
inimical forces come into and take over India. One may still hope that the
spirit of religious tolerance which is at the Hindu core will never be
stifled, for that is probably the greatest strength of Hinduism, and could
be its most valuable contribution to a multicultural world, often tossed by
doctrinal conflicts.

Debendranath Tagore had a magnificent worship-hall built for the Samaj. With
its glass walls, it has been compared to London's Crystal Palace.

When Keshab Chandra Sen succeeded Debendranath Tagore, he went a step
further, and modeled the organization after the Unitarian Church in the
Christian world. Ironically, he called it Nabo-Bidhan Samaj (new
Dispensation Society), transforming it from a Pan-Hindu to a Bengali name.
It became a splinter group. Then there was a move to unite these into a
Sadharan (Common) Brahmo Samaj. In 1897, the Brahmo Sammilan Samaj was
established.

Brahmo Samaj established the first Hindu worship center where the symbol of
Aum, rather than a murthi was the focus at the alter. It was, and still is,
an elite organization with which the masses did/do not resonate, not only
because its adherents were/are often intellectually and analytically
inclined, but also because it lacks the colorfulness of festivities and the
poetry of traditional rituals. Nevertheless, it had a great impact on the
evolution of Indian society. For one thing, through its use of English, it
became one of the first enlightened movements in modern India to bring
together Hindus from different parts of the subcontinent. In infused a sense
of commonness among 19th century Hindus, and made them aware of the
philosophical dimensions of their scriptures.

Then again, Brahmo Samaj served as a model for other pan-Indian
organizations. Arya Samaj came next, though this one had a belligerent
undercurrent which Brahmo Samaj did not have: the latter's goal was to
cleanse and enrich Hinduism more than to combat Islam or resist
Christianity. It has been said that the Indian National Congress which
fought for and ultimately won India's political independence from Britain,
was inspired by the Brahmo Samaj in its formation.

A small school was established on a piece of land in the village near
Bolpur. From this grew the world-renowned Shantiniketan (House of Peace). In
this idyllic niche in Bengal a major university would be established. It is
remarkable that the impetus to bring about social changes led to the
founding of a great university: What a wonderful evolution!

V. V. Raman
August 1, 2005

Ishwar Chandra Bandopadhay was an eminent scholar and social reformer of
19th century Bengal. He came from a family of modest means. He went to the
village school where everything was taught in Bengali. When he was still a
lad, his father took him to Calcutta. Here he was to join a local patashala
to learn more Sanskrit. A family friend advised the father to send the boy
to a school where he could learn English, because a knowledge of English
used to get one a well-paying job. That fact hasn't changed since.
So Ishwar Chandra joined a Calcutta school where they taught English. One
commentator says: ". this decision was a small turning point in the life of
one man, but a giant leap in the history of Bengal." It enabled Ishwar
Chandra to get a law degree. In the meanwhile, he mastered Sanskrit and a
host of other subjects, earning for himself the honorific: Vidyasagar
(Bidyasagor): Ocean of Learning.

Vidyasagar became a lecturer at Fort William College (established in 1800)
when he was in his early twenties. He taught brilliantly, and proposed to
improve the curriculum there. Such boldness did not sit well with a senior
(fellow Hindu) professor. Unpleasantness ensued, Vidyasagar resigned as
lecturer, and took on a clerical job.

Later on, he joined the famous Sanskrit College, and soon became its
principal. He argued against superstitions and casteism, and ate freely with
the so-called untouchables. He opened the doors of this exclusive college to
non-dwijas. This had never been done before in a Sanskrit school. To us
such things may not seem extraordinary, but in his days, these were
revolutionary steps, and they annoyed the guardians of tradition.
Vidyasagar dedicated himself to innovations in education. He pleaded for
English as medium of instruction. He wrote: "Leave me to teach Sanskrit for
the leading purpose of thoroughly mastering the Vernacular and let me
superadd to it the acquisition of sound knowledge through the medium of
English and you may rest assured that before a few years are over I shall be
enabled if supported and encouraged by the Council to furnish with you a
body of young men who will be better qualified by their writings and
teachings to disseminate widely among the people sound information than it
has hitherto been possible to accomplish through the instrumentality of the
Educated clever of any of your Colleges whether English or oriental." This
may not be perfect sentence construction, but if great scientists and
intellects emerged in Bengal in the first half of the 20th century, the
explanation is in Vidyasagar's efforts to promote English as much as
elsewhere, no matter what English-bashers say.

And yet, Vidyasagar did not ignore his own beautiful Bangla. He introduced
students to the curviform alphabet of his language with a simple book (Borno
Porichoi) which is as popular today as when it was first published 150 years
ago (in 1855). His simple and elegant writings are said to have served as a
model for later Bengali prose.

India must remember Vidyasagar most of all for his untiring dedication to
abolish polygamy and to eradicate the dehumanization of widows in Hindu
society. Contrary to the belief of some Neo-Hindus, polygamy was not
uncommon in parts of India in the 19th century. Vidyasagar published a list
of the names of men in Bengal who had married several times, often under-age
girls at that.

Not so long ago, everyone could recognize a Hindu widow: She wore only
white saree and no blouse, nothing around her neck. Her head was clean
shaven. She sat secluded in gatherings, was carefully avoided in happy
ceremonies. She wasn't allowed to eat onions, taste honey, smell flowers or
see beautiful pictures. Society tried to numb her senses. Thinkers and
saints have spoken out against the ill-treatment of the lower castes, but
not many in the tradition had been as outraged on the matter of attitudes to
widows, perhaps because the very mention of the word widow was/is considered
inauspicious.

Vidyasagar spoke out for the rights of widows. Orthodoxy rebuked him for
this. He quoted from the shastras to show there never was any injunction
against widows remarrying, or for men marrying again and again while they
had a wife. His treatises on bidhobabivah (widow marriage), bahubivah
(polygamy) and balyabivah (child marriage) provoked threatening letters: the
recourse of the morally weak and the intellectually impoverished defenders
of mindless doctrines. As with casteism, widows' rights are in law books,
but the treatment of widows in Hindu society has not changed to the extent
most enlightened Hindus hope for. [Recently, a Hindu patriot said she would
dehumanize herself like a Hindu widow if Sonia Gandhi became Prime
Minister.]

Frustrated by the reactions to his efforts, Vidyasagar lived his last years
among tribals. As Bob Dylan would sing,
"How many thinkers must condemn these things, before we wake up to these?
The answer, my friends, is: God alone knows; the answer is: God alone
knows.."

Keshab Chandra Sen was another star in the intellectual firmament of 19th
century Bengal. He was a keen thinker and social activist who was torn between
two worldviews - the traditional and the modern - which he tried to bridge like
some of his fellow-countrymen of that momentous period. It was a period in
India's long history when the minds of its leaders were being slowly
metamorphosed into a rich blend of the old and the new. They were profoundly
touched by Western thought and attitudes in social and religious matters.

Sen was born a Hindu, but was not moved by the worship of God in clay or brass.
He was born in an upper caste, but repudiated the inhumanity inherent in caste
hierarchy. He was raised a Bengali, but found Durga puja meaningless. All this
was not unrelated to the fact that he had read William Hamilton, Victor Cousin,
and Ralph Waldo Emerson. "English education unsettled my mind and left a void,"
he wrote, "I had given up idolatry, but had received no positive system of faith
to replace it. How could one live on earth without a system of positive
religion?... A small publication of the Calcutta Brahmo Samaj fell into my
hands, and as I read the chapter on "What is Brahmoism?" I found that it
corresponded exactly with the inner conviction of my heart, the voice of God in
the soul."

Keshab Sen joined the Brajmo Samaj, of which he became an Acharya. He did much
to propagate an anti-caste society through the many branches he established. But
some of his views on social reforms were too radical, even for Debendranath
Tagore. He broke away and founded his own version of it. He was more interested
in social and ethical questions than in debates on religion and metaphysics.

He was drawn to the practical and humanistic sides of Christianity. His
favorable writings on the progressive aspects of that faith won him the
attention and esteem of Unitarians. At the same time, he was becoming even more
suspect in the eyes of orthodox Hindus who feared he was sliding along the path
to conversion.

Keshab Chandra Sen spoke out strongly against casteism, widow-burning,
child-marriage. He was very much against rituals. He condemned costly wedding
ceremonies of the Hindu variety. With all that, he gave away his daughter in
marriage before she turned fourteen: to a prince as a kanya dana with the
customary pomp and circumstance of ancient rituals. It is not always easy to
practice fully what one preaches.

In Sen's religion the Universe was the Temple, and Truth the scripture. He
stressed the importance of love, and noted that selfishness was the obstacle to
spiritual growth. Most of all, he reminded people of the ancient, but
oft-ignored, truth that there can be no serious religion without social service.
Indeed, it is fair to say that this was the recurring doctrine of the new
Hinduism that was emerging in 19th century Bengal. It still needs to be dinned
into the ears of many avid practitioners of our faith.

In the 1860s, Keshab Chandra Sen gave a lecture entitled, "Jesus Christ, Europe,
and Asia." In 1870, he was invited to England by a group of Christian churches.
Perhaps they saw in him a powerful instrument for the propagation of
Christianity in India. He was received by Queen Victoria. He spoke in dozens of
organizations in England, in public halls and in churches. But this visit did
not draw him closer to Christianity. Rather than be seduced by its charms, he
became aware of the doctrinal constraints in Christianity. He was also slightly
shocked by what struck him as the materialism of the West. It made him realize
that deep in his heart he was very much a Hindu. "I can here (to England) as an
Indian," he is reported to have told some English friends, "I go back a
confirmed Indian."

In 1881, Keshab Chandra Sen initiated his Noba Bibhana or Church of New
Dispensation. As with the Unitarian Church, its goal was to bring together what
is best in all religions. He drew up a banner with a cross (Christianity), a
crescent (Islam), and a trident (Hinduism). He envisioned that church to be one
that "is the depository of all ancient wisdom and the school of modern thought,
which recognizes in all prophets a harmony, in all scriptures a unity, and
through all dispensations a continuity, which abjures all that separates and
divides, and always magnifies brotherhood and peace, which seeks truth in
freedom, justice in love, and individual discipline in social dutu; and which
shall make all sects, classes, nations, and races one fellowship of men."

By now his inherited tradition was beckoning Keshab Chandra Sen back to its
bosom. The Noba Vidhana began to speak of the God Mother (Kali), introduced the
worship of fire, and reinstated arati as a ritual. The devotional songs of Shri
Choytanya became routine in his church. Now he began to accept idolatry as
readily as he had rejected it in his youthful days. Such is the power of the
ancient Hindu spirit. Its hold on its children, for good and for bad, is far too
strong to be shaken away.

In his later years, Sen was drawn to mysticism. He became a recluse and died
before he was fifty, criticized by many and admired by others. He is a proud
possession in the memory of Bengal. The cultural history of India cannot ignore
his appearance either.

V. V. Raman
Somerset, NJ
August 12, 2005

Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay (Chatterjee) was, without a doubt, a trail-blazer
in the realm of modern Indian literature. In the view of some, he was the
greatest Indian novelist of the 19th century. He wrote primarily in Bengali, and
in the process, he brought out all the subtle and sublime potential of the
language. Many great writers have followed him in that creative stream, but in
the view of some knowledgeable critics, none - not even Rabindranath Tagore -
surpassed him in excellence. There can be no greater praise for a writer in
Bangla.

What was the background of this extraordinary genius in the world of imaginative
narratives? He was certainly one of the first products of early English
education. He studied at Hoogli College, then at the famed Presidency College in
Calcutta. Indeed, he was the first one to receive a bachelor's degree from
Calcutta University (1858). I am not sure any other university remembers, let
alone with such pride, its very first graduate.

Armed with this degree, he became a loyal employee of the British government:
this, after all, was the primary purpose of British schools in India. Chatterjee
served as deputy magistrate in various districts in Bengal. The appreciative
government showered on him titles like Rai Bahadhur and C.I.E. (Companion of the
Order of the Indian Empire). While doing his job as a government official,
Bankim Chandra read voraciously: not only Scott, Dickens and De Quincy, but also
Darwin, Spencer and John Stuart Mill.

While still in the midst of his professional exertions (as Mr. Micawber would
say), Bankim Chandra created an impressive corpus of stories and essays, social
and historical novels, literary criticisms and philosophical reflections. He
began with a short story in English, entitled Raj Mohan's Wife, but wisely
switched to his mother tongue. For more than two decades he produced works that
were surely the most widely read in Bengal. His writings continue to enjoy the
same popularity in our own times.

His first novel, Durgeshanandi (The Chieftain's Daughter) was based on a
historical episode during the Mogul emperor Akbar's time. Some have seen in its
beginning - a horseman galloping on a highway - the image of Bankim Chandra
leading future novelists along the grand path he was forging. There is war and
love here as in Walter Scott's creation, even a slight echo of Rebecca in
Ayesha: though the author had written his story before reading Ivanhoe, they
say.

Bankim Chandra produced story after story, created characters by the dozens,
painted scenes familiar and of the past, always capturing the reader's rapt
attention. He treated such topics as widow marriage, the impact of the British,
and even, like Gustave Flaubert, adultery. He was influenced by Western
literature for sure, but he didn't reject the world-views to which he was heir.
The recurring theme in his writings is self-control. He had little fascination
for the Unitarianism that appealed to some his compatriots.

Many author's have their own masterpiece. For Bankim Chandra, it is Ananda Math
(1882). The book is available in English as The Sacred Brotherhood. [I will
confess that I have read his works only in English translations. This historical
fiction centers around an imaginary rebellion of the members of a Hindu
religious order in the 18th century. The rebellion was provoked by the infamous
famine that ravaged Bengal in 1770s. The combined might of British and Muslim
army could not quell the fury of Hindu nationalists. But a mystical physician,
apparently a spokesman for a Divine voice, counsels Satyananda, the leader of
"the children of the Mother" not to continue with the uprising. The reason he
gives is interesting: India was destined to go through a painful period of
British domination: this, because empty speculations and obscurantism had
brought her people down from the pedestal of glory, and it was now left to the
British to wake them up to the scientific age. This theme occupied many
intellectuals of his time, and Bankim Chandra explored it again in Dharmatattva,
a non-fiction.

The 19th century Renaissance of India was not only in religion and political
awareness, and yes, in religious reforms. It was no less in art and music, in
literature and historical analysis. Little by little, through magazines and
newspapers, pamphlets and books, a new spirit of creativity was emerging. A
whole new class of thinkers and intellectuals was shaped who, while not losing
their grip on the legacy of their ancestors, did more than simply repeat by rote
the lore of their tradition. They realized the importance and excitement there
is in exploring new paths, and in formulating new visions. Indeed, every
generation has to do this for a culture to be dynamic.. In this grand
re-affirmation of an ancient civilization, Bengal played a leading role. Here,
Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay was a pioneer whose works have gained permanence
not only among those of his tradition, but also in the history of Indian
literature at large.

V. V. Raman
Somerset, NJ
August 10, 2005

Few poems in all of history have had as great an impact on the politics and
patriotism of a people as Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay's Bande Mataram. I
remember hearing it as a schoolboy, back in my days in Calcutta, when the air
reverberated with Jai Hind and Netaji ki Jai. When this Sanskrit-Bengali hymn to
Mother India was sung in the Mallar-Kowabi-Tal, it used to stir our hearts with
a robust love for Mother India. It infused us with the conviction that before
long India would become a free and proud nation in the world, contributing to
humanity's well-being and advancement.

Bande Mataram is part of Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay's Ananda Math. What a
clever scheme the writer had hatched to instigate his fellow-countrymen to take
up arms against a sea of sahibs! It was sneaked into a novel as an innocuous
diversion from a story set in a distant past. It was a hymn to one's country
hailed as Mother, describing her natural beauty and material bounty. But there
was a subtle message here for revolt, with a reference to people-power. For, as
Sri Aurobindo put it, "The Mother of his (Bankim Chandara's) vision held
trenchant steel in her twice seventy million hands, and not the bowl of the
mendicant."

The song was first sung by Rabindranath Tagore in 1896 at a session of the All
India Congress. It was also chanted in public by an angry crowd in Barisal when
Bengal was partitioned in 1904. In that context, Viceroy Curzon was burnt in
effigy, the police responded with force, but patriotic voices could not be
subdued. The song spread all over Bengal, and spilled into other provinces as
well. Such was the power of Bande Mataram which sounds like a mystical mantra
set to melodious music.

There are at least two versions of how Bande Mataram came to be composed.
According to one, given by an eminent Bengali of the time, perhaps intended to
assuage the British who were becoming nervous about its impact, the poem was no
more than a harmless piece written "in a fit of patriotic excitement after a
good hearty dinner, which he (the author) always enjoyed." According to another,
Bankim Chandra penned his powerful lines during a train trip in 1875 when he saw
through the window rich fields, trees with colorful flowers, gentle streams and
peaceful lakes. Moved by the majesty of Nature, he pictured the scene before his
eyes as Mother India in all her splendor. And he wrote the immortal poem. Here
are its first few lines:

BandÙw?ram!
Sujal?suphal? malayaja sh?l?
Shasya-shy?l? M?ram!
Shubhra-jy?a pulakita-y?n?
Phulla-kusumita drumadala sh?n?
Su-h?n? su-madhura bhashin?
Sukhad? barad? M?ram!

Oh Mother, we offer our salutations to You!
Sweet are Your waters, sweet Your fruits too.
Fragrant and cool from the south blows the breeze,
Like scent from the tree of sandal wood is.
Green are Your cornfields, joyous Your night
When brightened, oh Mother, by Moon's silvery light.
Your trees are adorned with blossoming flowers
Sweet smile and sweet speech are surely both Yours.
You give us, oh Mother, happiness and boons!

I am aware that my feeble translation does no justice to a song like no other.
It has stirred more hearts than the Marseillaise, God Save our Gracious King,
and Deutschland ?er Alles put together. Patriots have sung it in prisons and at
the gallows. Magazines were started with Vande Mataram as name. Vande Mataram
became a form of greeting for nationalist Indians in India and America, in
Canada, Europe, and South Africa. At the beginning of their meetings, the Indian
National Congress used to sing it year after year. When Muslims objected to this
practice, they also sang Iqbal's Sar?ah?s?cch?industhan ham?. Vande
Mataram was ideal as national anthem for free India, but Muslims protested on
the grounds that it evokes a Goddess - this was a no-no for Islam. So it was
agreed to use only the first few lines where there is no mention of Saraswati or
Durga. Still, objections persisted. It was said that the poem could not be cast
to orchestral music, and this was proved wrong. Finally, one gave up, and
adopted Jana-gana-mana as the national anthem of the Indian Republic.

Nevertheless, the song continues to evoke love and reverence for India in the
hearts of millions of people of Indic heritage all over the world. Perhaps this
is better, for it is a song of love and reverence more than of nationalistic
pride. Hindus all over the world, every time they hear it, are still moved, even
if they are not citizens of India.

V. V. Raman
August 12, 2005

There are, they say, 15th century references to a place of worship exactly
where the temple of Kali is now in South Kolkata, but the present structure
was erected from the munificence of a certain Roy Chowdhury family by the
end of the 18th century.

This region was almost a jungle in those days. One day, a pious individual
is said to have witnessed a mysterious light emanating from a nearby water
bed. His curiosity led him to the source, and there he is said to have found
a stone that resembled a toe and another that was surely a lingam of Shiva.

Puranic lore tells us that at one time the body parts of Shakti were
scattered in fifty plus places all over India when the Lord Shiva performed
his Cosmic Dance (tandava). The toe-like stone that was discovered was taken
to be Shakti's toe. This was the mythic inspiration for the Kalighat temple.

There is a section of this temple, dating back the 1880s, which is
consecrated to certain goddesses (Sosthi, Sitola and Mongol Chandi - Mongol
is Bengali for Mangal) where women function as priests. This is the tantric
wing of Hinduism. There was a time when intoxicants (k?n b?) were given
to the deity. I recall that I was often jolted in this temple by the
so-called hartkath tala where there used to be (maybe still are) periodic
sacrifices of animals. In fact, there were two of these, one for goats and
one for buffalos. Perhaps these practices are no longer in vogue, but I don'
t know. Once I heard a guide at the temple explain to some foreign visitors
that the heads of the sacrificial animals were severed in a single stroke -
without any cruelty, he emphasized - adding that it was quite unlike
slaughter-houses in Western countries. This little note on comparative
cultures is the kind of innuendo which makes some Hindus feel that ours is a
superior religion.

Within this temple there is also a section dedicated to Radha-Krishna. Here,
the prasad (bhog) is strictly vegetarian. It is in such diversity and
multi-modes that the richness and breadth of vision of Hinduism is to be
seen, rather than in its one-stroke animal sacrifice. Indeed, there are not
too many Hindu temples, even within India, where meat-eaters and
meat-shunners pray with non-judgmental mutual respect as at the Kalighat
Temple in Calcutta. The secret to a harmonious world lies precisely in how
well groups can exercise their religious convictions without mutual
recriminations.

Like most temples, there is a sacred pool attached to the Kalighat temple.
Tradition has it that it was in this tank that Shakti's toe was discovered,
which makes its water particularly sacred. But, of course, the temple itself
is also close to a Hoogli stream, which is a tributary of the holy Ganga.
This brings to mind a meaningful experience I used to have at the Himalayan
waters flowing near the Kalighat temple. In an old hall on its banks,
bare-bodied and bare-footed, I have walked a few times on moss-covered
stones, a brass tumbler and spoon in hand, sat in front of a mini-altar lit
with twigs and sundry scraps to invoke agni, and chanted with the assembled
crowd the annual mantras for renewing my sacred thread.

I also recall visiting the temple once with a couple of Swiss tourists. As
we walked on Kali Temple Road, we were surrounded by beggars with various
kinds and levels of disabilities. I tried to shove les misarables de
Calcutta away, as if they were annoying flies hovering over a pot of
payodhi. Heartlessly ignoring their earnest appeals, I tried to explain to
the curious visitors the significance of Shakti and its manifestation as
Kali. I went on to elaborate on Durga and the forces of Evil, hoping that
the aliens would be impressed, if not enlightened, by these profound
concepts. Perhaps because of my limited vocabulary in Swiss German, or maybe
due to the inadequacy of my explication of subtle metaphysics, the duo from
Zurich showed no interest whatever in what I was trying to say, and they
kept clicking their cameras at every opportunity.

Years later, I realized how callous I had been to the hungry mendicants, and
how irrelevant my dissertations had been in that social context. It
occurred to me that if Hindu thinkers (myself included) spent a little more
time serving the destitute in India instead of speaking and writing on
Vedanta and the Gita, they might be better practitioners of their religion.
I am sure some good Hindus must be doing this.

The Kalighat temple is one of several such temples in Bengal where the Kali
principle has inspired musicians, politicians, poets and countless common
people. The older name Calcutta was the anglicized version of Kaali-ghaata.
And here is a linguistic irony: In Bengali, short a is pronounced as o; thus
Calcutta was pronounced as Kol-kata. Now, in their enthusiasm to revert to
pre-British names, they have changed Calcutta to Kolkata. This strikes me as
an unfortunate form of re-naming: If we wish to be faithful to the original
name, we should have reverted to Kaali-ghaata. By using Kol for Kali, and
kata for ghata, we have perpetuated the English Cal for Kaali and recognized
the absence of gha in English. Kaali is not pronounce as Koli in Bangla.

V. V. Raman
August 15, 2005

Another important Kali Temple, not far from Calcutta, is the one at
Dakshineswar. Here, more than a century ago, there was a pujari by the name
of Ramkumar Chatterjee whose brother was so fascinated by saintly men in
ochre robes that he decided to serve as an assistant in the precincts of the
Dakshineswar temple. The name of this brother was Gadadhar Chatterjee. In
due course he became the priest in Daskineswar himself.

But Gadadhar was unlike any other priest in a temple. He did not pray or
chant just ritualistically. He took the icon in the temple to be the real
Kali. He longed to see her manifest herself in all her dynamism. When he was
alone, he would implore the Goddess to appear before his eyes to reveal her
divine splendor. Sometimes he would cry.

His appeals and entreaties proved to be of no avail. In his frustration, he
decided to put an end to himself. Just when he was about to thrust a
sharpened machete into his body, something remarkable is said to have
happened. In his own words: "House, walls, doors, the temple, all
disappeared into nothingness." He witnessed "an ocean of light, limitless,
living, conscious, blissful." Dazzling light and roaring sounds rushed
towards him. Gadadhar Chatterjee lost consciousness of the physical world.
Reports of such experiences caused some worry in the family, and the
relatives wanted him married. He readily agreed, and even named the village
where they would find the bride. Thus he was married to a six year old lass
named Sarada Devi.

He began to worship her, and treat her as the Universal Mother. Indeed he
experimented with the Tantric tradition, deriving spiritual ecstasies from
this. Aside from his experiences in the Shakta framework, Ramakrishna was
also in the Vaishnava mode. He worshiped Rama and Krishna. And now he took
on the names of these major avatars of Vishnu. Thus, he came to be known as
Ramakrishna: a name which his father is said to have given him also.

Ramakrishna took his devotion to the Divine very seriously. Recalling that
Hanuman was the most devout follower of Rama, in his unusual modes of
devotion, Ramakrishna imitated that simian sishya by living on nuts and
resting on trees. Likewise, remembering that Radha loved Krishna with all
her heart, he dressed himself as a woman and fantasized being Radha so as to
invoke in himself amorous intensities towards Krishna.
But is God there only as Kali, Rama, and Krishna? To answer this, the mystic
explored Islamic mysticism and experienced God as a the Muslim would. Then
he went on to Christianity, not as a convert, but as an aspirant for
communion with Jesus. Ordinary human love can turn people's heads. Normal
people are known to have behaved erratically in the throes of passing
infatuation. What to say when the passion is for the Cosmic Principle! In
Ramakrishna bhakti reached its pinnacle. His love for the Supreme was
mindless and magnificent. Psychologists may analyze the saint's moods and
methods, but they cannot diminish the spotless bliss that this
extraordinarily complex Hindu saint experienced and conveyed.
There is a popular belief that from a mixture of milk and water, the swan
can drink the milk component alone. So too, it is said poetically that the
true yogi has the capacity to discard the non-essential and drink deep of
ultimate Reality. Hence Ramakrishna came to be called Paramahamsa (The Great
Swan).

Ramakrishna Paramahamsa was a simple, unschooled god-man who absorbed the
nectar of spiritual ecstasy from various religions even as a bee sucks honey
from flower to flower. His thoughts were incessantly with the Divine
(nirvikalpa samadhi).

In his proclamation that there is no difference between the Gods of
different sects and religions, he was a living example of what some Vedic
rishis had uttered. Simpletons and scholars, housewives and pundits, all
recognized the sincerity and intensity of his mystic experiences.
There was perhaps nothing highly original in what this extraordinary saint
said: That there is but one God, called by different names, is ancient
wisdom. That Christ and Allah are as worthy of our reverence as Rama and
Krishna - though unpalatable to some Hindus - is no less an element of Hindu
spiritual vision. We remember and revere this saint, not for what he
preached and practiced, but for the source of his convictions. He did not
gather his perspectives by carefully combing through the Vedas and the
Upanishads. He neither read nor wrote commentaries on the scriptures. But
his assertions had all the authority and authenticity of a scientist who had
done the experiments and calculations herself. Any talk of god based on
analysis and reason would be shallow compared to pronouncements that flow
from psychedelic experiences of the mystic. Through the mission that his
most illustrious disciple established, his name will always be remembered.

V. V. Raman
Aug 17, 2005

Narendra Nath Datta began to wonder about God and such matters from a very
early age. He was attracted to the Brahmo Samaj, but no scholars of that
movement could affirm that God had made His existence clear to them beyond a
reasonable doubt. On the other hand, Ramakrishna Paramahamsa did not have the
slightest doubt on the matter. Unlike the Brahmo philosophers, the saint had
seen God himself. His deep inner conviction appealed to young Narendra, and he
adopted him as his guru. Narendra Nath Dutta was destined to become Swami
Vivekananda and messenger of Hindu insights to the Western world.

Interestingly enough, he had little respect - indeed, much aversion - for the
Tantric tradition of his guru. He preferred to base his spirituality onthe Gita
and the Upanishads rather than on the Puranas or Tantric modes. Nurtured by the
writings of Western thinkers, and with an in-born eloquence, Vivekananda set out
to preach to the world. He attended the Parliament of World Religions, held in
Chicago in 1893, as an exponent of Hindu visions. Here he made such an impact
that one newspaper wrote: "After hearing him, we feel how foolish it is to send
missionaries to this learned nation." He was called "an orator of divine light,"
and declared as "the greatest figure in the Parliament of Religions." While
Hindus take just pride in such encomiums, some credit is also due to America for
organizing a Parliament of World Religions, and for being so hearty in
applauding a speaker bearing messages from an alien faith. Vivekananda went from
the U.S. to England and spoke there on Hinduism and Vedantic philosophy. During
this trip, Margaret Noble became his disciple as Sister Nivedita.

Vivekananda was elated by India's spiritual glories. But he was aware of her
material backwardness vis-a-vis the West. As he saw, the West lacked spiritual
sensitivity, but India could benefit from the scientific advances of Europe.
Unlike some patriotic Hindus, Vivekananda deeply felt of the gaping chasm
between the spiritual ideals in the Hindu world and some of its appalling
practices. Hinduism had attained Himalayan heights in spirituality, but it was
also mired in the muck of some outworn unconscionable collective ethics.

The swami was also against the wholesale adoption of Western values: not only
because that would uproot and destroy India's own rich and ancient culture, but
also because there is enough wisdom and insight within the Hindu framework to
bring about the direly needed changes. Vivekananda was totally against casteism,
especially dehumanization and the exploitation of the lowest strata of society.

He declared like other reformers that there was nothing in the scriptures to ban
the lower castes from reciting Vedic mantras, nothing that sanctioned
untouchablility. "In spite of all the ravings of the priests, caste is simply a
crystallized social institution, which after doing its service is now filling
the atmosphere of India with its stench." He wrote this more than a century ago, but it is unfortunately no less true today:

Vivekananda had a caste-theory on Indian history: First there was rule by
Brahmins in Vedic times. Then the Khatriyas (rajas) took over. This was followed
by Vaishya rule, through British merchants and their agents. In the next phase
he foresaw rule by the Shudras or laboring class. Though he did not express it
as such, this last could correspond to Communist rule by the proletariat.
Vivekananda never lost sight of India's perennial spiritual yearnings. He wrote
and spoke on Vedanta philosophy, on the immortality of the soul, and on Brahman.
"India is immortal if she persists in her search for God," he said.

Commentators of later generations have criticized Vivekananda's interpretations
of Vedanta, his lack of Sanskrit scholarship, and his facile generalizations on
Hinduism. But they have not accomplished anything like what Vivekananda did for
the face-lifting and furtherance of Hinduism; most of all, his establishment of
the Ramakrishna Mission in 1897 for the
propagation of Hindu Dharma all over the world.

Monks of this movement undergo training in philosophy and practice. They have to
do social service. Vivekananda insisted that serving the needy
(doridra-nar?na) is the most important goal of the Mission which is also
engaged in education, medical assistance, and the like. "Your duty is to serve
the poor and the distressed, without distinction of caste or creed,"
he thundered. This was new to the Hindu mind of his days.

Vivekananda described Hinduism as an all-embracing system in which
bhajan-singing bhaktas as well as skeptical agnostics had a place, where thought
and action, doubt and faith, all would be accommodated. It is remarkable how the
spirit of history sponsors in subtle ways individuals as instruments to forge
its goals. Had there not been Vivekananda and Macaulay's English, Hindu visions
would have seeped into the West through entirely different, but perhaps far less
effective, channels.

V. V. Raman
Ames, Iowa
August 19, 2005

I had a very dear elderly friend (PKD) back in my college days in Calcutta.
His hero was Sri Aurobindo. He used to say that Aurobindo was the greatest
soul that ever walked on our planet, and that he was an incarnation of
Gautama Buddha.

Thanks to PKD, I got to read some of Sri Aurobindo's writings. One day, as
I took leave of him after a two-hour discussion during which he elaborated
on the idea that the Big Bang cosmology of current science is implicit in
Vedantic thought, he placed in my hands with great affection Sri Aurobindo's
Savitri, saying, "This will be a challenge to you, but I know that it will
bring you true light." Challenge it surely was. It tougher than the
Schr?ger equation which I had to decipher for a course at the time.

Unfortunately, I was neither ready nor eager for true light of the kind PKD
had in my mind. [I seriously doubt that I am capable of receiving it even
this late stage in my life.] Nevertheless, out of respect for my friend, I
began reading Canto One that night: The Symbol. I was fascinated by the
poetry. I learned the first few lines by heart:

It was the hour before the Gods awoke.
Across the path of the divine Event.
The huge foreboding mind of Night, alone
In her unit temple of eternity,
Lay stretched immobile upon Silence's marge.

It is a very difficult book, dense and obscure: probably the most difficult
literary work I have read in all my life. It is a magnificent poem of epic
proportions, based on an ancient Hindu myth. It explores in complex
symbolism the complex web of life and death and spiritual yearning and
immortality. Its esoteric meaning is not easy to fathom, but if one makes an
effort one can be transported to lofty reflective realms. The work speaks of
the soul of the earth as rising and instigating the divine to come down here
below, of life as a tree growing towards heaven, and such.

PKD also urged me to read the more than thousand pages of Aurobindo's The
Life Divine. I was enchanted by this too, with precious insights like: ". .

. all problems of existence are essentially problems of harmony. They arise
from the perception of an unsolved discord and the instinct of an
undiscovered agreement or unity. . . . This is the monstrous thing, the
terrible and pitiless miracle of the material universe that out of this
no-Mind a mind, or, at least, minds emerge and find themselves struggling
feebly for light, helpless individually, only less helpless when in
self-defense they associate their individual feebleness in the midst of the
giant Ignorance which is the law of the universe . . . But what, after all,
behind appearances, is this seeming mystery? We can see that it is the
Consciousness which had lost itself returning again to itself, emerging out
of its giant self-forgetfulness, slowly, painfully, as a Life that is
would-be sentient, half-sentient, dimly sentient, wholly sentient and
finally struggles to be more than sentient, to be again divinely
self-conscious, free, infinite, immortal. . . ."

I re-read these lines several times. In this passage Sri Aurobindo is
essentially reminding us about the Upanishadic vision that we have forgotten
our cosmic origins, and that in the ignorance of our roots, we are
struggling like pitiful creatures. There is deep wisdom here, and beautiful
poetry also. Very much inspired by the thought, I wrote down in my journal
that "we are like insubstantial rays of light from the brilliant sun that
know not that such is their glorious source."

At that searching stage in my youth I had neither the time nor the interest,
let alone the wisdom, to fully understand the spiritual depths in Sri
Aurobindo's books. Many years later, I tried to go back to them. By then,
however, I had matured along different paths. The crass rationality of
science had blunted considerably my sensitivity for matters mystical and
metaphysical. Therefore, while I have always enjoyed Sri Aurobindo's
erudite language and metaphors, and though I regard him as one of the most
original thinkers of modern India, indeed of the 20th century, I was seldom
awakened to new spiritual experiences by his writings.

From whatever I read
of him, he struck me as an unusually gifted sage, endowed with extraordinary
poetic gifts, who was inspired and elevated to lofty heights from his
readings and reflections on ancient Hindu visions.
Sri Aurobindo is one of the few modern Indian thinkers I am aware of who was
not constrained in his meditations by the weight and wisdom of our ancient
heritage. He forged new visions while being rooted in his ancestral
revelations. I have always felt that in the context of a people's culture
too, ancient world-views and wisdom will have to be re-thought and
re-formulated with every new age. It is here that Sri Aurobindo was a giant
among thinkers. Indeed, his refreshed articulations have inspired thoughtful
people in many parts of the world. Philosophers, mystics, and even
scientific thinkers have seen pearls of wisdom in his teachings.

V. V. Raman
Aug 22, 2005

Sri Aurobindo Ghose was an extraordinary thinker who moved from metaphysics
to meditation, and from poetry to politics with incredible ease. His early
formation was in schools in England where he absorbed the best in Western
thought and literature. He acquired a decent knowledge of Greek and Latin,
and competed for the Indian Civil Service (ICS), in which he persistently
flunked horse-riding four times.

Upon returning to India, he taught English for a while. Then he became a
freedom fighter, for which he had to serve a prison term. He experienced a
mystic vision during his stay in the Alipore Jail in Calcutta. In a letter
to his wife he confessed to what he called three madnesses: first, the
conviction that it was his bounden duty to share with others the knowledge
he was blessed with; second, that he must realize Divinity in this birth;
and third, that his country was not just a land with rivers and mountains,
but a living mother who was to be worshiped, adored, and served.

After coming out of jail he retired to the (then) French possession of
Pondicherry near Madras where he founded an ashram. Here he set out to
discover the life divine. This hermitage, in which Mira Richard (a French
lady who came to be called the Mother) collaborated, continues to be a
dynamic spiritual center to this day.

Sri Aurobindo began to write grandly from this center on themes ranging from
the Vedas and the Gita to Yoga, literary criticism , and philosophy. These
writings started appearing in 1914 in a monthly journal called Arya, and
continued for many years. It was thus that Sri Aurobindo's masterpieces,
such as The Life Divine, A Defense of Indian Culture, Essays on the Gita,
etc. were published. His writings are invariably of a very high caliber,
often intelligible only to the intellectually sophisticated or the
spiritually awakened.

Sri Aurobindo stated that his study of the Gita "will not be as a scholastic
or academic scrutiny of its thought, nor to place it in the history of metap
hysical speculation," but "for help and light." Unfortunately, the level of
his discussions in this work are not within easy reach of the average reader
following the bhakti marga.

Then came the great epic Savitri which runs to 24,000 lines. Eat you heart
out, Macaulay, this work by a Bengali is the longest epic in your language!
The ancient story of the devoted wife who fights with the God of Death for
her husband's life is symbol for a deeper truth, too complex to be told in a
paragraph or two. Savitri is "the incarnation of the Divine Mother. She is
equally the Mother of Sorrows and the Mother of Light."

In many ways Sri Aurobindo was like an ancient rishi, immersed in deep
thought, his spiritual experiences finding expression in lofty poetry and
sublime philosophy. He saw the Divine in the universe at large, and spoke of
the merger of Man with the Cosmic Spirit. He theorized that the Supreme
became a supermind, which in turn descended to become mind and matter; and
that now a process of ascent is underway, whereby matter has become mind,
and will evolve into a supermind before being transformed into the Supreme
once again. "The past must be sacred to us," he wrote, "but the future must
be still more sacred." As he declared in Savitri:
"A mightier race shall inhabit the world.
On Nature's luminous tops, on the Spirit's ground,
The Supreme shall reign as a king of life,
Make earth almost as the mate and the peer of heaven."

This interpretation of evolution foresees even higher stages of human
consciousness in ages to come. The supermind state, he went on to say, would
be attained by the practice of what he called integral yoga (Purna yoga).

Sri Aurobindo rejected the notion that the practice of yoga calls for
renunciation, or that the world is an illusion. His ideas and writings
inspired some of Sri Aurobindo's followers to look upon him as the prophet
of a new age.

Though he was deeply versed in Western thought, like many ardent lovers of
India's heritage, he was convinced that Vedic wisdom embodies practically
everything of significance that is worth knowing, including some facts and
insights of modern science. He felt that there was something unique in
India's capacity for spirituality, and that Hinduism would answer to the
spiritual needs of the whole world. His ideal for India's future was not of
a country of "Anglicized oriental people, docile pupils of the west and
doomed to repeat the cycle of the occident's success and failure, but still
the ancient memorable Shakti recovering her deepest self, lifting her head
higher towards the supreme source of light and strength and turning to
discover the complete meaning and a vaster form of her Dharma."

Such was this saintly savant of 20th century India who was described by
Romain Rolland as "the completest syththesis that has been realized of the
genius of Asia and of Europe." No visionary of modern times can afford to be
mono-cultural.

V. V. Raman
August 24, 2005

In the course of history, some families have given more than one illustrious
personage to the world. Such were the Bachs and the Bernoullis, the Darwins and
the Huxleys. Such was also the Tagore family of Bengal which produced several
famous men, and dominated Bengal's cultural, political, and economic fronts for
well over a century. The Tagores bore such names Dwarakanath, Debendranath,
Dwijendranath, Surendranath, and Rabindranath.

Rabindranath is, of course, the most famous of them all. He came to the world as
the seventh child in the distinguished family. He showed early signs of literary
genius. It is said that when barely thirteen he made an impressive translation
into Bengali of a scene from Macbeth. This effort was symbolic in that
eventually he became an author of whom all India has heard, and much of the
world beyond.

Tagore was sent to England (along with his brother) when he was seventeen. There
he drank deep of English literature, and wrote a play or two. Upon his return
home, he began publishing poems, plays, novels and criticisms that soon made him
the best and the best-known writer in Bengal. In an age when Indians were more
generous and less insecure in their recognition of their enrichment from
contacts with the West, Buddhadeva Bose wrote that Tagore "has made the rich red
blood of young Europe flow through the veins of our literature, through our life
and thought, and our ancient strifeless world."

In the early years of this century most thinkers in India were touched by the
freedom movement. Tagore too was for some time an active spokesperson for the
cause. In 1911, his composition Jana gana mana adhinayaka jaya hey was sung at
the meeting of the Indian National Congress: a song that was to become free
India's national anthem.

Tagore had a special fascination for the United States: a country he visited
several times, and where he lectured and made many friends. It was to the U.S.
that he sent his son for a degree in agriculture. It was in Urbana, IL, that his
famous Sadhana was written. He looked upon America as destined to fulfill "the
hope of Man and God."

In 1901, Rabindranath Tagore transformed his father's ashram in Santiniketan
(Abode of Peace) into what became Vishva Bharati University. It is an ideal and
idyllic place of learning, away from the hustle of noisy cities, where education
was to mean more than book-learning and crass technology. The highest
expressions of the human spirit would be taught and universal brotherhood would
be recognized here, sometimes in the shade of sprawling trees.

In mind and spirit Rabindranath Tagore was eminently a child of Mother India,
but he was no narrow nationalist when it came to recognizing the blatant evils
in his society. After all, he belonged to the Brahmo tradition. He condemned
casteism openly, and acknowledged the value of Western science and industry. He
had some serious differences with the Indian political leaders of the time on
the latter matter.

Tagore's creative output was prodigious: 40 plays, more than a 100 books of
poems, some 50 novels and short stories. Add to this his impact on Bengali
language and style, and it is easy to understand his stupendous stature in
Bengali literature.

Tagore was also a musical composer of prime quality. A whole range of music,
bearing his name, touches the soul of every Bengali, from peasant to professor
and all in between, whether Hindu, Muslim, or Christian. His themes and tunes
touch every emotional chord. Recitals of Rabindra Sangeet are regular in
Kolikata's cultural scene.

As if all this is not enough, when he was past sixty, Tagore took to painting.
He produced works of art that rank high in the appraisal of competent critics.
They are on display at his home in Kolkata which is now a museum.

Tagore's worldview had its roots in Upanishadic insights. He saw Divinity
pervading the entire world. But this vision did not lead him to penitence for
soul-liberation, or to the ecstasies of the bhakti mode. Rather, he was inspired
to a love of life and song, and to transcendental reflections on the meaning of
life and existence. He reflected in his Gitanjali: "The same stream of life that
runs through my veins night and day runs through the world and dances in
rhythmic measures. It is the same life that shoots in joy the dust of the earth
in numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and
flowers. It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth and
death, in ebb and flow."

No poet is as widely read and no writer is as deeply venerated as Robi Takoor.
Internationally recognized with the coveted Nobel Prize in literature, he has
yet another unique honor which no one else in all of history has received: Two
countries (India and Bangladesh) have adopted his songs as their national
anthems. There is not another son of Bengal who has brought greater joy to the
hearts of all Bengalis. I recall witnessing Tagore's funeral procession passing
through Rash Behary Avenue in Kolkata. My 9 year old friend exclaimed with tears
in his eyes: "I am proud to be a Bengali!"

V. V. Raman
August 26, 2005

Tagore was a poet par excellence, gifted through some mysterious genetic
coding with rhyme and rhythm, with inner melody and exuberant creativity.
Through words and music his poetic vision struck resonant chords with nature's
beauty and to the pangs of love. He would fly to ro-mantic heights and words
flowed through his pen to express his robust passion and intense sensuousness.

But Tagore was also a sensitive thinker who wondered about the universe and the
meaning of life. The blood that coursed in his veins was of ancient vintage: he
was a reflective spirit that had emerged from the mystical tradition of a very
old civilization.

So it was that already in his Naibedya (Offerings) Tagore reflected on
the inner essence of Reality, though many po-ems in that collection also have a
patriotic ring. It is here that his famous lines first appeared (no. 72):

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;

Where knowledge is free;

Where the world has not been broken up into fragments

by narrow domestic walls ....

Into that Heaven wake this Indian land!

It is said that between 1907 and 1910 he used to wander in moonlit mango
groves in Santiniketan, sleeping barely three or four hours a night, often
waking up at four in the morning. It was during his seclusion from the political
turmoil rocking the land, a period when by his own admission he was "very
restless" and "was anxious to know the world," when his "restlessness was
becoming intolerable," that he wrote Gitanjali.

Gitanjali turned out to be the most important book the poet ever published. It
reveals him as one who, in intimate harmony with nature, feels its innermost
essence. In this work, Tagore speaks like an ancient sage-poet who is deeply
touched by the color and beauty, the rhythms and sounds of the wondrous world
around him. There is a touch of the somber in the work, few explicit expressions
of joy. Yet, we can feel nature as a heart-throb of love, out there blessing
the sensitive human soul with bliss. Then, of course, there is God in the
glorious sense of the world, immanent and revealing, the light that illumines
human experience.

Many reflections in the Gitanjali are on the outdoors and on the
countryside: There are references to dark clouds and downpours, to gushing
winds and swelling rivers, to serene boatmen and temples, to the flute and the
string.

But in all the chiseling of nature's beauty with words and music, there is
also an undercurrent of mystical recognition. For, as Sri Aurobindo noted, the word of a poet is inspired word. It gives utterance to the divine rhythms in the
world, and ex-presses magically the infinite suggestion that wells up di-rectly
from the fountain-head of the spirit within us. Listen to how the poet sees love
and joy of God in Nature's beauty:

Lo! there streams your nectar so pure,

Flooding all heaven and earth in love, with life.

It bursts into song and fragrance, into light and rapture.

My life, drunk with that nectar,

is full to the brim.

It blossoms like the lotus in ravishing joy.

Here is your love, O beguiler of souls.

Here it dances on the sun-kissed leaves, golden-hued. (No. 6)

If God and soul, rivers and flowers lurk in the lines of Gitanjali, so do
the grandeur and shame of humanity. If Tagore was profoundly moved by the
glorious insights of Upanishadic seers, he was no less appalled and pained by
the inhumanity of casteism and the mindless muttering of heartless orthodoxy:

Leave this chanting and signing and telling of beads!...

He is there where the tiller is tilling the hard ground,

where the path-maker is breaking stones. (No. 11)

But ultimately, the longings of ancient rishis find ex-pression again in
Tagore:

Let all the strains of joy mingle in my last song: the joy that makes the
earth flow over in the riotous excess of the grass, the joy that sets the twin
brothers, life and death, dancing over the wide world, the joy that sweeps in
with the tempest, shaking and waking all life with laughter, the joy that sits
still with its tears on the open red lotus of pain, and the joy that throws
everything it has upon the dust, and knows not a word. (No. 58)

And the perennial prayer of ancient India, the vibrant theme that has
echoed over and over again all through Indian history, is given due place in
Gitanjali, for the poet pleads:

Oh grant me my prayer that I may never lose the bliss of the touch of the One in
the play of the many. (No. 63).

One can go on and on, reflecting on Gitanjali, this magnifi-cent garland
of thoughts set to the wizardry of words and moving music. In the centuries to
come, for as long as the lan-guage of Bengal is uttered and cherished, for as
long as civiliza-tion prizes art and rhythm, for as long as music and melody
enthrall the human ear and the beauty of words brings joy to the sensitive ear,
Rabindranath Tagore will be remembered and celebrated, his songs and verses will
be re-cited and enjoyed. And in all of these, Gitanjali will always hold a
special and honored place.

English renderings of the poet's native creations opened the flood gates
for world recognition, culminating in the coveted Nobel, a material symbol of
transcontinental appreciation. Since then, not only Bernard Shah, Bertrand
Russell and Albert Einstein, but scores of other intellectuals, and millions of
the common folk too have been touched and inspired in by this gentle and
melodious poet and sage of Bengal.

In the second half of the 19th century there were not many universities (in
the modern sense of the word) in Asia or Africa. Of the few there were, most
were in India. The Calcutta University was the first of these to be
established in the 1850s, but the credit for transforming it into one of the
foremost educational institutions in Asia goes to a gentleman by the name of
Ashutosh Mukherjee. A man of great learning, foresight, and determination,
he served as Vice Chancellor of that University for almost two decades
(1906 - 1924), and during this period a modest educational center became one
of the most prestigious universities in Asia.

Ashutosh was a brilliant student, winning prizes and medals in the exams.
The famous Hindu College of Calcutta which had nurtured quite a few scholars
since its founding a few decades earlier had become Presidency College,
thereby opening its doors to non-Hindu students as well. And it was
affiliated to the University of Calcutta. It was here that Ashutosh studied.
Among the other very bright students who were his classmates there at the
time, we may recall the future great chemist Prafulla Chandra Ray and the
future dynamic religious leader Swami Vivekananda.

After getting a master's degree in mathematics - which enabled him to
lecture at the Indian Association for the Cultivation of Science - Ashutosh
Mukherjee studied for a law degree. This enabled him to become a high court
judge.

In 1906 Ashutosh Mukherjee became the second Indian Vice-Chancellor of
Calcutta University. That same year he established a technical institute in
Calcutta, which was one of the first of its kind in India, and the
great-grandfather of the IIT's of which India is justly proud today.

Mukherjee wanted to have at his university students and faculty from
different parts of India. He had a breadth of vision that was pan-Indian.
Of no less importance for the future development of India, Ashutosh
Mukherjee established in 1914 the College of Science as part of Calcutta
University. This again was the first of its kind in India. Many illustrious
future scientists of India were formed in the College of Science. It
enshrines considerable science history in its halls. It was here that the
famous Raman Effect, which brought to India her first Nobel Prize in
Physics, was discovered.

Meghnath Saha, remembered for his ionization-equation in astrophysics, and
Satyendranath Basu, whose name is associated with Einstein's through the
quantum statistics he developed and with the ultimate units of light
(photons are bosons) were among the illustrious scientists who taught at
Calcutta University. P. C. Mahalanabish, who founded the Indian Statistical
Institute, was a professor of physics there.

In 1916 Ashutosh Mukherjee established another small college in South
Calcutta for the benefit of young men who could not travel all the way to
Presidency College. Known as South Suburban College, it was in an
inexpensive building when inaugurated. In due course it grew larger and
larger, and has become one of the premier colleges in Calcutta which has a
great many more of its kind today.
In our own times, when there are so many colleges and universities in India,
we take higher and technical education for granted, and do not always
remember the pioneers who laid down the paths for these. It is to be noted
that the early leaders of modern science in India had no cultural hang-ups
about embracing the so-called Western science, for they understood much more
than some modern cultural chauvinists do that unlike art and music, poetry
and philosophy, science is a transnational and transcultural enterprise
which you either adopt and contribute to the furtherance of human knowledge
about the natural world, or reject and pursue ancient modes of interpreting
the world. When modern India's history is written in less emotional terms,
the likes of Mahendra Lal Sircar and Ashutosh Mukherjee will be recognized
with greater gratitude. Just as the political leaders of the time fought
with great commitment for Indian independence, there were also enlightened
visionaries who saw the value of science and secular education from
transforming India into a modern nation that would command international
respect, a nation that would be creative in science and productive in
technology.

For his services to country and scholarship, Ashutosh Mukherjee was
recognized in many ways. He was knighted by the British government so that
he became Sir Ashutosh. Soon after he died, the institution he had
established in south Calcutta was named after him as Ashutosh College. Aside
from his doctoral and law degrees, he received the honorific title of
Sahasravachaspati. Because of his relentless demands of the British
government he came to be called Banglar bagh or the Tiger of Bengal.
Ashutosh was rightly counted among the makers of Modern India.

Subhash Chandra Bose was one of the last of the brilliant Bengalis born in
the 19th century. He was a fiery patriot who fought the British in
unconventional ways and with extraordinary valor in his revolutionary
attempts to eject the intruders from Indian soil.

He grew up in a period when the worldly-wise thing to do for an ambitious
student was to pass the appropriate exams and secure a promising position
with the (British) government. His own father wished very much that his son
would climb the ladder of increasing job security. Subhash, though a rebel
right from his college days, sailed to Cambridge to master the materials to
become an Indian Civil Service officer.

But the urge to serve his motherland in different ways made him disdain the
high position in the British government which was now within grasp. He cast
the ICS title aside and joined the Indian National Congress. Thus, he threw
his lot with those of his countrymen who were determined to break off their
shackles to the British Empire. When the Prince of Wales made a pompous
visit to India in 1921 where his subjects would receive the royal personage
with great respect, Subhash Bose, a mere 24 year old, organized a boycott of
the event. His effective leadership here earned him the first of many
confinements in British prisons.

Another agitation and seditious oratory caused his exile to Mandalay. Here
he took a vow of celibacy until India became free. When he came out, he
reverted in full swing, attacking the British and demanding full and
immediate freedom for his people.

In 1932 Subhash went to Vienna for medical reasons: it was feared that he
had tuberculosis. There he came in contact with fellow patriots as well a
Viennese damsel who bore him a daughter. He was convinced that in order to
shake off the British yoke, one should look for the assistance of other
countries, preferably some enemies of Britain. With fellow Indians he
brought out a manifesto which concluded with the statement: "Non-cooperation
cannot be given up, but the form of con-cooperation will have to be changed
into a more militant one, and the fight for freedom to be waged on all
fronts."

In 1938, and then in 1939, Subhash Bose was elected president of the Indian
National Congress. His great fervor, not to say impatience for independence,
promoted him to take positions which struck others as extremist or
unrealistic. He wanted to give the British an ultimatum that unless they
quit India in six months there would be disturbances all over India causing
disruptions of the government. When other Congress leaders, including
Gandhi, showed gave no support for such drastic steps, Subhash Bose resigned
from the presidency of the party. Yet, Gandhi called him the patriot of
patriots.

By now World War II erupted. Subhash Bose wanted India to seize this
opportunity to rise up against the British, and join Germany and Japan. He
formed what he called the Forward Bloc, made up of the more radical members
of the Congress. Agitations against the government began in right earnest.

In July 1940, the government threw Subhash Bose and his followers in jail.
Subhash Bose went on a hunger stroke. Fearing dire consequences if he should
die, he was moved from prison and placed in house arrest. In January 1941 he
disappeared, and eventually reached Nazi Germany by land. The people of
India were surprised to hear his voice beaming from the Azad Hind (Free
India) Radio in Berlin after more than a year.

Voyaging in a German submarine, Subhash Bose reached Singapore where he
formed his famous India National Army (INA). On October 21, 1943 he
proclaimed a Provisional Government (in exile) of India which adopted
Tagore's jana gana mana as its national anthem. This government was
recognized by Germany, Italy, Japan, Thailand, and Manchuria. With a
well-trained Free India Army (Azad Hind Fauz) made up largely of Indian
soldiers (of the British army) who had surrendered to the Japanese, he
advanced as far as Burma. After Japan's defeat, there was little hope for
his efforts.

Some have questioned Subhash's morality in joining hands with the Nazis and
seeking help from the Fascists. Although he once stated that "the enemies of
British imperialism (the Germans and the Japanese) are our friends and
allies," he was actually working on the principle that the enemy of my enemy
will more readily help me defeat my enemy. According to an announcement from
Tokyo Radio, Subhash Bose is said to have died in an air crash in Formosa on
August 18, 1945. Until well into the 1960s many believed he would return to
India some day.

Such was the life of this patriot who came to be called Netaji. He did not
live to see his dream of a free India come true, but he is more honored
today than most others. Each year his birthday is celebrated in Kalona with
great warmth, his grand statue is garlanded with great reverence. The
airport in Kalona bears his name. There is perhaps none other than Tagore
who commands as much affection from the people of Bengal.

Rabindranath Tagore was poet, philosopher and painter; and he was also a
great composer. He has left behind more than a couple of thousand songs, and
this is no mean accomplishment. Like Arunagirinathar in the Tamil tradition,
Mira Bai in the Rajasthani tradition, and Thyagaraja in the Telugu/Carnatic
tradition, Tagore created a whole institution of musical compositions
bearing his name.

Rabindra Sangeet, as this musical corpus is called, is different from the
compositions of the saintly composers of India in that not all the songs in
it are God-directed. Tagore's originality lies in moving away from the
canonical ragas, and inventing new ones by blending some ragas to harmonize
more beautifully with his poetic compositions.

There is often a spiritual undercurrent in Rabindra Sangeet, but many themes
are also non-religious. There is a touch of sadness in many Tagore songs.
The power of music to soothe sorrow is expressed in a song (jokhon tumi
bandhcchile taar) in which the minstrel sings to his beloved that while she
was tuning the strings he experienced pain, and when she started playing the
instrument his sorrow disappeared. This reminds us that disharmony is
painful, while harmony is a source of joy.

In another song (eto din je
boshechchilem) he speaks of the many days he was waiting for her; now in the
spring he sees her, and she is like a warrior who has conquered him. A
fulfilled wish need not be a fulfilling one.

In one song (ami keboli
shapano) the poet laments that his hopes and dreams are gone, and that he is
left with only ashes. In another love song (kachche theke duro chilo) he
complains that even when his beloved was near him, she was distant, there
was a strange kind of separation even in proximity. We are reminded here of
something that is not uncommon in human interactions, even between people in
love. In all this we see the poet's gift: to convey through simple and
moving words profound truths about the human condition. One can go on and
on, but to experience their beauty, one has to listen to the songs.

I am thankful to Thomas Edison and Marconi whose inventions enabled music
to be reproduced and broadcast. Even while appreciating the artistic
creators, we shouldn't forget the scientific inventors who have contributed
immensely to the propagation of art and music. Many decades ago I used to
listen to Pankaj Mallik, Suchitra Mitra and others on the radio. Many
artistes are recognized as authentic singers of Rabindra Sangeet. I say
authentic because until the end of 2001 all of Tagore's work was copyrighted
by Visvabharati whose Music Board had to give its stamp of approval before
a cassette or CD of any Tagore music could be released. No other composer's
work, in all of history, was copyrighted by a university which he had
himself founded. Then again, Sullivan had Gilbert, and Schubert had Schiller
and Heine for lyrics, but Tagore's music grew from his own poems. His poems
without music would be, he said, butterflies without wings.

Tagore is the most cherished poet-composer in two different countries: India
and Bangladesh. His works were stifled in East Pakistan where his name was
removed from text-books. When rebellion ignited against West Pakistan,
Rabindra Sangeet became a battle-cry and Tagore's amar sonar Bangla (Our
golden Bengal) became the new country's national anthem. The poet's birthday
is celebrated there every year.
After Tagore's demise, the Visvabharati establishment became very strict
about who could sing Tagore's songs, and who could not. When an eminent
Bengali musician suggested something to the effect that Tagore's songs
should be cast in classical ragas, Visvabharati would not allow such
experimentation. But it did grant permission to "picturise" Tagore songs in
a movie.

Soon after the expiry of Visvabharati's copyright, some composers began to
take liberties. A famous example of this was a certain Kumarjit who
transformed a well-known Tagore song (ekla cholo re) into what he called a
modern Bengali music (ekla cholte hoy). This caused profound unhappiness and
annoyance to Tagore orthodoxy. At the same time someone in Bangladesh begins
a jazz version of some Tagore's songs, and another puts Tagore music in an
orchestral mode.

People have argued as to whether Tagore belongs to Shantiniketan or to
Bengal, or to the whole world, and what rights ordinary mortals have when it
comes to interfering with Gurudev's work. Is Kumarjit's tinkering comparable
to Rachmaninoff's Variation on Chopin, or is it something altogether
blasphemous? Opinions are divided.

I suspect that in the years to come Rabindra Sangeet mutants will show up
now and again. The pristine RS will always be there as the central river
from which tributaries will emerge. These will enrich, not diminish Bengali
culture. As with shastras and mantras some will contend it is sinful to
alter sacred writings, and others will argue that even the greatest works
can be modified and even improved upon. Such is cultural evolution.

Every culture has its rebels who act or speak out in ways that upset and
offend the guardians of tradition. Bengal too had an enfant terrible. His
name was Nirad C. Choudhury, one of the great controversial Indian thinkers
of the 20th century.

NCC was born in Kishorganj in what used to be East Bengal. He came to
Calcutta where he studied at the Scottish Church College. From early on, he
developed great love for the English language, as many of his generation
did. But he was also inspired to an unusual love for the British, which was
rare in India in those days. He kept saying that the best thing that
happened to India was being colonized by Britain. This was a very unpleasant
thing to say, and nobody liked him for saying it. In his early fifties when
he was a relatively unknown Indian he published the first volume of his
autobiography which he unabashedly dedicated to "the memory of the British
Empire in India .. because all that was good and living within us (Indians)
was made, shaped, and quickened by .. British rule."

In spite of this
self-demeaning dedication, this is an interesting book with fascinating
accounts of life in Bengal in early 20th century, and many perceptive
observations. NCC had little respect for Indian leaders, and he wrote that
the "degradation of Bengal" was "part of the larger process of the
rebarbarization of the whole of India in the last twenty years." He
regretted the passing away of the Anglicized Bengali. When this book was
published, All India Radio, where he had a job, fired him. In one of his
Bengali novels he described the Bengali as suicidal (atmoghaati).

His love of England grew even more when he made a brief visit to England in
1955 at the invitation of the British Council. Upon his return he lavished
praise on his hosts with a book entitled A Passage to England, reminiscent
of E. M. Forster's title A Passage to India. British reviewers raved about
this book, and it topped the list of best-sellers: the first to do so by an
Indian author. Nirad Babu was very pleased. But Indian critics were harsh.
This infuriated him so much that he told a friend he felt like giving those
"yapping curs" (the Indian reviewers) "a shoe-beating with my chappal." As
we can see from this episode, the great writer had a touch of temper. He
felt that he had not been treated well by his countrymen for most of whom,
reciprocally, he had a very low esteem. He did not recognize which was the
cause and which the effect.

In 1966 NCC published "An essay on the peoples of India" and called the book
Continent of Circe. Like grandiloquent Macaulay, Nirad Babu was fond of
arcane allusions, as if to taunt his readers about their ignorance. Not one
in a thousand of his readers would have even heard of Circe of Greek
mythology who was a witch. She was exiled to an island for murdering her
husband. Here she enticed visitors (sailors) and gave them a potion that
turned them into beasts. NCC suggested with this uncomplimentary metaphor
that this was what India had been doing for ages. Some angry Indians
attribute such theses to British prompting, as if the man had no mind of his
own.

This brilliant thinker who was a cynic when it came to his native land,
wrote many good books, in Bengali and in English: a language of which he had
uncommon command. His book on Hinduism, subtitled a religion to live by, is
replete with little known facts about the well-known religion. He says in
passing that "discussion on Hinduism is not marked by a very strict regard
to intellectual honesty." He is witty about Hindu meat-eating habits, and
blunt about Hindu erotic literature and practice. Speaking of Hinduism's
vitality in the absence of institutional hierarchy, he observed: "Hinduism
has shown that anarchy can be as authoritarian as any totalitarian state."
In this book he also gave a series of arguments to show that the Vedas are
not as ancient as they are claimed to be.

NCC wrote an erudite biography of Max Mueller whom he called scholar
extraordinaire and described as "the most influential, sympathetic, and at
the same time the most level-headed scholarly expounder" of Hinduism.

This sparkling mind, rich in its sweep, original in its insights, and vast
in knowledge, was vibrant and writing even in its last decade, as none other
has been. Many sensitive Western thinkers have written appreciatively about
India's wisdom and culture; NCC is one of the few Indians who genuinely
wrote things positive about the West. Unfortunately he not only extolled the
English but also belittled Indians. England offered him a home, honorific
titles, and a pension though he was not a British citizen. India honored him
on his 100th birthday, though he had moved away to distant Oxford. This was
because both England and India respected him for his intellect, scholarship,
and literary genius, and both felt they could claim him. Nirad Babu was an
exceptional Indian who had no complexes about recognizing the good that came
to India from an England that was more than a nation of shopkeepers.

But in his last years he became a pessimist about the world. He was
disillusioned with both India and England. As he saw them, both were fast
declining and decaying.

V. V. Raman
September 9, 2005

Since remote times in India, sages in India have been speaking on life and
existence, on death and after-life, on soul and god. Some of them acquired
insights from years of reflection and meditation. They undertook
austerities in their efforts to obtain answers to the mysteries that torment
inquiring minds. These pioneers were the rishis of India.

Rishis were scholars, philosophers, sages and poets. And they were more.
They were practitioners of techniques by which they seem to have gained
glimpses of a loftier reality behind the phenomenal world. They spoke with
exuberance about the nature of truth and supreme knowledge. The traditional
view is that they broke through the veil of ignorance that keeps ordinary
mortals in a state of confusion and misunderstanding about the surrounding
mystery. In the next few essays I propose to reflect on some eminent rishis.

Rishis were extraordinary individuals who explored the human potential for
spiritual experience. They were serene personages at peace with themselves
and the world. They were inspired seers who uttered wisdom through aphorisms
and poetry. They composed hymns to the powers of the universe, framed rules
and laws for society, discoursed on philosophy, counseled kings, and
initiated the young. Individually and collectively, the ancient rishis laid
the foundations for the complex culture, sophisticated civilization, and
colorful religious tradition that we call Hindu.

Indian sacred history is replete with the names of many rishis whose
achievements rendered them superhuman in the estimate of the people.
Fantastic stories and incredible time spans came to be associated with the
deeds and dates of rishis: One was born of Brahma's thumb, another had a
hundred sons, one fathered a bird, another did penance for a thousand years;
one pulverized an army by staring in anger, another made a mountain
prostrate in submission, and such. They seem reasonable when one accepts
that rishis were a species beyond the human. However, minds molded or
corrupted by the perspectives of the scientific age may find it difficult to
imagine all this to be true. But a good many Hindus, like their counterparts
in other traditions, are not in this quandary: It is difficult to be
untouched by the events and episodes we read about rishis. These stories are
etched in Hindu collective memory, and have become indelible patches in the
quilt of Indic lore. There are similar anecdotes in the Bible and the
Qu'ran too, and the devout of those traditions also believe that their own
puranas are also literally true.

We know but little of historical validity about the remarkable rishis who
once walked on the land and dipped in the sacred waters of India, who first
recited magnificent mantras and performed magical sacrifices. But we do know
that the Ramayana and the Mahabharata are major literary works authored by
rishis. The Vedas, the Brahmanas and the Upanishads: all these and more are
attributed to rishis. The Narada Purana is named after a rishi, as also the
Markandeya Purana. These are among the ever-lasting legacies of rishis.
In ancient India, as also in our own times, rishi was also an honorific: a
title for great thinkers and spiritual leaders. The texts mention various
kinds of rishis, depending on their qualities or function, as in Brahmarishi
and Rajarishi; sometimes, on the spiritual level, as in Devarishi,
Maharishi, and Paramarishi; some were called Shrutarishi, meaning that they
had heard esoteric wisdom. Brahmarishis are believed to have been created
directly by Brahma Himself. They are among the initiators of various gotras,
and are invoked in the daily prayers of dvijas who belong to their spiritual
lineage. They include such names as Kanva, Bharadvaja, and Kashyapa. The
names of some rishis are well known, such as Vishvamitra, Vasishtha, and
Agastya. Others, like Marichi, Kardama, and Gritsamada, are not as widely
recognized.

Every great religious tradition has at its roots profound thinkers.
Sometimes they appeared as prophets carrying a spiritual message:
revelations from Beyond. And they take their people along new paths. Thales
of ancient Greece, Gautama Buddha, Vartamana Mahavira, Moses, Jesus Christ,
Mohammed, and Guru Nanak were all such exceptional men, endowed with
inscrutable charisma. What is unusual about Hinduism as a religion - perhaps
unique in history - is that it emerged in an uncertain age from the
utterances of exceptional sage-poets: rishis who came from a variety of
social and cultural backgrounds. That is why it may be said that Hinduism
has not one, but many founders. Not all rishis always agreed on everything
among themselves. This accounts for the ancientness as well as the richness
of the tradition. This has also resulted in unsurpassed diversity in the
Hindu world. This may also account for the doctrinal tolerance that is, in
principle, an intrinsic feature of Hindu visions.

V. V. Raman
September 14, 2005

Of the scores of rishis who grace the Hindu world, seven are preeminent.
They are known as saptarishayah or saptarishi (seven rishis). We recall that
the Greeks too had seven wise men (hoi hepta sophoi): Thales, Cleobulos,
Bias, Pittacos, Solon, Periandros and Chilon. As in the Greek tradition, not
all ancient works list the same names for the big seven. Thus, according to
the Satapatha Brahmana, the saptarishi were: Gautama, Bharadvaja,
Vishvamitra, Jamadagni, Vasishtha, Kashyapa, and Atri. These rishis are the
ones who are said to have received the Vedas. According to the Mahabharata,
the saptarishi were Marichi, Atri, Angiras, Pulastya, Pulaha, Kratu, and
Marichi's son Kashyapa. The Vishnu Purana adds Daksha and Bhrigu to the
list. These original rishis are considered to be the progenitors of
humankind: the prajapatis.

The saptarishi are regarded in many contexts not as ordinary humans, or as
gods, but as cosmic principles. It is clear from their names that they are
symbols, rather than individuals. At the same time, they also have many
personified aspects. We read about these in the epics and in the puranas.
The transformation symbols, concepts, and truths about the human condition
into tangible names, forms and persons is mythopoesy.

Consider Angiras Rishi. He is said to have arisen from Brahma's mouth. His
name appears in the very first hymn of the Rig Veda in which Agni (as the
household priest and sacrificial god) is invoked. We read here that whatever
blessing Agni bestows upon whosoever worships him materializes through
Angiras. The Anukkramani, which is a kind of index for the Vedas, ascribes
scores of Vedic hymns to this rishi
Angiras is a personification of Fire (Agni). In Vedic vision, Agni is not
simply a raging fire or the slender flame in a lamp. Rather, it stands for
force and strength, for energy and passion and life itself: indeed it is the
root of all that is dynamic and vivifying in the world. Agni is eternal
while the heat and light of even the sun and the stars will fade away some
day. It also stands for esoteric knowledge, for the hidden wisdom behind the
passing panorama of things. In the Yajur Veda, we encounter again and again
the phrase, "I take thee, in the manner of Angiras." Angiras is also
regarded as one of the rishis to whom the Atharva Veda was revealed.

The lore ascribes to Angiras two principal wives, and several others.
Angiras is said to have had four sons and four d