India: What can it teach us? by F Max Müller: Impressions

Frankly, the only time I'd heard of Max Müller before I bought this book was with reference to one Max Müller Bhavan in Pune where German is supposedly taught. All I knew was that he was some hotshot Western thinker and that I ought to read him sometime. (Yes, scoff all you want. So what if I am learning about Müller after my hair has started greying?)

So while waiting for my bus one day, my eager eyes scanning the pile of old books at the raddiwala, I spotted a badly mildewed cover, peering out of which were the words 'India' and 'Müller'. I looked at its contents and spotted words like 'Vedas' and 'Hindus', and didn't have to think twice. I brought home this gem for 20 humble rupees, and unearthed the treasures within its pages in the next few days.

As Wikipedia told me later, Müller was one of the first and the best Orientologists in the last century, and has perhaps not had a rival yet. He is the editor of the stupendous 50-volume set of 'The Sacred Books of the East' (Yes, the set costs Rs 7600 on Flipkart. Sigh!), and only the tiniest glimpse of the ginormous extent of his learning can be seen in the book India: What can it teach us? The book is, in fact, a compilation of lectures the author had delivered to British students of the Indian Administrative Service when India was still under the colonial rule. What is entirely fascinating about this book for an Indian reader is the conviction with which Müller explains India to non-Indians. I don't think any of us could fight the case of our nation as well as this outsider.

But that's precisely why this book, like so many books on India by foreign authors, appeals to us. The foreign writer has the advantage of objectivity, and can sift facts from fiction. We are bred to revere our culture, and dare not question even the most absurd. In fact, we may not even notice the absurd, since they are so much a part of our consciousness. Through Müller's eyes, we see clearly the human angles of all that is sacred to us.  

India: What can it teach us? is divided into seven lectures with Müller gradually leading his skeptical students from mistrust to the beginnings of faith. Gently, yet with conviction, the author first dispels the myths associated with India in the minds of Englishmen, and slowly offers bauble after bauble of ancient Indian wisdom, infusing new perspectives. Citing one historical account after another, he refutes the common perception of Indians as a race of liars, among other things. He goes on to prove the worth of studying Sanskrit. As the mother of all Indo-European languages, knowing Sanskrit is the mandatory first step for any student of the history of language. Further, he points out that one understands not just the history of language through ancient Sanskrit literature, but the entire evolution of human thought. He helps establish the antiquity of the Vedas, by explaining the oral tradition. He speaks for the originality of the Vedic ideas as a natural progression of human thought, similar to all cultures of the world. He propounds some very rational theories about how our henotheistic system, our rituals, and our entire religion came about. He illustrates each of his points beautifully with Vedic verses or quotations from Western scholars, where the need arises. He presents in the most rational light, the mystique that India is to the Western eye.

And there is so much more for the Eastern eye. You'd be surprised at how much you don't know.

  

Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramhansa Yogananda: Impressions

Autobiography of a Yogi is, in the least, extraordinary. Little wonder that this book has been a consistent international bestseller for a number of years. The book, primarily written for Western readers, discloses the fascinating life of a yogi. But it will astound a modern Indian reader as much as it will his Western counterpart – equally far removed as we are from the ancient spiritual lifestyle of India. Page after page, I have been surprised, awed, and even faced moments of disbelief, as the yogi shared his life’s journey with me. And although I’ve read a fair bit about Hinduism, never before have I come across such details about the life of a Hindu spiritual seeker. Swami Yogananda also says in the book that most yogis live highly secret lives and are loathe to publicity, because their exalted ways may appear at best unbelievable or ridiculous or both to a common man.

Swami Yogananda goes to the West (primarily America) and writes this book in compliance with the order of his guru, Swami Yukteshwar, and indirectly, the order of his param gurus, Lahiri Mahasaya and Babaji. All these gurus’ life sketches have been given in the book – each more fantastic than the other. Babaji, the author tells us, is the undying Mahavtar, who is perhaps centuries old, but looks like a young man. He travels the Himalayas with a small band of followers, and materializes at will before his disciples whenever he wants to give them a message. Lahiri Mahasaya, the yogavatar, following Babaji’s command spreads the art of Kriya Yoga – a scientific yogic method that accelerates spiritual growth - among the masses. Swami Yukteshwar, the jnanavatar and Lahiri Mahasaya’s disciple, is the stern guru, who guides the author through the mystical bylanes of realization. Swami Yogananda speaks freely of the miracles these saints performed, and gives glorious accounts of their amazing spiritual attainments and powers. The reader will discover many such amazing details within the pages of the book.

Swami Yogananda also recounts the life of various other saints and great men and women he has met in his lifetime, elucidating their respective spiritual achievements. These other illustrious personas include Rabindranath Tagore, Mahatma Gandhi, the great horticulturist, Louis Burbank,  and various saints who don’t eat, sleep, kill tigers with their bare hands, and perform such everyday miracles.

But before his travels lead him to these exalted souls, the author writes about his origins in Calcutta, the finding of his guru, Sri Yukteshwar, days spent in rigorous spiritual training with his guru at his ashram, his academic course in severe strife with his spiritual one, and his own gradual growth from a spiritual sapling into a big soul-tree, replete with his own daily insights and sometimes, miracles.

The author then sets sail, with much trepidation, to the West to fulfill his guru’s command of spreading the message of Yoga in the spiritually-parched West. Despite his limited command of English, Swami Yogananda sets forth on the arduous path. But with his guru’s blessings, he not only delivers a series of very successful lectures across countries over the years, but also sets up various schools of spiritual learning.

One wonders how Swami Yogananda could ever have been deficient in English, considering the book has been written in a fairly lofty language. His childlike wonder, however, stays intact as he unravels various treasures of the spirit and this planet. While his accounts of the West are informative, it is the narration of the various Yogic phenomena that is the high point of this book. The chapter on ‘The resurrection of Sri Yukteshwar’, for example, has some jaw-dropping spiritual secrets in it, and the reader is left with hair-raising recollections for several days.

This spiritual masterpiece has been more than a book for me. It has sowed a tiny seed of restlessness in my soul, and my eyes are now ever on the lookout for a guru, if one be assigned for me by Providence.

From a biased, paranoid Hindu's perspective

(Image courtesy: http://monado.files.wordpress.com)

    

      I see beard, I think terrorist. 

      That is the truth of the matter, and the crux of all that follows.

      Perhaps beginning with a disclaimer would have been wiser. But hey, better late than never. All ideas and opinions expressed in this blog are my own and represent no other - living or dead...or maybe they do. But just as a point, this is just a rant, no offence  meant. (And please remind me NOT to apply for any jobs for the post of disclaimer writer)

      Mumbai, my new home, has a lot of things I don't like. Monsoons and Muslims lead the race. Why monsoons? Because they suck. And why Muslims? Uh...they suck too. For starters, the mosque joined at the hip with the building I live in is the bane of my life. That mullah/maulvi/maulana, or whatever it is that they are called, screeching azaans five friggin times in a day beginning at 5 effing 'O clock! (Are you guys sure Mr Allah wakes up that early?)

     Secondly, a huge procession of them topiwalas, with their band-baajas, is passing from right under my house just when I'm trying to put baby to sleep. Aaaaaargh!

     'So what?', you may ask. 'Don't you know Ganeshotsav's right around the corner.'   Sigh. I know, I know. When I point a finger at them, the other three point right back at me. Yet, a biased Hindu that I am, I will leave no chance to find fault with them Greens - however flimsy the grounds. 

     Yes, I have an MA, I am liberal enough to smoke before my in-laws, I broke rules and married a Christian, but I cannot get myself to behave 'normally' with a Muslim colleague - just because he sports a beard. If I didn't look at him, or looked only neck down, he could be a buddy. He wears jeans, he talks cool, he even brings French toast for dabba! But he will never be my friend because he is an Ansari and not an Adhikari.

     Frankly, I don't know much about Muslims. My GK about that huge part of the world community is restricted to the Khans of Bollywood, Mughal history, Biryani, the Taj Mahal, and some stray words like Mecca, Haji, Talaaq and what have you. But sadly, the stronger repertoire consists of words like terrorist, Al-Qaeda, Osama, Sharia, stoning, bombing, killing, many wives, many-er kids, uneducated and dangerously provocative. 

     With any newspaper on any given day throwing up names like Javed and Farid and Aslam and Mohammad in almost all crime stories, my beliefs only get stronger. This, with years of hate conditioning, a separatist, collective consciousness and lack of exposure has left me with little choice of perspective. Funny, how I've learnt to not learn the lessons in secularism.

     But I've tried. I've tried to read and understand, in vain, about Islam, reveled in the exquisite arts that Muslims are masters of, gorged on the most delectable of Mughlai cuisines, but the prejudice refuses to budge. One white skull cap or one black burkha is all it takes for me to clench my jaw, cringe my nose and generally get all worked up. My personal walls go right up.

     I'll probably never be able to accept a Muslim as a normal, living, breathing human being. To me, they'll always remain 'they', 'the others', 'the minority'. (Heaven help me if I ever have to live out of India.) 

     It must be difficult to unbelong, thus. It must be one heck of a curse to live with preconceived and wrong notions about yourself. It must be extraordinarily tough to have to prove yourself at every step of the way, just because you are not what most others are. Viren (my Catholic husband) says I'll never understand what it feels like to be a 'minority'. Perhaps I won't. Perhaps I will. Jishnu is supposed to be raised as a Catholic. The thought scares me to no end. It terrifies me to think of all the unfair burdens he may have to live with...

     May the world have fewer people like me. :(

    

Of butterflies: these and those

These winged creatures seem to be dominating my life right now: the nectar-feeding, garden-fluttering, fiancé-favourite variety and the tummy tickling ones. Myriads of butterflies touch and go my insides as I sit here waiting and worrying and imagining how everyone must be practicing their ‘helloes’. V is meeting babu (dad) today, and to say the least, babu’s meeting V. The two most important men in my life will have an interface today. I can only hope they emerge on the other side unscathed and open…

Everyone’s scared. No one knows anything and everyone’s trying to appear educated. God knows we can put out the largest butterfly garden…if we put together everybody’s: V’s, his parents’, my parents’ and mine. The only real fear is of first impressions; especially when the cultural contexts are impossibly different. Knowing, though, that all the people involved are educated, civilized, etc.; the knowledge of the damage potential of one wrong statement made, even in the most innocent of intents, is what is scaring the hell out of me. These relationships are for life and it is only the least that one hopes for the best, at least to begin with.

I am getting married (deep breath). I now even know when. I mean I know precisely when – the 11^th of February 2008. But of the many dualities that mark and will continue to mark this relationship, a doubt of whether I will be ‘allowed’ to remember this date as my marriage anniversary remains; because the 11^th of Feb is only the first of our weddings – the Hindu/Bong one. A Catholic wedding (date still undecided) that will ensue the Hindu one will almost always demand to be considered for equal candidature as the anniversary.

Choosing V as my life partner was as simple as the rest of it is complicated. Bypassing the argument that simplicity or complication are both just states of the mind, I’ve often sat considering what this relationship entails…and omigosh, for the rest of my life!!!

V and I had this conversation yesterday which led me to notice that no one had asked anyone whether or not they wanted to get married. I was moving along my decided course and V just seemed to have blended in. I had marked my timelines and I wanted to get married. Tick in the first social checkbox – post graduated at 23; tick in the second social checkbox – work for a year; third in the third – marry at 24 and four- a kid (preferably a girl) at 25.

Through my acquaintance-friendship-dependence-unity with V, and my simultaneous break up with A, we never even had what can qualify to be called a courtship. What started out as a virtual acquaintance, transitioned easily into an alliance marked by interminable phone calls of confession and heart-to-hearts to quickly yet un-ostentatiously to this day when we stand engaged.

Its weird and wonderful how these decisions were made pat, in complete doubtlessness. Even as I discovered his love of creepy-crawlies and his mulish ways, the feeling of correctness pervaded. If, as I believe, God speaks through the gut (heart actually… but God and gut are alliterative), I know this is right, and bright and beautiful…just like those butterflies V’s trying to teach me to appreciate.