By Stephen Prothero

Each year on February 17, Buddhists throughout Sri Lanka light brass lamps and offer burning incense to commemorate the anniversary of the death of an American-born Buddhist hero. In Theravadan temples, saffron-robed monks bow down before his photograph, and boys and girls in schoolhouses across the country offer gifts in his memory. “May the merit we have gained by these good deeds,” they meditate, “pass on to Colonel Olcott, and may he gain happiness and peace.”

Disinterested historians describe Henry Steel Olcott as the president-founder of the Theosophical Society, one of America’s first Buddhists, and an important contributor to both the Indian Renaissance in India and the Sinhalese Buddhist Revival in Ceylon (now Sri Lanka). Less objective observers have allotted Olcott an even more central place in sacred history. A prime minister of Ceylon praised Olcott as “one of the heroes in the struggle for our independence and a pioneer of the present religious, national, and cultural revival.”

In the land of his birth, Olcott has been less graciously received. The New York Times denounced him during his lifetime as “an unmitigated rascal”—”a man bereft of reason” whose “insanity, though harmless, is, unfortunately, incurable.” The Dictionary of American Biography, noting that Olcott has been considered “a fool, a knave, and a seer,” concludes that he was probably “a little of all three.”

DESCENDED FROM Puritans, Henry Steel Olcott was born in 1832 into a pious Presbyterian household in Orange, New Jersey. After a short stint at what is now New York University, Olcott went west toward the frontier in search of youthful adventures. In Ohio, at the age of twenty, he became a convert to spiritualism. Soon he was championing a host of other causes, including antislavery, agricultural reform, women s rights, cremation, and temperance. He worked for a time as an experimental fanner, served a stint in the Army, and even worked as an investigator on the special commission charged with scrutinizing President Lincoln’s assassination. But he eventually returned to New York City, where he supported himself as a journalist and insurance lawyer. In 1874, while covering reports of spirits materializing at a farmhouse in Chittenden, Vermont, he struck up a friendship with Russian occultist Helena Petrovna Blavatsky. One year later, he and Blavatsky co-founded the Theosophical Society, an organization that would soon play a major role in introducing Americans to the ancient wisdom of the East.

H. P. Blavatsky(Helena Petrovna Blavatsky) standing behind Henry Steel Olcott (middle, seated) and Damodar Mavalankar (seated to his left). Bombay, 1881

AFTER MOVING THEMSELVES and their society to India in 1879, Olcott and Blavatsky decided it was time to visit Ceylon. They arrived in Colombo on May 16, 1880. Apparently, their reputations had preceded them, since they received what Olcott later described as a royal welcome:

A huge crowd awaited us and rent the air with their united shout of “Sadhu! Sadhu!” A white cloth was spread for us from the jetty steps to the road where carriages were ready, and a thousand flags were frantically waved in welcome.

Shortly after this reception, on May 25, at the Wijananda Monastery in Galle, Olcott and Blavatsky each knelt before a huge image of the Buddha and “took pansil” by reciting in broken Pali the Three Refuges and the Five Precepts of Theravada Buddhism, thus becoming the first European-Americans to publicly and formally become lay Buddhists.

Later Olcott underscored the difference between what he termed a “regular Buddhist” and “a debased modem Buddhist sectarian.” “If Buddhism contained a single dogma that we were compelled to accept, we would not have taken the pansil nor remained Buddhists ten minutes,” he explained. “Our Buddhism was that of the Master-Adept Gautama Buddha, which was identically the Wisdom Religion of the Aryan Upanishads, and the soul of all the ancient world-faiths.” Even on the day of his conversion to Buddhism, Olcott was discriminating between the “false” Buddhism of the Sinhalese people, which was in his view modem, debased, sectarian, and creedal, and his ostensibly true Buddhism —  ancient, pure, nonsectarian, and nondogmatic.

DURING HIS FIRST visit to the island, Olcott founded seven lay branches and one monastic branch of the Buddhist Theosophical Society (BTS). He was explicit about modeling his Asian work after Christian examples: “As the Christians have their Society for the diffusion of Christian knowledge, so this should be a society for the diffusion of Buddhist knowledge.” Olcott also founded, again on Christian models, Buddhist secondary schools and Sunday schools affiliated with the BTS, thus initiating what would become a long and successful campaign for Western-style Buddhist education in Ceylon.

Colonel Olcott in Adyar (1903)

Thanks to these efforts, Olcott and Blavatsky left Ceylon in July of 1880 as folk heroes. They had met a number of high-ranking monks, chief among them Hikkaduve Sumangala, who would soon become Olcott’s most faithful Sinhalese ally. Equally important, Olcott and Blavatsky had been embraced by a large number of Sinhalese laypeople.

OLCOTT HAD PLANNED upon his arrival in India in 1879 to spend some time learning about Hinduism and Buddhism from Eastern experts, then to return to America, where he would devote the rest of his life to promoting Theosophy and building up the Theosophical Society. But the celebrity status that Olcott achieved during his first Ceylon tour led him to reevaluate his plans. Gradually he was coming to see himself more as a teacher than as a student. He was also coming to view India as his home. But perhaps most important, he was beginning to emerge from behind Blavatsky’s formidable shadow. Because the tour itself highlighted Olcott’s oratorical skills rather than Blavatsky’s parlor-room charisma, Olcott garnered as much influence, if not as much fame, as his traveling companion. Before their departure the Sinhalese people were praising Blavatsky, but they were also hailing Olcott as one of their own — “The White Buddhist.”

OLCOTT SET SAIL for Ceylon in April 1881 for a second tour. Together with Mohottivatte Gunananda, the monk who had spearheaded the first phase of the Sinhalese Buddhist revival, he crisscrossed the western province for eight months in a bullock cart of his own design. Villagers flocked, according to Olcott, to witness the mechanical wonders of this device, complete with lockers for furniture and books, canvas roof to keep out rain, and cushioned central compartment with removable planks that could seat eight for dinner or sleep four. All testified to Olcotts Yankee ingenuity. When not impressing the Sinhalese with his cleverness and hard work, Olcott looked the part of the anti-Christian missionary. He sold merit cards and solicited subscriptions to support his National Education Fund, wrote and distributed anti-Christian and pro-Buddhist tracts, and secured support for his educational reforms from representatives of the island’s three monastic sects.

Olcott remained disturbed by what he perceived as the shocking ignorance of the Sinhalese about Buddhism.” This was an odd sort of judgment for a recent convert who had purportedly come to Asia not to teach but to learn. It was, however, a judgment that Olcott shared with many nineteenth-century academic Orientalists. Like Olcott, pioneering Buddhologists such as Rhys Davids (whom Olcott eagerly read) tended to reduce the Buddhist tradition to what the Buddha did and what the Buddhist scriptures said. This tendency permitted them to praise the ancient wisdom of the East and to condemn its modern manifestations—to view Asian religious traditions much like Calvin viewed the human race: as fallen from some Edenic past. It was Olcott’s uncritical and unconscious appropriation of this aspect of academic Orientalism that led him to the rather absurd conclusion that Ceylon’s Buddhists knew little, if anything, about “real” Buddhism. Like his hated missionaries and his beloved Orientalists, Olcott assumed the right to define what Buddhism really was. Unlike them, however, he assumed the duty to stir the Sinhalese masses from their ignorance, to instill in them his own creole representation of their Buddhist faith.

IN DEVISING HIS strategy for this didactic mission, Olcott turned yet again to the missionary example. He decided to compile for use in his Buddhist schools a catechism of basic Buddhist principles, “on the lines of the similar elementary handbooks so effectively used among Western Christian sects,” both Protestant and Catholic. Olcott’s The Buddhist Catechism, which would eventually go through more than forty editions and be translated into over twenty languages, is in many ways the defining document of his Buddhism. It first appeared, in both English and Sinhalese, on July 24, 1881. Hugely influential, it is still used today in Sri Lankan schools.

Olcott with Buddhists in Colombo in 1883. Credit: Wikimedia Commons [Public Domain].

While Olcott himself characterized his Catechism as an “antidote to Christianity,” a shocking reliance on that tradition was evident in its explicitly Christian questions:

Q. Was the Buddha God?

A. No. Buddha Dharma teaches no “divine” incarnation.

Q. Do Buddhists accept the theory that everything has been formed out of nothing by a Creator?

A. We do not believe in miracles; hence we deny creation, and cannot conceive of a creation of something out of nothing.

Olcott’s ostensibly non-Christian Buddhism sounded like liberal Protestantism. More than an antidote to Christianity, Olcott’s Catechism was a borneopathic cure, treating the scourge of Christianity with a dose of the same. His critique of Christianity shared many elements with liberal Protestants’ critique of Christian orthodoxy, including a distrust of miracles, an emphasis on reason and experience. a tendency toward self-reliance, and a disdain for hell. Like their Jesus, his Buddha was a quintessential Christian gentleman: sweet and convincing, the very personification of “self-culture and universal love.

RETURNING TO COLOMBO on July 18, 1882, for his third Ceylon tour. Olcott discovered that the Buddhist Theosophical Society was “lifeless” and the revival was ‘at a standstill.’ Of the 13,000 rupees that had been pledged to the National Education Fund, only 100 had been collected. More ominously, a contingent of Roman Catholic missionaries had converted a well near a Buddhist pilgrimage site into a Lourdes-like healing shrine. Olcott feared “a rush of ignorant Buddhists into Catholicism.” In an attempt to break the Catholic monopoly over this crucial segment of the religious marketplace, Olcott pleaded for a monk to step forward and perform healings “in the name of lord Buddha.” But when no monk came forward, he decided to do the work himself.

Olcott’s first healing in Asia occurred on August 29, 1882. When a man said to be totally paralyzed in one arm and partially disabled in one leg approached him after a lecture, Olcott recalled his youthful experiments with mesmerism and made a few perfunctory passes over the man’s arm. The next day the man returned with reports of improved health, and Olcott began to treat him systematically Soon the man could, in Olcott’s words, “whirl his bad arm around his head, open and shut his hand, jump with both feet, hop on the paralyzed one, kick equally high against the wall with both, and run freely.” News of the Colonel’s healing powers spread across the island “as a match to loose straw” and his fundraising tour was immediately transformed into a roadshow featuring the miraculous healing hands of the instantly charismatic “White Buddhist.” Olcott publicly attributed his healings to the Buddha. Privately he credited the German physician Franz Mesmer.

Now that Olcott possessed a gift on a par with Blavatsky’s conjuring abilities, scores of patients lined up outside the Theosophical Society headquarters in Adyar (a suburb of Madras), and on an 1882 tour of Bengal Olcott supposedly treated 2,812 patients. Soon, however, the seemingly insatiable needs of his followers overwhelmed Olcott. His popularity became a burden and when, toward the end of 1883, the Theosophical Masters (adepts with whom Blavatsky is supposed to have communicated telepathically) handed down an order to stop the healings, Olcott happily complied.

Before his healing tours of 1882 and 1883, Olcott had recruited most of his Sinhalese and Indian followers from among the English-speaking middle classes. But his celebrated cures popularized his message, especially in Ceylon, where he may have inspired messianic expectations among Sinhalese peasants.

OLCOTT SOLIDIFIED HIS ROLE as a leader of the Sinhalese Buddhist Revival in the wake of a tragic Buddhist-Christian riot that occurred on March 25, 1883, in Kotahena, a Catholic stronghold of Colombo. On that day a Buddhist procession marched through the streets on the way to Mohottivatte Gunananda’s newly decorated monastery, the Deepaduttama Vihara, where a new Buddha image was to be dedicated. When the procession approached a Roman Catholic cathedral located a few hundred yards from the temple, the cathedral bell sounded, followed almost immediately by bells in other Catholic churches in the area. As if in response to a signal, about a thousand men descended on the procession and a bloody brawl ensued. Authorities summoned eighty policemen, but their batons were no match for the clubs, swords, and stones of the mob. During the three-hour melee, one man was killed and forty others were injured.

As the Governor’s Riots Commission investigated the affair, Catholics and Buddhists took each other to court. Numerous cases were filed, but authorities eventually dropped all charges because of a lack of “reliable evidence.” After it had become clear that the Catholics would not be tried, a group of Sinhalese monks and laypeople cabled Olcott urging him to come to Ceylon. Upon his arrival on January 27, 1884, Olcott organized a Buddhist Defense

Committee, which elected him an honorary member and charged him to travel to London as its representative, “to ask for such redress and enter into such engagements as may appear to him judicious.” Thus, for the first time Olcott’s role as an intermediary between East and West became apparent, not only to himself but to Buddhists and colonial administrators alike.

Before he left for London, a group of high-ranking Buddhist monks gave Olcott a solemn farewell ceremony, in which they authorized him “to register as Buddhists persons of any nation who may make to him application, to administer the Three Refuges and Five Precepts and to organize societies for the promotion of Buddhism.” The first person of European descent to be 4iven such an honor, Olcott thus became the first Buddhist missionary to the West.

WHEN OLCOTT ARRIVED in London in April 1884, British colonial officials were already well acquainted with him. In a Woe 26, 1883, letter covering the Report of the Riots Commission, Governor Longden discussed Olcott while reviewing the root causes for the brawl. The most important such cause was, in Longden’s view, the revival of Buddhism. There could be, he wrote, “no doubt” about the “genuineness” of the revival. Signs of it were everywhere:

The outer evidence of it is to be seen in the rebuilding of old shrines, . . . the larger offerings made to the Temples. Within the Buddhist Church the revival is signalized by a greater number of ordinations held with greater publicity, the care with which the Buddhist doctrines are being taught in the Pali language in the Vidyodaya College and in the monasteries, and the preparation of Buddhist Catechisms in the native and even in the English language.

Longden appended to his report a copy of Olcott’s Catechism and remarked that the Colonel had “very warmly espoused the cause of Buddhism.” The creole nature of Olcott’s actions was not lost on Longden, who remarked that the Colonel “brought the energy of Western propagandism to [the revival’s] aid.”

In a subsequent dispatch to Colonial Secretary Derby, Longden again mentioned Olcott, but now in more ominous terms. It was only a matter of time, he wrote, before one or two individuals would arise and take control of Buddhist affairs on the island. Given the “negligent character of the Sinhalese mind,” he reasoned, it was likely that non-Asian Buddhists would fill these leadership roles.

In May of 1884, almost a year after Longden had warned his superiors about the Colonel, Olcott arrived in London. Though officials were wary of augmenting his already significant influence, he was able to meet with Lord Derby’s assistant undersecretary, R. H. Meade. Shortly thereafter he sent a memo to Lord Derby, demanding: (1) that Catholics accused of instigating the riot be brought to trial; (2) that Buddhists be guaranteed the right to exercise their religion freely; (3) that Wesak—the full moon day on which the Sinhalese commemorate the Buddha’s birth, enlightenment, and death—be declared a public holiday; (4) that all restrictions against the use of tom-toms and other musical instruments in religious processions be removed; (5) that Buddhist registrars be appointed; and (6) that the question of Buddhist temporalities (the supposedly negligent control of Buddhist properties by monks) be resolved. Olcott enclosed with his memo some accompanying documents that testified to the “discontent and despair” that had in his view gripped the island’s Buddhists following the Kotahena riots. He hinted that, if ignored, their dissatisfaction might result in a rebellion.

Only two of Olcott’s requests were speedily granted. In the fall of 1884, colonial officials agreed to pursue “more of a hands off policy” regarding the use of tom-toms and other musical instruments in religious processions; and on April 28, 1885, Wesak became an official holiday in British Ceylon.

Following the negotiations with Meade, Olcott wrote to the chairman of the Buddhist Defense Committee and informed him, over-optimistically, that his mission had been a complete success. Olcott’s Sinhalese supporters concluded that the British proclamation of Wesak as a public holiday was “primarily due to Colonel Olcott’s appeal,” and on April 28, 1885, during the first government-recognized celebration of the Buddha’s birthday’, the now-venerable name of Olcott was invoked frequently and with great devotion.

DESPITE CLAIMS THAT Olcott initiated the Sinhalese Buddhist Revival, his connection with the movement was, as he himself recognized, neither as originator (credit Mohottivatte Gunananda) nor as culminator (credit Anagarika Dharmapala) but as organizer and articulator. It was Olcott who agitated for Buddhist civil rights, and who gave the revival its organizational shape by founding voluntary associations, publishing and distributing tracts, and, perhaps most important, establishing schools. It was he who articulated most eloquently the “Protestant Buddhism” synthesis. The most Protestant of all early “Protestant Buddhists,” Olcott was a culture broker with one foot planted in traditional Sinhalese Buddhism and the other in liberal American Protestantism. By creatively combining these two sources, along with other influences such as theosophy, academic Orientalism, and metropolitan gentility, he helped to craft a new form of Buddhism that thrives today not only in Sri Lanka but also in the United States.

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From The White Buddhist: The Asian Odyssey of Henry Steel Olcott, Indiana University Press.
Courtesy: TRICYCLE: THE BUDDHIST REVIEW Fall 1996 pp. 13-19

by Swami Agehananda Bharati

I regard both the recent past and the future of Hinduism with mild optimism. It is not so much any specific event or events of the past that I regard as the most significant, though such could be pinpointed (e.g., the creation of the Vishva Hindu Parishad, the dialectic reactions to the sati event in Deorala, the withdrawal of the Kamakoti Peedam Swami from the Math and his return, etc.). But these are, singly seen, rather less important than salutary, albeit gradual, movement away from a moralistic, moralizing, Protestant ethic type understanding of Hinduism in the wake of Vivekananda and social reform-oriented monastics and lay people around the turn of the century and later, toward a more reflexive, less uptight, sacerdotally more informed, more experimental and individually experiential form of Hinduism.

Whereas before everything that was not straight laced, puritanical theism was simply rejected as ‘superstition,’ the end of this century witnesses a reversal. Individual techniques are emphasized, a large number of teachers with very different and heterogeneous backgrounds are generating new audiences: the incredible impact of the Ramayana production on Indian TV in the past two years. All these bode well, I believe, for the recapturing of a more sophisticated, no longer necessarily simple, certainly not simplistic, type of multifaceted postmodern Hindu praxis.

All this, of course, has its shadowy sides, too. There is incredible almost pathological gullibility among a very large number of modern, urban people with regard to the alleged feats and signs of some hierophants. There is the vulgar quest for individual power, wealth, etc. through the harnessing of shamanistic practitioners and their skills generally referred to as “tantric”, in a total misconception of tantraism.

On a more sophisticated level, however, things may not turn out that bad after all. I have long ago created the model I called “pizza-effect”. The pizza at one time was looked down upon in Italy as the poor man’s food: it then migrated to America and when it returned to Italy, it became a highly respected dish on the menu of even the most outstanding restaurants. Similarly, when Hinduism was first exported into the West around the turn of the century, the product that returned to India caught everyone’s attention, and Hinduism caught on and up again. The momentum is not expended, but the pizza effect should yield even better results: the involvement with the psycho-experimental, the mystical, etc., the great western attention to Tibetan Buddhism and some quite esoteric forms of Hinduism, though watered down for western consumption, all might do a lot of good to India when repatriated. There is an increasing awareness of esoteric acts, sites and shrines.

More importantly, sites and shrines which were marginal to standard Hinduism until quite recently are now central, or close to it. Forty years ago, very few people did the Sabarimalai pilgrimage, and many sites were identified as low caste, lowbrow, not proper and respectable. All that has changed. Kataragama in Sri Lanka, Sabarimalai in southern India are paradigmatic. The better known, squarer, Tirupati, Brindavan, Haridvar, etc., now have competitors from the soil. And, in tandem with these developments, sacerdotal involvement is no longer dismissed as fatuously ‘unscientific’ superstition—or it is no longer dismissed that easily.

I feel, finally, that nourishing the scholarly tradition in Hinduism must be reestablished at its core. The pandit must continue Sanskrit, he must perform Sanskrit and not only ‘understand’ it. And people must realize that Advaita Vedanta is not all there is in Hindu thought. Also, people must learn to accept it that there is lots of Vedanta apart from ‘practical’ Vedanta, and that Hinduism, to last, must be much, much more than that of Dayananda, Vivekananda, Aurobindo and Radhakrishnan combined.

Agehananda Bharati, a native of Vienna, Austria, later a US citizen, was a monk in the Dasanami Sannyasi Order and professor of anthropology at Syracuse University, New York. He produced nearly 500 publications in several languages including The Tantric Tradition, The Light at the Center: Context and Pretext of Modern Hinduism and his autobiography The Ochre Robe.

Professor Bharati was born Leopold Fischer on April 20, 1923, in Vienna, Austria. His interest in South Asia began when he was a young boy in Vienna learning classical Sanskrit and Hindi. He graduated Akademisches Gymnasium, Vienna, in 1941 and Oriental Institute and Ethological Institute of the University of Vienna in 1948. He received the name Agehananda Bharati in 1951 when he was ordained in the Dasanami Sanyasi order of Hindu monks. He earned his acharya, the equivalent of a PhD., from Sanyasa Mahavidyalaya in Varanasi, India, that same year.

Early in his career, Prof. Bharati became a noted scholar of Indian culture, teaching linguistics, comparative philosophy, anthropology, and South Asian studies at universities and institutions in India, Japan, Thailand, and the United States. In the 1950s, he was a lecturer in German at Delhi University, a reader in philosophy at Banaras Hindu University in India, a guest professor of comparative religion at the Nalanda Institute of Post-graduate Buddhist Academy in Bangkok, Thailand, Asia Foundation Visiting Professor at the universities of Tokyo and Kyoto in Japan, and research associate for the Far Eastern Institute at the University of Washington in Seattle.

Prof. Bharati joined the Maxwell faculty in 1961 as an assistant professor of anthropology. He was promoted to associate professor in 1964 and to full professor in 1968. He chaired the anthropology department from 1971 to 1977 and was acting chair during the spring semester of 1985. In 1991, he was named the Ford/Maxwell Professor of South Asian Studies and also was presented with the Chancellor’s Citation for Exceptional Academic Achievement.

An outstanding Sanskritist who spoke 15 classical and modern European and Indian vernacular languages, he is recognized as one of the leading pioneers in the field of tantric studies. He is perhaps best known for his books The Tantric Tradition (The Hutchinson University Publishers, 1966) and The Ochre Robe (Ross-Erikson Press, 1980). Prof. Bharati also wrote hundreds of articles for publications distributed worldwide, was an editor for several international publications, and presented numerous lectures and papers at national and international professional conventions.

The Island (Colombo) Tuesday 11th August, 1992
by Manik Sandrasagra

Book-taught, urbanised, Olcott and Dharmapala inspired bhikkus have recently objected to a symbol, namely, the cross being displayed at a Buddhist shrine, on the grounds it is incompatible with Buddhism. When some members of the Buddhist clergy publicly display their ignorance it is a disgrace for the entire Bhikku Sangha and for the Sasana as it is practiced and preserved in Sri Lanka.

Since the Kandalama controversy has been expanded from a domestic environmental issue to a media, political and religious issue, this matter is no longer private but has become a national debate. Public, pronouncements therefore became important since they give emphasis to varying viewpoints.

When a Buddhist Monk makes a statement, if it is at variance with the doctrine and practice that he is part of, .he brings ridicule and compromises his Teacher (The Buddha), the Teaching (The Dhamma) and the Community of Monks (The Sangha).

Incompatible

Is the cross incompatible with Buddhism? Is it alien to Lankan culture? Is it a Christian symbol? When did this symbol first make its appearance in Lanka? What does it signify?

Buddhism or, for that matter every religion, is a combination of both wisdom and method — doctrine and practice. This knowledge is embodied in the culture that preserves it. Without practice, theory is just a sealed book and culture itself an extension of certain beliefs. The very word ‘culture’ is related to words like ‘cult’, ‘cultivate’ and ‘agriculture’, with tree worship being the original form.

In this context a symbol is also a language. It predates written script. It is also an ideogram.

Although rock inscriptions and paintings have been likened to doodling by some anthropologists, this urge to express in a more permanent form is the evidence historians and archaeologists use in interpreting and dating a story, a style or an idea. The living tradition however like fences, weaving, postures illustrate an oral tradition that still exists. In all these traditions we see evidence of the cross.

In the oldest fence; in weaves in both cloth and mats; in 3rd century B.C. pre-Brahmi inscriptions; in most of our temple paintings, the cross symbol is in evidence.

We must therefore assume that the cross which predates both the historical Buddha and Christ is an intricate part of our expression as a culture. As to its meaning, I quote here below from J. C. Coopers’ book The Illustrated Encyclopedia of Traditional Symbols (Thames and Hudson 1978):

Cross: A universal symbol from the most remote times; it is the cosmic symbol par excellence. It is a world centre and therefore a point of communication between heaven and earth and a cosmic axis, thus sharing the symbolism of the cosmic tree, mountain, pillar, ladder etc.

The cross represents the Tree of Life and the Tree of Nourishment; it is also a symbol of universal, archetypal man, capable of infinite and harmonious expansion on both the horizontal and vertical planes; the vertical line is the celestial, spiritual and intellectual, positive, active and male, while the horizontal is the earthly, rational, passive, and negative and female, the whole cross forming the primordial androgyne.

It is dualism in nature and the union of opposites and represents spiritual union and the integration of man’s soul in .the horizontal-vertical aspects necessary to full life; it is the Supreme Identity. The cross is the figure of man at full stretch; also the descent of spirit into matter. As capable of infinite expansion in every direction it denotes eternal life.

It is also formed by four rivers of Paradise flowing from the root of the Tree of Life. It comprises the cardinal axes; the quaternary under its dynamic aspects; the quincunx, the four elements of the world united at the fifth point, the Centre. Cosmologically the upwards and downwards are the Zenith and Nadir, the North-South axis is the solstitial axis and the East-West is the equinoctial axis.

Ignorance

Considering the above it becomes obvious that only ignorance can promote the assumption that Christianity alone is symbolised by the cross.

In our own country if we are to further quote Cooper: the Buddhists used it to illustrate “The axis of The Wheel of the Law and of the Round of Existence” The Hindus, “The rajas, the expansion of being, the vertical represents the sattvas or higher, celestial states of being, while the horizontal is the tamas or lower earthly states. The cross is also associate with the Sacred Ganges and with the crossed fire sticks of Agni”; and, in Islam, the cross represents, “Perfect communion of all states of being, both in ‘amplitude’ and ‘exaltation’; horizontal and vertical expansion; the Supreme Identity”.

All of the above concerns the symbolism of the cross, but let us return for a moment to Kandalama.

People need projects and ideas to focus their attention. This is especially important when the old idea has no longer the ability to focus the collective attention or devotion of supporters, readership or congregation. Politicians, Media and the Clergy all share a common problem. A general lack of interest, with the problems of living making every, other issue irrelevant. As it has been said “You cannot teach the Dhamma to a man who has an empty stomach”.

Search

Therefore in their search for relevance the environment has become the buzz-word for politicians media and the clergy. This word can polarise diverse interest groups.

This is what happened at Dambulla. Protest of this sort naturally costs money, organisation and time — all unaffordable to subsistence farmers. Therefore a centralised urban input is vital if the protest is to be successful.

Powerful lobbies alone can make Governments listen, peasants being like pawns on a chessboard. Thus what we are confronting as regards Kandalama is not a peasants uprising, but a mass mediated protest with urban sanction and funds hence its success.

All the main participants were outsiders who themselves pollute the environment in several ways through their voracious growth oriented consumption patterns. Politicians, Media, the modern clergy and the NGO community are no exception to this rule… and subsistence farmers can’t afford the luxury or time to join such protests.

Let us therefore hope in conclusion that the Nuns who sat beneath the cross at Dambulla in meditation experience the emptiness that nor-. mally engulfs the mediator, and let us pray that this experience fills their daily life instead of the demon of ignorance re-surfacing in their minds in the form of anger, frustration and suffering.

As a puranagama villagers in the neighbourhood told me: “We don’t sit around and meditate having picked a time and place with some issue focused in our minds with cameras photographing us. Our entire life is one long meditation, an emptiness from which all things arise including the mind… thus we know that all things are impermanent (anicca) including the Kandalama environment.

The Dhamma alone remains like a beacon pointing the way. In the centre, in the middle, avoiding the extremes there is no suffering (Dukkha)”. In other words this Sinhala peasant is describing the now-here, which is ironically the real meaning of the cross— a meaning that transcends both time and religion, where AT-ONE-MENT is accomplished and the battle won.

Story by Leo Tolstoy

An Old Legend current in the Volga District (ca. 1886)

“And in praying use not vain repetitions, as the Gentiles do: for they think that they shall be heard for their much speaking. Be not therefore like unto them: for your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask Him.”

-Matthew JVI. 7, 8.

A BISHOP was sailing from Archangel to the Solovetsk Monastery; and on the same vessel were a number of pilgrims on their way to visit the shrines at that place. The voyage was a smooth one. The wind favourable, and the weather fair. The pilgrims lay on deck, eating, or sat in groups talking to one another. The Bishop, too, came on deck, and as he was pacing up and down, he noticed a group of men standing near the prow and listening to a fisherman who was pointing to the sea and telling them something. The Bishop stopped, and looked in the direction in which the man was pointing. He could see nothing however, but the sea glistening in the sunshine. He drew nearer to listen, but when the man saw him, he took off his cap and was silent. The rest of the people also took off their caps, and bowed.

“Do not let me disturb you, friends,” said the Bishop. “I came to hear what this good man was saying.”

“The fisherman was telling us about the hermits,” replied one, a tradesman, rather bolder than the rest.

“What hermits?” asked the Bishop, going to the side of the vessel and seating himself on a box. “Tell me about them. I should like to hear. What were you pointing at?”

“Why, that little island you can just see over there,” answered the man, pointing to a spot ahead and a little to the right. “That is the island where the hermits live for the salvation of their souls.”

“Where is the island?” asked the Bishop. “I see nothing.”

“There, in the distance, if you will please look along my hand. Do you see that little cloud? Below it and a bit to the left, there is just a faint streak. That is the island.”

The Bishop looked carefully, but his unaccustomed eyes could make out nothing but the water shimmering in the sun.

“I cannot see it,” he said. “But who are the hermits that live there?”

“They are holy men,” answered the fisherman. “I had long heard tell of them, but never chanced to see them myself till the year before last.”

And the fisherman related how once, when he was out fishing, he had been stranded at night upon that island, not knowing where he was. In the morning, as he wandered about the island, he came across an earth hut, and met an old man standing near it. Presently two others came out, and after having fed him, and dried his things, they helped him mend his boat.

“And what are they like?” asked the Bishop.

“One is a small man and his back is bent. He wears a priest”s cassock and is very old; he must be more than a hundred, I should say. He is so old that the white of his beard is taking a greenish tinge, but he is always smiling, and his face is as bright as an angel”s from heaven. The second is taller, but he also is very old. He wears tattered, peasant coat. His beard is broad, and of a yellowish grey colour. He is a strong man. Before I had time to help him, he turned my boat over as if it were only a pail. He too, is kindly and cheerful. The third is tall, and has a beard as white as snow and reaching to his knees. He is stern, with over-hanging eyebrows; and he wears nothing but a mat tied round his waist.”

“And did they speak to you?” asked the Bishop.

“For the most part they did everything in silence and spoke but little even to one another. One of them would just give a glance, and the others would understand him. I asked the tallest whether they had lived there long. He frowned, and muttered something as if he were angry; but the oldest one took his hand and smiled, and then the tall one was quiet. The oldest one only said: “Have mercy upon us,” and smiled.”

While the fisherman was talking, the ship had drawn nearer to the island.

“There, now you can see it plainly, if your Grace will please to look,” said the tradesman, pointing with his hand.

The Bishop looked, and now he really saw a dark streak — which was the island. Having looked at it a while, he left the prow of the vessel, and going to the stern, asked the helmsman, “What island is that?”

“That one,” replied the man, “has no name. There are many such in this sea.”

“Is it true that there are hermits who live there for the salvation of their souls?”

“So it is said, your Grace, but I don”t know if it”s true. Fishermen say they have seen them; but of course they may only be spinning yarns.”

“I should like to land on the island and see these men,” said the Bishop. “How could I manage it?”

“The ship cannot get close to the island,” replied the helmsman, “but you might be rowed there in a boat. You had better speak to the captain.”

The captain was sent for and came.

“I should like to see these hermits,” said the Bishop. “Could I not be rowed ashore?”

The captain tried to dissuade him.

“Of course it could be done,” said he, “but we should lose much time. And if I might venture to say so to your Grace, the old men are not worth your pains. I have heard say that they are foolish old fellows, who understand nothing, and never speak a word, any more than the fish in the sea.”

“I wish to see them,” said the Bishop, “and I will pay you for your trouble and loss of time. Please let me have a boat.”

There was no help for it; so the order was given. The sailors trimmed the sails, the steersman put up the helm, and the ship”s course was set for the island. A chair was placed at the prow for the Bishop, and he sat there, looking ahead. The passengers all collected at the prow, and gazed at the island. Those who had the sharpest eyes could presently make out the rocks on it, and then a mud hut was seen. At last one man saw the hermits themselves. The captain brought a telescope and, after looking through it, handed it to the Bishop.

“It”s right enough. There are three men standing on the shore. There, a little to the right of that big rock.”

The Bishop took the telescope, got it into position, and he saw the three men: a tall one, a shorter one, and one very small and bent, standing on the shore and holding each other by the hand.

The captain turned to the Bishop.

“The vessel can get no nearer in than this, your Grace. If you wish to go ashore, we must ask you to go in the boat, while we anchor here.”

The cable was quickly let out, the anchor cast, and the sails furled. There was a jerk, and the vessel shook. Then a boat having been lowered, the oarsmen jumped in, and the Bishop descended the ladder and took his seat. The men pulled at their oars, and the boat moved rapidly towards the island. When they came within a stone”s throw they saw three old men: a tall one with only a mat tied round his waist: a shorter one in a tattered peasant coat, and a very old one bent with age and wearing an old cassock — all three standing hand in hand.

The oarsmen pulled in to the shore, and held on with the boathook while the Bishop got out.

The old men bowed to him, and he gave them his benediction, at which they bowed still lower. Then the Bishop began to speak to them.

“I have heard,” he said, “that you, godly men, live here saving your own souls, and praying to our Lord Christ for your fellow men. I, an unworthy servant of Christ, am called, by God”s mercy, to keep and teach His flock. I wished to see you, servants of God, and to do what I can to teach you, also.”

The old men looked at each other smiling, but remained silent.

“Tell me,” said the Bishop, “what you are doing to save your souls, and how you serve God on this island.”

The second hermit sighed, and looked at the oldest, the very ancient one. The latter smiled, and said:

“We do not know how to serve God. We only serve and support ourselves, servant of God.”

“But how do you pray to God?” asked the Bishop.

“We pray in this way,” replied the hermit. “Three are ye, three are we, have mercy upon us.”

And when the old man said this, all three raised their eyes to heaven, and repeated:

“Three are ye, three are we, have mercy upon us!”

The Bishop smiled.

“You have evidently heard something about the Holy Trinity,” said he. “But you do not pray aright. You have won my affection, godly men. I see you wish to please the Lord, but you do not know how to serve Him. That is not the way to pray; but listen to me, and I will teach you. I will teach you, not a way of my own, but the way in which God in the Holy Scriptures has commanded all men to pray to Him.”

And the Bishop began explaining to the hermits how God had revealed Himself to men; telling them of God the Father, and God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost.

“God the Son came down on earth,” said he, “to save men, and this is how He taught us all to pray. Listen and repeat after me: “Our Father.”

And the first old man repeated after him, “Our Father,” and the second said, “Our Father,” and the third said, “Our Father.”

“Which art in heaven,” continued the Bishop.

The first hermit repeated, “Which art in heaven,” but the second blundered over the words, and the tall hermit could not say them properly. His hair had grown over his mouth so that he could not speak plainly. The very old hermit, having no teeth, also mumbled indistinctly.

The Bishop repeated the words again, and the old men repeated them after him. The Bishop sat down on a stone, and the old men stood before him, watching his mouth, and repeating the words as he uttered them. And all day long the Bishop laboured, saying a word twenty, thirty, a hundred times over, and the old men repeated it after him. They blundered, and he corrected them, and made them begin again.

The Bishop did not leave off till he had taught them the whole of the Lord”s prayer so that they could not only repeat it after him, but could say it by themselves. The middle one was the first to know it, and to repeat the whole of it alone. The Bishop made him say it again and again, and at last the others could say it too.

It was getting dark, and the moon was appearing over the water, before the Bishop rose to return to the vessel. When he took leave of the old men, they all bowed down to the ground before him. He raised them, and kissed each of them, telling them to pray as he had taught them. Then he got into the boat and returned to the ship.

And as he sat in the boat and was rowed to the ship he could hear the three voices of the hermits loudly repeating the Lord’s prayer. As the boat drew near the vessel their voices could no longer be heard, but they could still be seen in the moonlight, standing as he had left them on the shore, the shortest in the middle, the tallest on the right, the middle one on the left. As soon as the Bishop had reached the vessel and got on board, the anchor was weighed and the sails unfurled. The wind filled them, and the ship sailed away, and the Bishop took a seat in the stern and watched the island they had left. For a time he could still see the hermits, but presently they disappeared from sight, though the island was still visible. At last it too vanished, and only the sea was to be seen, rippling in the moonlight.

The pilgrims lay down to sleep, and all was quiet on deck. The Bishop did not wish to sleep, but sat alone at the stern, gazing at the sea where the island was no longer visible, and thinking of the good old men. He thought how pleased they had been to learn the Lord’s prayer; and he thanked God for having sent him to teach and help such godly men.

So the Bishop sat, thinking, and gazing at the sea where the island had disappeared. And the moonlight flickered before his eyes, sparkling, now here, now there, upon the waves. Suddenly he saw something white and shining, on the bright path which the moon cast across the sea. Was it a seagull, or the little gleaming sail of some small boat? The Bishop fixed his eyes on it, wondering.

“It must be a boat sailing after us,” thought he “but it is overtaking us very rapidly. It was far, far away a minute ago, but now it is much nearer. It cannot be a boat, for I can see no sail; but whatever it may be, it is following us, and catching us up.”

And he could not make out what it was. Not a boat, nor a bird, nor a fish! It was too large for a man, and besides a man could not be out there in the midst of the sea. The Bishop rose, and said to the helmsman:

“Look there, what is that, my friend? What is it?” the Bishop repeated, though he could now see plainly what it was — the three hermits running upon the water, all gleaming white, their grey beards shining, and approaching the ship as quickly as though it were not morning.

The steersman looked and let go the helm in terror.

“Oh Lord! The hermits are running after us on the water as though it were dry land!”

The passengers hearing him, jumped up, and crowded to the stern. They saw the hermits coming along hand in hand, and the two outer ones beckoning the ship to stop. All three were gliding along upon the water without moving their feet. Before the ship could be stopped, the hermits had reached it, and raising their heads, all three as with one voice, began to say:

“We have forgotten your teaching, servant of God. As long as we kept repeating it we remembered, but when we stopped saying it for a time, a word dropped out, and now it has all gone to pieces. We can remember nothing of it. Teach us again.”

The Bishop crossed himself, and leaning over the ship”s side, said, “Your own prayer will reach the Lord, men of God. It is not for me to teach you. Pray for us sinners.”

And the Bishop bowed low before the old men; and they turned and went back across the sea. And a light shone until daybreak on the spot where they were lost to sight.

Courtesy: The Literature Network

by Sam Wickramasinghe

“Fire Walking” in The Sunday Times revived memories of a close friend and mentor of mine, known to all as German Swami Gauribala. Before his demise in Jaffna in 1984, he was one who did the fire walking at Kataragama annually during the July Festival for over ten years, walking barefoot from the North, along the coast line via Batticaloa, Pottuvil and the Yala Sanctuary to this southern jungle shrine.

1960 photo left to right: Anaikutti Swami (Lord Soulbury’s son), Australian Narikutti Swami, Pandrikutti Swami, and German Swami Gauribala

German Swami, with whom I was associated very closely as a member of a group of six, including the one-time Governor-General’s, son, Soulbury, better known in Kataragama and elsewhere as Soulbury Swami, alias Annaikutti and Sandasawami, two Australians, a Tamil, Swami Gauribala and myself – often told us that the walkathon pilgrimage to this place corresponded to the Biblical return of the ‘Prodigal Son’ to his Father’s Home, after his wanderings in the temporal world, sans anyone organising the journey back or telling him to do so.

The direction was expected to sprout from within each individual’s heart impelled by an inner spiritual call. The Journey is analogically parallel to the return from the periphery of mortal samsara to the Centre of spirituality in one’s own self. Kataragama was said to symbolically signify this in a spatio-temporal-experiential manner. It was a ritual of self-abnegation and mortification, in a sort of puja as an offering of one’s karmically earned, mortal self to the Unknown.

German Swami performed this 25 times in his lifetime, and when he started on this pilgrimage, others, who had a similar ‘inner call’ joined him (or he joined them) on the way and their numbers grew, until the whole show became one seething mass of pilgrims, carrying packs on heads and shoulders, by the time the concourse reached Kataragama before the festival, partaking alms doled out to them en route by householders by way of sustenance.

Having reached the sacred destination, some performed other modes of penance like rolling half-naked on the scorching sand, skewing their tongues and cheeks with spikes and dangling, roped on hoists, etc. German Swami told us that all such acts are possible owing to a dramatic transformation of our normal, familiar, mind-consciousness to a supra-mental state, triggered by intense faith and devotion, similar to the states attained by saints in ancient times when they were tortured or burnt at the stake.

In this state of self-hypnosis the conventional consciousness within Time/Space/Experience reaches a Bindu state of one-pointedness and other forms of awareness (or non-awareness) takes over, very much like one under an anaesthetic. This is where, perhaps, the activation and attributes of the pineal gland comes into play.

Sam Wickramasinghe (also known as Pulikutti among Yogaswami’s disciples) 22 May 1925 – 23 March 2013

Editor’s note: Among Yogaswami’s admirers and dedicated devotees, Sam Wickramasinghe was exceptional, not only because he was Sinhalese by birth, but because he spent decades among other devotees (in Kathirkamam) and in solitude (at Guru Madam, island of Kayts in Jaffna District) endeavoring to penetrate into deeper and deeper levels of Yogaswami’s multi-leveled deeds and utterances. Still lively and outspoken into his 80s, Sam was widely sought out by younger seekers for his colorful accounts of past experiences and exploits. He was also an accomplished writer, many of whose articles, such as this one, appeared over the years in the Sri Lankan English press.

Other articles by Sam Wickramasinghe

• Yoga Swami the Image-Breaker
• German Swami the Bohemian Swami of Jaffna
• German Swami Gauribala: Walking the Razor’s Edge
• Ramana Maharshi: How the Guru called me
• Babylon, the Cross and the Cruxificion
• Leaves of Life: Journey of Past, Present and Future
• Elephant Lore
• Kebbilitte: Where Veddahs Cursed and Leopards Dispensed Justice
• Six Weeks in a Cave amidst Leopard, Bear and Elephant

4th September 1987 sati incident in Rajasthan ignites controversy across India

The Statesman (Calcutta) of November 5th 1987

by Patrick D. Harrigan

Of late there has been a commotion in the Indian press concerning the incident of sati in a remote village in Rajasthan. In a chilling act of courage reminiscent of Rajasthan’s days of glory, a teenaged bride is reported to have coolly mounted her deceased husband’s funeral pyre and consented to be immolated together with her spouse before the gaze of a few hundred onlookers, the controversy ignited by this young Rajput heroine is still burning, and is unlikely to be soon forgotten.

Depiction of Roop Kanwar upon her husband’s funeral pyre, September 4th 1987

Except for a small agency report that was released nationally, the whole incident might have escaped the attention of the reading public outside of Rajasthan. But once it became known that a Sati Mātā shrine was to be erected in honor of Roop Kanwar, feminists across the country (or, at least, “hundreds” of them in certain cities) sent a flurry of irate letters to editors and politicians demanding that official action he taken so that “no public function he allowed to be hold that would glorify the ghastly practice of sati.”

Roop Kanwar was 18 years old and had been married for eight months to Maal Singh Shekhawat, who had died a day earlier at age 24.

The English language press was quick to seize on to a good story and joined hands with outraged feminists in a campaign to denounce the practice of sati and to “throw the book” at anyone associated, however innocently, with the incident involving Roop Kanwar. Next it was the politicians who were seen climbing on board to be the first and loudest to express their moral outrage. Finally it fell upon the courts and local police to bring their stick down on participating sympathizers and rigorously to prevent any future recurrence.

MERELY “CURIOUS”?

What is most astonishing to this observer is not that a Rajput widow has performed the rite of sari, for, in doing so, she simply demonstrates her assent to the set of principles and beliefs that makes one a Rajput in the traditional sense. Nor is it surprising that a handful of English-educated exponents of “social progress” would take upon themselves the moral burden of “uplifting the ignorant masses”—that is, to make others see things their way.

Rather, it is the unanimous barrage of rabidly anti-sati sentiment filling the English-language press and the complete absence of dialogue or discussion between the two sides that shocks and disappoints not only the foreign scholar but also, presumably, anyone else sharing an interest in the survival of democratic as well as traditional institutions in 20th Century India.

Judging by the outcry in the English papers, one might suppose the Indian society as a whole deplores sati. The facts, however, indicate just the opposite. Against the “hundreds” who so vehemently complained, a reported two to four hundred thousand men, woman and children quietly “voted with the feet” by attending a Vedic ceremony in Deorala village on the 13th day after the rite of immolation, And this occurred, we are told, despite a Government order to prevent “outsiders” from attending. In this instance, it seems that the Government itself was the principal “outsider”. Although vehicular traffic was stopped 14 kilometers from the village, this did not deter the pilgrims, including many old and infirm people, who simply left their means of transport and walked the remaining distance. Oddly, the same papers chose to describe these hundreds of thousands of the devout as being merely “curious”.

Certainly, when lakhs of traditional villagers actually brave the elements, not to mention official hostility, to come on foot from afar on such short notice to attend a ceremony honouring a sati, then there must be crores more who were unable to attend but who remain altogether sympathetic in principle. And yet, scarcely a single voice has been heard to articulate the view of the overwhelming majority who clearly not only merely approve of, but deeply respect and admire, the faith and courage embodied in an act that so horrifies adherents of the modern mentality.

Few people, and certainly not this writer, would dare to suggest that the few cases of involuntary sati that are said to have occurred in the past are in any way laudable. Rather, these are cases of homicide mitigated by considerations of belief and customs. Indian statutory law, however, appears to be dead set against sati in principle. Influenced by foreign-biased education, generations of India’s elite have learned to espouse foreign values with a sense of self-righteousness that is seldom found among the foreigners themselves. By itself, it has done little harm. But these same self-appointed moral policemen, beginning with Raja Rammohun Roy and others like him some 160 years ago, have gone on to impose their newly-adopted values through government and public education, upon the rest of their countrymen.

SEDUCTIVE LABELS

The less privileged masses follow meekly, trusting implicitly in the ultimate value of a modern education, having for so long been assured of its unquestionable superiority. The result is a veritable tyranny of the elect, all in the name of ‘progress’, or whatever happens to be the current fashion.

Evidently, in the course of acquiring a ‘modern’ education, untold numbers of young people from grade school onwards are unwittingly being sold a ready-made foreign set of anti-traditional values, all neatly packaged for the Indian soil with such high-sounding labels as “modern” and “progressive”. Nobody, seems, ever questions the meaning of these concepts, which have today become the new sacred cows of aspiring middle-class India.

Nor, for that matter, does anyone appear to consider deeply what the long-term impact will be of widespread modern education upon the social fibre of India’s rural and urban masses. Rising material expectations, growing dissatisfaction with traditional modes of thought and increasing reliance upon material solutions to problems ancient and modern have been the fruit, in social terms, of the highly-touted “modern education”.

Historically, the first modern schools in India, and the standard for others, were those funded and directed by foreign missionaries, whose avowed intention was to undermine pagan creeds through proving, the falsity and inferiority of traditional education and values. No effort or expense was spared to ensure that the greatest prestige and social advantage would accrue to a “progressive education”.

Even those who did not explicitly convert to the new religion still acquired the conceit that they had emerged into the light of day and that it was now their duty to uplift the ignorant country folk to their sublime level. A full century and a half later, the modern-educated elite of India is still operating under the same assumption. The blind still follow the blind, even when furnished with university degrees and diplomas.

MODERN ILLS

Even today, it is still the foreign-inspired urban elements who presume to enlighten and lead the masses of traditional village India. Employing the same catch-phrases and ‘isms’ as have served to plunge the rest of the world into conflict and moral depravity, they declare that they will put an end to such “ghastly practices” as sati. And yet, a careful look at India’s cities, their homes and the very hotbeds of the modern mentality, is enough to undermine and expose their whole presumption. For where, but from the cities, does all the turmoil and terrorism in modern India originate? Is not the modern urban mentality itself the source of our social diseases?

For example, the current decade has witnessed the birth, on a broad scale of modern-style bride-burning in a fashion that is far more ghastly than the traditional rite of self-immolation that is an option for devout and heroic bereaved widows. Hapless modern urban brides, subjected first to emotional abuse and humiliation, finally meet with a horrible and degrading end by being doused in kerosene and set ablaze by greed-intoxicated in-laws who report the crime as a “cooking accident”. Nobody knows for certain how many women in the flower of youth annually suffer this grisly end, but it is clearly an urban phenomenon, most rampant in the national capital itself, the very place that is looked up to as the model for the rest of the country.

Traditional sati, as is well known in Rajasthan and elsewhere, is a matter of principle, something that material pragmatists will never comprehend or believe. Bhārat Mātā is great, precisely because her children are free to live and to die according to principles. This freedom is in danger of extinction in the face of powerful and ruthlessly intolerant forces masquerading behind an array of good intentions. The time comes for everybody to be brought to account.

Is Tradition Riduculed by Western Values?

by Patrick D. Harrigan

The Statesman (Calcutta) of January 5th 1988

It was heartening to see the volley of letters and articles responding to my article, “Tyranny of the Elect?” (November 5th 1987). While some arguments were to be taken less seriously than others, it was still a clear demonstration, especially Amalendu Das Gupta’s article “Tradition and Change” (November 5-6, 1987), that scholarship and critical thinking are alive and well amidst the very elect who were singled out for attention in the original article.

My inadequacies are abundantly evident (for the record: I am not a teacher but a student of your poetry). The profusion of excellent points and counterpoints that were raised further tend to suggest that there is justification for a full public appraisal of such issues as sati. But do let us listen to the meek and humble as well, who so often are not heard until it is too late. As a self-confessed foreigner, I can only point out that there are many indeed whose views do not receive consideration. This is my small service to you, the educated and uneducated alike who may question my integrity.

The letters to the editor deserve a full response to the questions they have raised. Leaving aside the imported concept of historicity to historians, we are left with the fundamental social phenomenon of a privileged elite that has become alienated from the masses by way of its radically different set of values. You, the privileged, have availed yourselves of the international marketplace of ideas, thereby distinguishing and alienating yourselves from the masses at the same time. In this respect I am quite like you: privileged and alienated. This has not stopped me from striving for meaning and balance in human affairs, just as it is not stopping you.

If our God-given (or “naturally-endowed”, if you prefer) intelligence were employed properly, much of this suffering would be unnecessary. The analogy to the American struggle to end slavery in the last century is useful: do you wish to repeat their mistakes and live to witness bloody civil conflict on your own soil? And yet, that is precisely the ugly scenario that has become common in this part of the world. And how? In the name of democratic principles, and with the very best intentions, privileged people like you and I have placed the educated opinion of the few above the sentiments of the many. Democracy, like it or not, is trust in the rule of the majority. When such trust is not found, where is democracy? There are ways for social transition to occur happily: the imposition of conformity through threats and intimidation is not one of them. Resentment fosters, until it becomes an open wound. Painful divisions follow.

Lofty Values

In the case of India, the alienation and indoctrination of modern-educated urban dwellers make it all but impossible for them to conceive of a grown woman freely consigning herself Ito the flames. They can only insist to themselves and others that the woman had to be forced or duped into doing it. It is a human marvel, both that such a woman is still seen to exist and that thousands, upon hearing, refuse even to admit its possibility. Let us repeat that we are not discussing forced “sati”, which is not sati at all, but a form of homicide.

I am indebted to Dr. S.K. Chakraborty for the following observations. First, it is pointed out that we are fettered in our understanding by our total conditioning based upon a body-centred self-identification, a notion that is universally rejected in traditional thought. Secondly, in the sacred rite of marriage (what matters if it is Vedic or not?) man and woman are said to be united as one soul in two bodies. And yet we are horrified when we see an actual example: demonstrating deep conviction. Thirdly, Indian womanhood is still, despite agitation in certain quarters, the embodiment of lofty spiritual values such as “nishkam karma” or total selflessness. Women here are admired and highly esteemed for just this reason. With the gradual vanishing of such living examples, India’s secret strength may also disappear.

The traditional rural mentality is so far removed from that of modern-indoctrinated society that it appears incomprehensible. As such, we label it “retrograde” and “superstitious”. There is simple wisdom to be found in rural India. But we are blind to it, held in the grip of our own convictions. Do we know what evils villagers see or hear of when they come to the city? Violence and degradation of women in films and elsewhere, teasing of women in public buses, terrorism and bride-burning, to mention only a few. Shall we expect villagers to respect moral injunctions issued from communities that spawn and nurture such evils? Let us try to see it from their perspective, just for once. We must put our own houses in order first, it we would have others behave as we do.

Who Judges?

To those who say that sati is an aberrant custom, let it be pointed out that, as long as it is felt to be an embarrassment in the eyes of the world, it must be regarded as aberrant. But when it is looked upon as a matter of pride, as much of the nation does that still understands, who will object to a genuine sati? The greatest aberration of all that Indian civilization has ever had to face is the invading mentality that covertly subverts traditional values at the same time that it ridicules them. Why should it need a foreigner to remind you of this? Your own teachers have been warning you for long.

Twenty years ago, the world was shocked when Vietnamese Buddhist monks, out of principle, immolated themselves in public. Although the act finds no support in Buddhist doctrine at all, the Vietnamese were not ashamed in the least. But, here in India English schoolmasters did their job so thoroughly that their morality perpetuates itself in succeeding generations of elite citizens, who thrust the same upon others in the sincere belief that they are the custodians of truth. But is not the mark of education the ability to sympathize with and understand the views of others? Or does education mean only competing systems of indoctrination?

As for the incident at Deorala, well-meaning people have smeared Roop Kanwar by bringing into question, even refusing to admit, her capability of rising to such a sublime level of courage and idealism. Is it because they feel incapable of it themselves that they deny its possibility to others? And what about the hundreds of principled men and women of Deorala who say they saw Roop Kanwar die a heroine’s death? Was it greed that motivated them, or are we projecting our own priorities on to others? We have so lightly brought into question the integrity of an entire community. What qualifies us to make such judgments?

Certain interests have solemnly told us that there were no “objective witnesses” present, for they could find no one who would agree with them. Now that threats and intimidation have muzzled one side, we are told that objective witnesses have been produced after all, who will echo allegations made by people who were not there. Are we to believe that they are conducting a search for truth when the verdict was issued long ago? Shades of witch-hunting!

In conclusion, I would like to apologize again for the unavoidable circumstance of my not being Indian by birth. But how foreign to India are the thoughts that have been given expression here? There may be harm in modern ideologies, and there may not, but what harm is there in experiencing the world as Indians have long seen it? Modern technology has brought us to this advanced state, but it is blind. It is not weaponry but moral bankruptcy that has pushed the world to the brink of annihilation.

A happy synthesis of East and West is possible, but the mentality of the West persists in dictating terms to the East. Therefore, India, I beg of you: please solve this challenge yourself!

This episode is briefly and succinctly narrated in of all places a dictionary —the Oxford Reference dictionary; and a word about dictionaries at this point before we proceed may not be out of place.

In the beginning all dictionaries were a kind of reference dictionary telling you various things about words and also various things about things. This trend was reversed by dictionary makers in England who concentrated more on words leaving the description of things to encyclopedias. But American dictionary makers did not join the throng. Instead they went on to add pictures and drawings in order to make things easier to grasp.

But wisdom has finally come to England, to be precise in 1986, the year the Oxford Reference Dictionary was born. It may not quite define a word like Dr. Samuel Johnson did when he called oats — “a grain, which is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people,” but it tries to combine encyclopedic knowledge with lexical precision   like this:

Aryan… adj. 1. of  the   Indo-European family of languages 2. of the ancient inhabitants of the Iranian plateau speaking a language of this family. — n. 1. a member of the Aryan peoples (not to be regarded as a race; see below) 2. (in Nazi Germany) a non-Jewish European, a person of Nordic racial type. f. Skr. Aryas noble, earlier used as a national name.

And this is what the ‘see below’ part says:

The idea current in the 19th c. of an Aryan race corresponding to a definite Aryan language was taken up  by nationalistic, historical and romantic writers. It was given especial currency by M. A. de Gobineau, who linked it with the theory of the essential inferiority of certain races. The term ‘Aryan race’ was later revived and used for purposes of political propaganda in Nazi Germany.

No easy feat this to put everything on a thumbnail as it were, for, as the ORD admits ‘to write succinctly about complex subjects is not within everyone’s power’.

But the main thing to grasp in this description is how with customary brilliance Western scholars have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Reading this entry in the ORD may not however, succeed in dousing the flames of controversy now raging in this country over a word — the word Aryan.

But at least let us hope it would act as the first drop of water to fall on the flames.

Arya as the dictionary tells us means noble. Since nobility is a virtue accessible to anyone who strives to reach it he or she irrespective of ethnic origins, can become an Aryan—something, let us say, available to even those who call themselves Dravidians who thus become Aryans in spite of themselves.

It is the Buddha who first drew this word out from the closet of the Hindu vocabulary and gave it a special emphasis. He applied it to very many things like his ‘path of awakening’ which he named ariya magga, the ‘four fundamental truths’ ariya saccani and the ‘mode of knowledge’ as ariya-naya and those who have attained the fruits of wisdom ‘Awakened Noble’ as the Arya.

There is no allusion to any race here nor to a caste but perhaps there is an indication here of a class of intellect something that recalls an aristocratic temperament. As described by a Western author the Aryan-ness of the original Buddhist teaching …”has too much respect for other people, and its sense of its own dignity is too pronounced to allow it to impose its own ideas upon others, even when it knows its ideas are correct”.

These are qualities, it must be said, not confined to one group of humanity   but something that can be found among people who belong to very different races and groups and worthy of emulation by all, like the famed Sri Lankan smile, for instance, whose origin no doubt can be found hidden among the words quoted above. But, and this is the other, the weaker side of human nature which in trying to absorb good things comes a cropper by distorting the good.

A notable example of this was when Max Muller who, like the Buddha, perhaps fell in love with the word arya only to bring upon ourselves our present woes. It turned out that he was a much misunderstood man for having rescued arya and affixed it to race which, says his biographer Nirard C. Chaudhuri, emerging as the ‘Aryan race’ has become a ‘sort of red rag to contemporary radicals’.

The irony of it all was that Muller was actually attacking the very concept his opponents thought he was its strongest advocate. In his defence his biographer quotes what he really said when speaking before an audience at the University of Strassbourg in 1872: “…I must repeat what I have said many times, it would be as wrong to speak of Aryan blood as of dolichosephalic grammar.”

But nobody was listening to him or, if they were, taking in as usual only what they wanted to hear. Sixteen years later seeing the danger of a concept like ‘Aryan race’   running amuck in the world he went to some length in his Biography of Words to stop it:

There is no Aryan race in blood, but whoever, through the imposition of hands, whether of his parents or his foreign masters, has received the Aryan blessing, belongs to that unbroken spiritual succession which began with the first apostles of that noble speech, and continues to the present day in every part of the globe. Aryan in scientific language, is utterly inapplicable to race. It means language and nothing but language; and if we speak of Aryan race at all, we should know that it means no more than Aryan speech.

But to what purpose? Hitler grabbed the concept and liquidated six million human beings. Indian nationalists too took inspiration they say from what Muller did not mean. Though this did not lead to any kind of ghastly massacres as in Germany still it did give the radicals, Chaudhuri mentioned, enough weapons to bash whom they called ‘racists’.

But what is racism? It is nothing, says Chaudhuri, “but an exaggerated consciousness of group identity based on a common language and a common culture, often accompanied by a sense of superiority to other human groups.”

At this point I think I should bow out leaving it to the readers to search their hearts to find out who has this exaggerated sense of group identity from which stems all our evils. Such exaggerations may be overcome by what the Buddha called the Aryan mind, or if that word is too sodden with the blood of history let us call it ‘nobility of mind’ or still better as reflected in that redeeming phrase. Noblesse Oblige meaning ‘privilege’ entails responsibility.

—Historicus

Courtesy: The Island (Colombo) of 2 December 1992