Author: Pandit Raimani Tigunait,
Ph.D.
Publication: Yoga International
Magazine
Date: Nov./Dec. 2004
There are still thousands of villages
in India that are as yet untouched by the complexities and comforts of
modern civilization. Here people live simply, farming, raising cattle,
and practicing the same trades their ancestors practiced working as carpenters,
blacksmiths, washermen, barbers, cobblers, tailors, ropemakers, potters,
and fishermen. I was born in one such village and raised on the plains
of northern India. I grew up in a world that was lighted only by sunlight,
moonlight, and firelight, a world governed by the rhythms of nature the
rising and setting of the sun, the waxing and waning of the moon, and the
slow turning of the seasons. But it was not until my life in the village
had become a childhood memory that I realized it had been shaped by the
vision of the sages.
Our village had the only primary
school in a ten mile radius, so it drew hundreds of children. The small
building housed an office and one classroom, which was reserved for fifth-graders.
The rest of us had our lessons under the surrounding trees. After fifth
grade we went to a middle school in a village three miles away, but we
considered ourselves lucky - some of the students had to travel fifteen
miles to get there.
School was where we learned to read
and write and work with numbers and where we heard about such exotic inventions
as electricity, telegraphs, and telephones. But we learned how to behave
and formed our concepts of virtue and sin - and of gods and demons - in
the course of village life.
None of what we knew about the causes
of disease had anything do with the principles of modern science. We learned
that killing frogs would cause an earache, for example, and we were certain
that anyone who eavesdropped would be reborn as a bat. We called ladybugs
Rama ki Ghodi, "the mares of Rama," because it was from the back of these
tiny creatures that Lord Rama inspected and nourished our crops, and we
knew that harming them was self-destructive and offensive to God. We were
convinced that a ghost lived in the eye of the small, powerful dust devils
that swirled across the countryside in the dry season, and we knew that
tucking an onion in our pockets would protect us from being possessed by
these ghosts. But if the dust devil was exceptionally strong, the ghost
might prove more powerful than the onion. The symptoms of possession thirst
and feeling hot were unmistakable. I was possessed more than once, but
I knew how to exorcise the demon: wash my hands and feet and recite a prayer
to the mighty god Hanuman before taking a drink or eating anything.
These were facts of life as real
to me as the ground beneath my feet. Even when I was quite young I never
sat with my feet pointed toward the fire, because I knew it was a sin.
Spitting, urinating, or throwing garbage in fire or water was a spiritual
offence, and so was selling either fire or water. It was a sin to turn
away a stranger stopping at your door in the evening, and no one ever ate
before an invited guest began eating.
In our village, as in all of rural
India, the economy operated on the jajamani system, in which every family
in the village is a "client" of all other families. We all worked for each
other, and remuneration for all labour was in the form of an exchange of
goods and services. (Money was scarce, and scarcely needed.) The washermen
collected and laundered the clothes of the entire village, and in return
collected pots from the potters, rope from the ropemakers, hay and grain
from the farmers; they got their hair cut by the barbers and their clothes
stitched by the tailors. Our family owned some land, and by observing how
my parents treated the barbers, washermen, cobblers, and others who performed
services for us, I understood that giving these people less than their
fair share of hay and grain was a sin.
In the interval between harvest
and planting anyone's livestock could graze in our grain fields and those
of the other landowners. The same was true of vegetable patches the owner
took only what he needed and when he declared himself finished with his
harvest, anyone could come and take what remained. When all the vegetables
were harvested, cattle and goats ate the plants. Thus nothing was wasted,
and at certain times of the year all the land around the village was open
pasture.
The same attitude applied to fruit
trees. We all understood that the person who owned the land where the tree
grew was the only one entitled to pluck fruit from its branches, but anyone
even a passing stranger was entitled to fruit that had fallen. (Shaking
the tree to make fruit fall was theft.) Once I heard someone tell my father
that a landowner had prevented other villagers from picking up fruit that
had fallen from the trees on his land. "How low of him," my father remarked.
"This is one more proof that the kali yuga [the dark age] is in full swing."
In the realm of personal behaviour,
separating yourself from your aging parents and failing to take care of
them in their old age was an unthinkable disgrace. Sleeping after sunrise
and failing to light the lamps at dusk were spiritual offences. A teacher
who did not pass on his knowledge to the next generation would remain unembodied
after death. Using wind and light as a locus for his consciousness, such
a teacher would become a brahma rakshasa and suffer regret, hunger, and
thirst until the bad karma incurred by his negligence was exhausted.
There were many actions we all regarded
as especially virtuous. Chief among them was planting trees, tending them,
and renouncing all claim to them when they began to bear fruit. Thus the
roads were lined with trees that gave fruit and shade to us all. We understood
that the fruit from these trees could be plucked only when it was ripe
taking unripe fruit was stealing. Cutting down one of these trees or indeed
any tree growing on public land was a sin so grave that it carried the
taint of murder.
The villagers associated lack of
progeny with bad karma and believed that performing virtuous deeds, such
as digging a pond for the use of the entire village, would wipe that karma
away. A woman could enhance her chances of conceiving by planting banana
trees, watering them daily, and watching them blossom. Building bridges
across streams and rivers would strengthen the bond between wife and husband.
Future troubles could be averted by building a doorless shelter on the
roadside for travellers. Digging a well and offering the water to anyone
who came ensured that you would never suffer from thirst.
In village life, almost every useful
plant is believed to have some sort of association with the divine realm.
My mother worshipped the neem tree because, like her neighbours, she saw
it as the abode of the Divine Mother. We all revered the ashoka tree because
Mother Sita had lived under just such a tree for ten months. We knew the
peepal tree as the home of Shiva and revered the bilva tree because Lakshmi,
the goddess of prosperity, lived there. We knew that the tulsi plant is
always accompanied by Lord Vishnu; keeping one in the courtyard guaranteed
Lord Vishnu's presence in your home. Durva grass is favoured by Ganesha.
Sugarcane is the direct manifestation of Sri, the goddess of beauty and
bliss, whose favourite flower is the aparajita. Palasha is the tree of
Agni, the fire god, and the banyan is the tree of Krishna himself. Destroying
or threatening any of them would offend the gods, and no religious ceremony
was complete unless the leaves, the flowers, or the fruits of one or more
of these plants were incorporated into the ritual.
Each of life's transitions sacred
or mundane was marked by ritual ceremonies. Conception, childbirth, naming
a child, the child's first haircut, the first bite of solid food, the first
day of school, marriage, death, the funeral, and post-funeral rites all
had their own ritual. Each day of the full moon and of the new moon was
dedicated to worshipping the god of protection and nourishment. In addition,
those people wishing to lead a virtuous life performed specific rituals
on certain days of the week. For example, they worshipped the sun god on
Sunday, Shiva on Monday, Hanuman on Tuesday, the spiritual teacher on Thursday,
and the Divine Mother on Friday. Then there were special days such as Diwali
(the festival of lights), Holi (the festival of colours), Navaratri (nine
days dedicated to the Divine Mother) which the villagers celebrated with
grand rituals. There were also special days dedicated to honouring the
plant and animal kingdom, such as Naga Panchami, honouring snakes (the
fifth day August), and Vata Savitri, honouring the banyan tree (the day
of the new moon in early summer).
All of these rituals centred around
the fire offering. We could compensate for failure to perform the obligatory
practices or any shortcomings (known or unknown) in our performance of
the rituals simply by performing the fire offering portion of the ritual.
Many of the villagers did not know the meaning and purpose of the fire
offering; they made it because it was their custom their fathers and their
forefathers had done it before them. But they all believed that fire is
the mouth of God and whatever is offered into the fire reaches God. Every
family tried to make at least three oblations to the fire each day. Chapatis
(unleavened bread) were a staple of life, and the first one was always
offered to the flames over which it was cooked. Those villagers who were
especially devout also offered raw sugar and clarified butter into the
fire each day.
The web of life
While I was growing up it never
occurred to me that these were religious practices they were simply part
of everyday life. When I was twelve I joined a traditional Sanskrit school
and began to study the scriptures. There I learned that certain customs
and rituals are more important than others. I began to believe that if
I observed those customs and performed those rituals I would become a better
person and that worldly and spiritual prosperity would be mine. I also
came to believe that if I did not perform them, I would be abandoned by
the benevolent forces. I admired my Sanskrit teachers, who were deeply
devoted to rituals, and their company fuelled my conviction that I too
should perform these rituals. But later, when I went to the University
of Allahabad and began taking courses in social science, ethics, anthropology,
and the history of philosophy, my attitude toward these customs and ritualistic
practices changed. I began to regard them as silly and to believe that
the villagers observed them only because they were backward, illiterate,
and superstitious.
Then I met Swami Sadananda, a saint
who in a mysterious way restored my respect for the web of rituals that
governed village life. Though he lived simply, he was intelligent and highly
educated, an expert in ayurveda, astrology, and all systems of Indian philosophy.
He was also an unmatched scholar of Sanskrit and well-versed in the scriptures.
And he was known for his miraculous healing powers.
One morning I arrived at his ashram
to find him in the company of a man who suffered from epileptic fits so
frequent and severe that someone always had to accompany him. After a short
conversation Swami Sadananda gave this man a powder that looked like ash
and told him to take it as a medicine. Then he instructed him to feed cracked
wheat and other grains to wild birds before eating the first meal of the
day.
When the man and his companion left
I said, I understand the value of taking medicine, but why does he have
to feed the birds?" "You should watch," Swami Sadananda replied. "When
he is cured I will explain."
For three days the man went hungry
because the birds would not eat the grain he scattered for them. Finally
on the fourth day they ate the grain, and the man too could eat. It became
his routine to feed the birds before starting his day, and within a month
his fits came less frequently; within six months they vanished. When I
asked Swami Sadananda to explain he said, "Birds are part of nature. Their
relationship with humans is not contaminated by selfishness and expectation.
Serving them is serving nature, the repository of all our karmas."
I did not understand how curing
epilepsy had anything to do with feeding birds, and told him so. "You are
unable to grasp this because you don't understand the spiritual aspect
of the planet's ecology," Swami Sadananda replied.The earth is one living
organism. Here everything in the web of life is interconnected. Our health
and happiness are not separate from the health and happiness of others.
Similarly, the world within us and the world outside us are interconnected.
What happens in the outer world affects our inner life; our inner life
affects the outer world. Everything within and without is part of the collective
consciousness that pervades both the manifest and unmanifest aspects of
creation. And if the collective consciousness is undernourished, then our
individual consciousness becomes sick. If we are to be healthy and lead
harmonious lives, nature's forces must be healthy and harmonious, for we
are an integral part of nature. To cure this man of epilepsy, I used feeding
the birds as a means of propitiating the collective consciousness that
supplies healing energy to all individuals."
Then, after pausing for a moment,
he said, "You are not yet satisfied with my explanation. You are a Sanskrit
student. Study the Vedic and tantric scriptures properly and you will develop
a better understanding of yourself and the world in which you live."
I had already read many of the scriptures
Swami Sadananda was recommending and had found them to be a collection
of prayers and mantras for ritual worship. But after this encounter I began
to read them with a different intention and a new attitude. To broaden
my understanding of the scriptures, I studied Hindi texts on Vedic and
tantric mythology. I was particularly intrigued by the Hindi translation
of the book Vedic Mythology by A. A. McDonald. An eminent twentieth-century
Indologist, McDonald described the place of each particular god in the
Vedic pantheon. According to him the people of ancient India were polytheists
and worshipped a host of gods, each of which presides over a different
aspect of nature. For example, Indra presides over rain, Varuna rules the
ocean, and Vishnu presides over the three worlds - earth, heaven, and the
space in between.
But when I discussed these Ideas
with Swami Sadananda, he said bluntly, "This is a Western interpretation.
The god Indra does not preside over the rain - rain itself is the god.
The word for 'god' in the Vedas is deva, which means 'shining or bright
being, one who is loving and compassionate, one who is constantly giving,
serving, protecting, and nourishing all creation.' Life on earth depends
on rain, therefore rain is deva. Further, rain is central to life, therefore
rain is the central deva. All other forms of nourishment are secondary
to rain which is why Indra is the king of the gods. The actual, physical
form of rain is the body of god, and the dynamic forces that act together
to bring the rain form the spirit of that god. The entire universe is the
body of the Absolute Divine Being, known in the scriptures as Virat, the
cosmic being. Different aspects of nature are the limbs and organs of that
cosmic being. Everything in this world big or small is an extension of
one cosmic being."
This explanation helped me understand
why the ancient sages called earth, water, fire, air, sky, sun, moon, stars,
day, night, lightning, clouds, mountains, ocean, rivers, and forests "deva."
These sages had a very simple definition of god: one who illuminates our
path and enables us to complete the journey of life. We cannot survive
without food, they realized, therefore food is deva. We cannot complete
the journey of life without water or air, therefore these forces of nature
are deva. There would be no light on earth without the light of the sun,
therefore the sun is deva. There is a perfect symbiotic relationship between
plants, insects, birds, animals, and humans because all are an integral
part of the web of life. ... ...
----
Pandit Raimani Tigunait, Ph.D.,
the Spiritual Head of the Himalayan Institute, is Swami Rama's successor.
Lecturing and teaching worldwide for more than a quarter of a century,
he is a regular contributor to Yoga International magazine, and the author
of eleven books. Pandit Tigunait holds two doctorates: one in Sanskrit
from the University of Allababad in India, and another in Oriental Studies
from the University of Pennsylvania.