Khajuraho: Matrix of Love

[Guest guest]

Khajuraho : Matrix of Love

 

By Pandit Rajmani Tigunait

 

 

Known today as the home of erotic sculptures, Khajuraho is one of

India 's biggest tourist attractions. Located in the wilderness

of

central India , it is a living museum of art, dance, architecture,

political history, religion, philosophy, and spirituality. Tourists

from all over the world flock here to see its perfect blend of art

and architecture—yet sadly many come only because they expect to

see

temples covered with erotic carvings. If spiritual wisdom, as Indians

proclaim, is the sages' gift to the world, then the Khajuraho

temple

complex must be the core of India 's spiritual heritage. But not

a

single scholar, researcher, or author that I have discovered so far

has ever tried to see these temples through the eyes of the masters

who created them.

 

What I have learned from the scriptures and experienced at the feet

of adepts has filled my heart with the conviction that Khajuraho is

the place where sacred and mundane merge and the wall between

sensuality and spiritual ecstasy vanish. This is the meeting ground

between human and divine. Here the yogis discovered the purpose and

meaning of life and mastered the art of transforming the primitive

urges for food, sex, sleep, and self-preservation into spiritual

means. They used this sacred site as a laboratory for understanding

the dynamics of nature's opposing forces—masculine and

feminine,

lunar and solar, active and passive—and used that knowledge to

master

the art of joyful living. And here they guided their followers to

build temples that seekers could use as a map for discovering the

numberless shrines within themselves.

*********

I was a university student when Khajuraho first came to my attention.

Newspapers and magazines were filled with stories about the discovery

of a complex of magnificent temples belonging to all the major faiths

and subtraditions of ancient India —Hindu, Jaina, and Buddhist.

Covered with intricate carvings, the temple complex had been

mysteriously abandoned for at least seven centuries. These articles

focused on the physical aspects of the site—where the stones used

in

these temples had come from, which temples were built first—and

most

of all, they told of the elaborate carvings—of humans, animals,

nymphs, demigods, gods, and goddesses—that covered the walls. The

graphic sexuality of the images was presented as the defining

characteristic of these temples, and the notion I gathered was that

they were offensive, disgusting, and frankly pornographic. I wondered

how such elements had made their way into our glorious and sublime

heritage. After all, propriety is the hallmark of Indian culture, and

self-discipline is central to our code of conduct. Why had the

builders of these temples stained Indian culture in the name of

religion?

 

Several years after the discoveries at Khajuraho hit the popular

press, I began my doctoral work on the philosophy of the Sri Vidya

tradition. This philosophy, the quintessence of tantrism, holds that

life is beautiful and that the world is a manifestation of pure

consciousness (known as Sri Vidya, the Divine Mother). Through the

realization that she is our mother we become established in our

blissful self; fear of death vanishes and the urge to cling to life

melts away; death and birth are seen as a game of hide and seek. The

way to gain experiential knowledge of Sri Vidya and participate in

this divine game ourselves is described step by step in a yantra

known as Sri Chakra.

 

This yantra was the subject of my dissertation. Sri Chakra is a

miniature representation—a geometrical map—of both the

universe (the

macrocosm) and the human being (the microcosm). It consists of ten

circuits, each representing a specific layer of matter, energy, and

consciousness. By understanding each layer and the relationships

among them, we gain a complete understanding not only of ourselves

but also of the world in which we live.

 

The first circuit (the square with four gates) maps the dynamics of

the physical level of day-to-day existence. The second circuit (the

three circles joining the sixteen-petaled lotus) maps the dynamics of

the psychological world, the emotional level of reality; it explains

how we enjoy or suffer from the interplay of the positive and

negative emotions that have their roots in the depths of our

unconscious mind. This circuit describes the dynamics of these forces

in the language of mythology, in which the currents and crosscurrents

of our emotional world are presented in anthropomorphic form—and

these forms (and even their names) carry the same deep sense of

eroticism that were said to pervade the images covering the walls of

the temples at Khajuraho.

 

Why, I wondered, did the sublime tradition of Sri Vidya, which is

respected by even the puritanical swamis of the Shankaracharya order,

include erotic concepts? None of the professors in Banaras and

Allahabad could explain it, and the swamis who were known for their

profound knowledge of Sri Vidya dismissed my queries. Fortunately I

had already met my guru, Swami Rama, who was a master of Sri Vidya.

Using my dissertation as an excuse to broach the subject, I asked him

how a force that presides over the uncontrollable urge of kama

(desire) could be characterized as the goddess described in the

second circuit of Sri Chakra. The ensuing discussion was long and

involved; it emerged in bits and pieces during the next several

years. And even after all that, my understanding was still incomplete.

*********

By the summer of 1980 I was writing the final draft of my

dissertation, and each evening I read Swamiji what I had written that

day. Then one night, as I was reading a passage on the psychological

and spiritual significance of the erotic goddesses located in the

second circuit of Sri Chakra, Swamiji cut me off in midsentence.

"For

ages religion has imposed a taboo on sex," he said, "even

though it

is a natural urge of all living beings. People talk of suppressing

and repressing this urge, but no one teaches how to manage and master

it. Repression results in frustration and anger; an angry person

becomes delusional. From there loss of memory ensues. Then they are

no longer able to exercise their power of discrimination and they

become irrational. In an attempt to avoid the pain of their self-

created misery, they blame others.

 

"There are only two options for dealing with this urge. You can

condemn it and fight it—but by doing so you turn your mind into

your

enemy; once your mind has become your enemy, you are a hopeless case.

The other option is to work with it, to try to understand what this

urge is, how deeply rooted it is, how it affects your sleep and your

dreaming, how it affects your breathing pattern and your thought

processes. Try to understand why it is called manmath [the churner of

mind], the governor of your entire being.

 

"Who has ever succeeded in conquering the power of desire with an

enemy mind? Better to transform your psychological foes into friends.

There are negative tendencies—anger, hatred, jealousy, greed, and

the

rest—and there are positive tendencies, such as love, kindness,

compassion, non-attachment, and forgiveness. Put both these negative

and positive tendencies in a container, shake them up, and the

mixture that emerges is called a human being, a combination of the

subhuman and the divine. The key to inner unfoldment is to understand

both the unwanted and wanted parts of ourselves and transform that

which is not conducive to our growth. A wise man makes the best use

of everything he has, even his negative tendencies and weaknesses.

How to do this is called spiritual practice. And to give a graphic

description of spiritual practice, especially the method of

reconciling the positive and negative aspects of mind found in the

Sri Vidya tradition, the sages employed art, dance, sculpture, and

architecture. The temples of Khajuraho are a living example."

 

This conversation awakened in me a strong desire to visit Khajuraho

and see those temples with my own eyes, but twenty-two more years

were to pass before I had that privilege. In 1985, however, I came

tantalizingly close. That year Swamiji asked me to meet him in the

little town of Tikam Garh in central India , and several days later

we drove to nearby Khajuraho so that he could catch a flight to New

Delhi from the airport there.

 

Gazing at the rugged hills that lined the winding road between Tikam

Garh and Khajuraho, Swamiji said, "This is an amazing land, full

of

surprises. Its spiritual history dates further back in hoary

antiquity than any other part of India . People come here looking for

diamonds in the mines of Panna, not realizing what a profound,

esoteric wisdom is also buried here. It is one of my master's

most

favorite places. As a kid I walked in these jungles and mountains.

This is where my master helped me overcome my fear of snakes."

 

Swamiji was lost in reverie for a few minutes. Then he said,

"Like

the Himalayas, this land is the abode of Shiva. In the Himalayas the

Divine Mother was born as Parvati, and here as Matangi. She is an

embodiment of compassion and the presiding deity of all the fine

arts. In the Hindu pantheon she is generally known as Nila Sarasvati

[blue Sarasvati], and in the Tibetan tradition as Tara . In the

esoteric tradition of tantra she is Matangi, the daughter of the sage

Matanga, who begot her here at a site now known as Maihar. There are

hundreds of siddha shrines pulsating with spiritual energy located

between Vindhya Vasani in the north to Omakareshwar on the bank of

the Narmada River in the south. Khajuraho is in the center of all

these shakti shrines."

 

When we reached Khajuraho we went to the Oberai Hotel for lunch.

"It

is odd that I am eating in a hotel at Khajuraho," Swamiji mused.

"I

have spent so many winters here with my master and other sadhus. In

those days we got alms from nearby villages, cooked our own meals,

and lived in these deserted temples. This place takes me back in

time, pulling forward the sweet memories of the love of the Divine

Mother that I received at the Temple of Sixty-four Yoginis.…"

Afterwards, as he was standing in front of the hotel, Swamiji looked

into the distance toward the Temple of Sixty-four Yoginis and

said, "I will take you to my mother." But when we went to

hire a car

we were told that vandalism had caused the Department of Archeology

to temporarily close the area to visitors. So we left without going

anywhere near the place that Swamiji had described as one of the

greatest vortices of spiritual energy on the planet.

 

Years passed. Swamiji left his body, and after a time I wrote his

biography, At the Eleventh Hour. After it was published many

students, fascinated by the story of Swamiji's experience with

his

master at the Temple of Sixty-four Yoginis, asked me to take a group

to Khajuraho. I agreed, but first I wanted to see this place with my

own eyes. So this past spring, when I went to India with my wife and

three students, we included in our itinerary several days at

Khajuraho.

 

Filled with anticipation, we flew into Khajuraho airport on a clear

day in early April. I remembered Swamiji telling me, "This is a

place

on the planet where nature has arranged these hills in the formation

of Sri Chakra." I wished I had an aerial map so that I could see

the

arrangement of the hills and dis-cover which spots correspond to the

various circuits of Sri Chakra.

 

We checked into our hotel and hired a taxi to take us to the Temple

of Sixty-four Yoginis. When it dropped us outside the gate of what is

known as the western temple complex, we asked the swarm of guides

competing for our attention where to find the temple. "There is

nothing at Sixty-four Yoginis," they insisted. "This is the

most

important place." Failing to find anyone who would tell us how to

get

where we wanted to go, we bought tickets and entered the western

complex. Directly in front of us the majestic temple of Shiva soared

into a clear blue sky. On the right stood one big temple and several

small ones, all breathtakingly beautiful. Immediately to our left was

a pair of temples—one dedicated to Shiva, the other to

Vishnu—both

rivaling mountains in might and grandeur. We approached the Vishnu

temple and my companions busied themselves photographing the wealth

of beautifully sculptured figures covering the exterior walls. There

were figures of elephants, horses, armies marching to battle,

peasants doing their chores, ladies putting on makeup, royalty

attended by servants, women drying their hair, mothers nursing their

babies, and a lover seducing her beloved. Here were the famous

figures in erotic embraces, some compatible with the aesthetic

standards of Indian culture—graceful and pleasingly

erotic—and others

so overtly sexual that, depending on the eye of the beholder, they

might evoke feelings of lust or disgust—or force the viewer to

stop

and reflect on their purpose and meaning.

 

Leaving my companions to their photography, I pulled myself away from

the spectacle of the outer walls and went inside. In contrast with

the voluptuousness of the exterior, the interior was serene, pervaded

by an aura of sanctity. I noticed that the closer I came to the inner

sanctum, the more abstract the art, and I found myself deciphering

the symbolic meaning of the personified figures and geometrical

patterns on the nearby walls, pillars, and ceilings. As the seeker

within me tried to grasp the correlation between this temple and the

human body, I began to get a glimmer of how the architectural plan of

the temple, in conjunction with the arrangement of these hundreds of

sculpted images, could be used as a map for the pilgrimage from body

to psyche and psyche to soul. But I told myself not to jump to

conclusions—this temple was only one of many. And furthermore, my

long-cherished conviction told me that the Temple of Sixty-four

Yoginis lay at the heart of all these secrets.

 

I left the Vishnu temple to find my companions still photographing

the exterior walls. Almost an hour had passed and they had not even

entered the building. This struck me as a metaphor for how we

live—

taking pictures of this external world throughout our lives and

tucking the rolls of film into the bottomless niches of our

unconscious, so absorbed in the spectacle before us that we never

turn our attention to the interior world.

 

Thinking that the best way to decipher the meaning and purpose of the

Khajuraho temples would be to work our way systematically through the

complex, we set off for the temple in the farthest right-hand corner,

commonly believed to be dedicated to the sun god. This time I decided

to make a cursory survey of the whole temple, exterior and interior,

and then study both systematically. Climbing the platform, I walked

around the temple, noting that the carvings were arranged in three

main layers, each with its own particular characteristics. Then I

entered the interior, determined to avoid analysis. Instead I wanted

to see only that which captured my attention spontaneously. In this

frame of mind I traversed the narrow passage that led to the main

hall. In the center was an elevated square; in the dome above it I

saw a design that looked like a yantra. And there in a corner, I

glimpsed the figure of a mother cradling her infant.

 

Adjoining the main hall was the entrance to the inner chamber.

Statues of the sacred rivers, Ganga and Yamuna, stood on either side.

But I saw no statue of Sarasvati. I told myself that just as the

Sarasvati River flows invisibly underground in Allahabad at the

physical confluence of the Ganga and Yamuna Rivers , the goddess

would be invisible here as well. As a student of yoga I found the

presence of these rivers at the entrance to the inner sanctum highly

significant, because in tantric texts the rivers Ganga, Yamuna, and

Sarasvati equate to the ida, pingala, and sushumna energy channels

(nadis) in the body. The confluence of these three nadis is the

ajña

chakra (the center between the eyebrows), and from there begins the

passage (Brahma nadi) to the highest realm of consciousness, which in

the temple of the body is the sahasrara chakra, the seat of the

Supreme Being. Passing through the confluence of the three rivers, I

entered the inner chamber and saw a small statue of the sun god

standing in a niche behind a small altar. "Aha!" I thought,

seeing

the simple, unadorned image of the sun here in the inner

sanctum. "The truth is simple. Its beauty cannot be measured by

worldly yardsticks. The soul does not seek acknowledgement from

outside for its fulfillment."

 

The elegant simplicity of the inner chamber gave me a clue as to how

to use this temple as a map. I went back outside, scanned the whole

structure—the steps leading up to the square platform and the

tapering temple building in the center—and the relationship

between

vastu shastra (sacred architecture) and tantra became clear. I

understood how the vortex of energy located at the perineum serves as

the foundation of that complex structure that is the human body, why

this vortex is called muladhara ("main base"), why it is

depicted as

a square, and why the radiant oval-shaped shiva lingam sits in the

center of that square.

 

Now I shifted my attention to the exterior walls. I walked around the

temple four times, looking closely at each of the first three layers

of images in turn. The fourth time I walked around the temple I

surveyed all three layers together, comparing and contrasting the

nature and characteristics of the images carved into each. I tried to

understand their role in the world of matter and energy, as well as

their place in the celestial realm that scriptures depict through

myth and symbol. What I discovered was startling.

 

The motifs in the bottom layer depict the full range of our worldly

experiences—pleasure and pain, success and failure, loss and

gain,

birth and death. Here horses and elephants serve as beasts of burden,

as pleasure mounts, and as machines of war. Here the human figures

busy themselves as carpenters, palanquin bearers, hunters, reapers,

threshers, soldiers, tradesmen, and royalty. The women cook, weave

cloth, sweep, nurse infants, play with children, bathe, and apply

henna. Everyone here is busy finding their way through life's

myriad

tasks and challenges.

 

It is the second layer that makes the mind quiver and time freeze.

Here are gathered a bevy of nymphs and damsels, come to attend the

wedding of Shiva and Parvati. Here Kama Deva (Cupid, the god of

desire, who was reduced to ashes by the flame that flared from the

third eye of Shiva) stands restored to life, an arrow of flowers

fitted to his bowstring. Having his abode in the minds of all living

beings, Kama Deva has stirred the psyche of all the wedding guests:

young and old, the higher gods and the lesser gods, mortal men and

women, saints, sages, and yogis—all are in a festive mood. Here

we

see Shiva's host of attendants—ghosts, goblins, demigods and

goddesses, and demons of various shapes and sizes—giving full

rein to

their tastes and interests. All is celebration. Shiva, no longer an

ascetic with matted hair and a body smeared with ashes, is here

transformed into the most handsome bridegroom in the three universes.

The allure and charm of his best man, Lord Vishnu, puts millions of

Cupids to shame. Even though much has been made of Khajuraho's

erotic

art, I was surprised to see that relatively few of the images are

sexually explicit, although many have a romantic flavor. But in every

sculpture you can see the perfection of aesthetic expression—this

is

art at its finest. Some of the more sensational erotic images depict

behavior that is unacceptable in civilized society, yet the truth of

the matter is that even in the most evolved societies there are

pockets of those who involve themselves in all manner of licentious

behavior. Here, while giving graphic expression to the full range of

human life, the artists captured it all in an aesthetically graceful

manner.

 

Moving my eyes up to the third level, I saw statues of the highest-

ranking gods—Vishnu, Brahma, Shiva, Indra, and their consorts.

This

row emanates a sense of power, dignity, and grace, for these are the

gods of protection and nourishment, the presiding deities of

nature's

finer forces. All are endowed with the unre-stricted power of will,

limitless virtue, beauty, knowledge, and pure, selfless love.

Compassion is the hallmark of their being—all they know is love

and

all they do is give.

 

Above this third row the temple narrows into a square cone covered

with designs that grow increasingly more abstract as it rises to the

peak; there the structure comes to a point and dissolves into

limitless space. I stood entranced by the unspeakable beauty emitted

by the space where the sky kisses the tip of the temple. Is there a

piece of art anywhere in the world, I wondered, that can rival the

beauty manifesting from the tip of this temple? Does the beauty

emanate from the temple, or from the space, or from the union of the

two? This beauty has no form, no boundary—only a frame of

reference,

the place where the tip of the temple meets the sky.

 

As I stood there absorbed, I felt as if my consciousness stretched

from the temple's platform to its top. It was inside me and I was

inside the temple; the temple was not different from me. "Can

there

be another laboratory where we can study life so effortlessly?" I

wondered. "Is there a scripture that explains life as vividly as

these temples do? Is there any teacher who can impart a vision of the

full spectrum of life in such a practical and experiential way?"

In a

flash it was all clear: We come to this world without knowing who

sent us here. We are born, and yet we know neither the cause of life

nor its source. We have no knowledge of our destination, yet the

stream of life carries us along. The natural urges for food, sleep,

procreation, and self-preservation are common to all humans, yet

every individual is unique. Our physical capacity, emotional

maturity, and intellectual grasp are never identical, and so our

perception of the world varies. And yet all of us see a difference

between pleasure and pain, loss and gain, success and failure, honor

and insult. None of these experiences last long, and yet we busy

ourselves in clinging to those we like and trying to rid ourselves of

those we dislike. At the same time our natural urges dictate that we

must eat, sleep, enjoy life, seek success, and, above all, survive.

This is life. And this is what is depicted here in the bottom layer

of the temple's exterior walls. No matter what our profession, we

experience fear, insecurity, hatred, jealousy, and greed interspersed

with intervals of joy, pleasure, honor, generosity, and love. Only

when we are free from these issues do we have the opportunity to

explore the deeper dimensions of life and experience the fulfillment

that is not found in this base level of existence.

 

The greater our freedom from fear and doubt, the greater our ability

to enjoy this world. The realm that is not engulfed by the darkness

of fear and doubt is the playground of celestial beings. This is what

is depicted here in the temple's second row. For those who have

reached this level, life is a celebration, a heavenly sport here on

earth. Here life is beautiful, for Kama Deva, the god of desire and

pleasure, has imbued it with his own joy. Spring has arrived. Shiva,

the spirit within us, who had lost his taste for life and resorted to

asceticism, no longer sees the world as a prison. Determined to enjoy

life in its fullness, he has returned to the world to meet his bride.

He is beautiful, his best man is beautiful, and his bride is

beautiful. That's how life is when we are no longer in the grip

of

fear and doubt. Trust in ourselves and faith in life returns. Infused

with self-appreciation and self-respect, we actively seek fulfillment.

 

Here at this level of life Kama Deva, the god of desire, follows us

vigilantly. The Creator has assigned our minds as Kama Deva's

abode,

and we never know when and how he will shoot his arrows. That is why,

while partaking of the celebration of life, we become so distracted,

disoriented, and entangled that we forget the higher purpose and

meaning of life. During the spring of life, celestial nymphs descend

from heaven and make our body, mind, and heart their playground. Kama

Deva shoots his arrows and we become his victims joyfully. When we

realize that we have become the victims of sense pleasure, some of us

impose restraints on ourselves and suffer from suppression. Some of

us carelessly flow with the current and are swept away by indulgence.

The rare ones among us enjoy all the pleasures of the world without

drowning in them, for they remain ever-aware of the higher purpose

and meaning of life.

 

How beautifully this state of life is depicted on these walls!

Looking through the eyes of those who created these temples, it is

clear that this second row of images is a dynamic depiction of the

energies that preside over both love and lust, granting either

spiritual freedom and fulfillment or sensual slavery and frustration.

Where else in the world can you see a portrayal of divine love imbued

with purity and devotion side by side with images of unbridled

lasciviousness? As Swamiji said, a human being is a combination of

both divine virtues and subhuman tendencies. The spiritual journey

begins with the recognition that a welter of thoughts, feelings,

emotions, urges, and habit patterns swirls within us; we become true

spiritual seekers only when we adopt the techniques of self-

transformation.

 

When we have completed the journey through the first two levels, we

reach the level of realization depicted in the third row of the

temple wall. Here are the higher gods, such as Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva,

and Indra—the forces of creation, preservation, and demolition,

and

the mighty force that executes the divine plan. These lofty beings

are accompanied by the protectors of the ten directions (digpalas).

Wisdom and compassion are the hallmarks of the divine forces residing

here, and it is here that we find a clear direction. Confident that

we are on the right path and will reach our goal, we put our whole

mind and heart into all our endeavors. This confidence opens the

doors to self-trust, courage, and enthusiasm. Patience and endurance

become part of our nature; sloth and despondency vanish forever. The

indomitable will of the soul (sankalpa shakti) begins to flow through

our thought, speech, and action. In the language of tantra, this is

where we gain access to the manipura chakra, the navel center filled

with shining gems.

 

At this level of our evolution we know that the force of divine

protection is watching over us. Why worry or be anxious? We also know

that our personal desires and ambitions are a reflection of the

divine will, and we know that all of our actions, no matter how

worldly some may seem, are leading us toward inner freedom and

fulfillment. This realization helps us live in the world and yet

remain above it. Here the distinction between worldly duties and

spiritual practices vanishes. In every situation and circumstance of

life the upward movement of the soul continues. Propelled by inner

joy, it travels upward.

 

The journey beyond this point is represented by the higher parts of

the temple, where the designs become increasingly abstract—no

personification, no nomenclature. Here we realize how childish it is

to think of the divine being as a Hindu god, a Greek god, a Christian

god. Seeing the whole structure coming to a point and dissolving into

illimitable space, realization dawns: divinity is nameless, formless.

It is of its own kind and cannot be described through example,

simile, or metaphor. It can only be experienced. The summit is the

experience of life in its fullness, and this experience gives us the

freedom to explore ever-new dimensions of reality. There is a joyous

thrill in encountering the limitless beauty and glory of the

infinite. The wisdom intrinsic to the soul spontaneously inspires us

to use all worldly resources as a tool to understand the subtle

functioning of the reality within. Scriptures call this spontaneous

process an inward journey.

 

This temple is a perfect map of the inward journey. It is the temple

of the sun god. Some people call it the temple of Yamaraja , the Lord

of Death, who is also the son of the sun. Still others believe it is

the temple of Chitragupta (the god of hidden mystery), who in Hindu

mythology is described as the adviser to the Lord of Death, the

overseer of the process of dying and what comes after. The ambiguity

is itself significant.

 

How many of us really know about the great temple of our body? Is it

merely a genetic extension of our parents? Is it just a locus for

experiencing pleasure and pain? Is it simply a vehicle for

transporting us from the delivery room to the funeral home? Is it the

abode of a conscious being who is busy exploring the vast sensory

world? Is it simply a vehicle for the mind? Or is it the meeting

ground for the individual soul and universal consciousness?

 

The narrow passage leading to the main hall of the temple, the

elevated square in its center and the unique yantra carved out in the

dome above it, the inner chamber adjoining the main hall, the statues

of Ganga and Yamuna—all are a graphic portrayal of the soul's

journey

from the limbs and organs of the physical body to the energy channels

in the subtle body. The images and other designs found on the

interior walls tell us explicitly what goes on in our astral body

when consciousness stands at the threshold of death.

 

How profound is the image of the mother, protectively cradling her

infant, that is tucked away at the edge where the supporting pillar

meets the dome! During the last moments of our life, when the

conscious mind, along with the nervous system and brain, slips away

and even our memory no longer accompanies us, who is there at the

edge of our consciousness to cradle our soul with infinite love and

patience? The experiential knowledge of this motherly force watching

over her helpless baby (the departing soul), which comes with seeing

this image in this precise setting, dawns in a flash. In another

setting, years of study may be required to see this, and even then,

it may remain bookish knowledge and never become a living reality.

 

I stood there sharing my understanding of Khajuraho with my

companions. Yet I knew something was missing. I had no recollection

of Swamiji ever talking to me about the Chitragupta temple. It was

reverence for the Temple of Sixty-four Yoginis that held the central

place in his heart, and I was convinced that it must hold the key to

completing my understanding and uncovering the mysteries of all these

temples. As my eyes again fell on the bottom two rows of figures I

said to myself, "Fear and doubt hold us back from enjoying

nature's

abundant gifts. We know that life is precious, yet we rarely find the

motivation to make good use of it. From where can we get this

motivation? Philosophical knowledge and intellectual understanding

are not enough." Then I remembered a story from the Brahmanda

Purana.

 

A demon named Bhanda-sura ("the demon that spoils

everything") was

born from his own ashes, and after conquering the entire world, he

went on to conquer heaven. When the denizens of heaven pleaded with

the Divine Mother for help, she summoned all the goddesses—the

benevolent forces of creation—and marched on the demon's

capital. As

they approached, the demon threw a yantra over them, a yantra imbued

with the powers of laziness, miserliness, a sense of inferiority,

sleep, drowsiness, procrastination, a lack of self-esteem, and the

loss of self-identity. Under its potent spell some of the goddesses

fell asleep instantly; the rest were overcome by laziness,

drowsiness, and procrastination. "Why bother conquering

anyone?" they

thought. "Who knows if we will win? And if we lose, we'll be

killed

or captured. Will the Divine Mother come to our rescue? Our present

is uncertain, but the unknown future is even more frightening."

And

so with these thoughts, even those who remained awake were rendered

inert.

 

Seeing her army grind to a halt, the Divine Mother summoned her

beloved son, Ganesha. Marching fearlessly, he reached the immobilized

army, and with his powerful tusks he crushed the yantra and blew the

dust away with so much force that it vanished from the known universe.

 

This is what has happened here in our world. The benevolent forces

within us have been spellbound by laziness, miserliness, inferiority

complexes, sleep, drowsiness, procrastination, a lack of self-esteem,

and the loss of self-identity. Despite countless schools, colleges,

teachers, preachers, temples, and mosques, still we find ourselves

stuck. Where is the empress of the universe and where is her son? My

long-cherished conviction told me that the answer to these questions

could be found in the Temple of Sixty-four Yoginis. That is where,

for ages untold, she has been residing with her son. That is where

the knowers of the mystery seek her help, and that is where, driven

by compassion, she commands her beloved son, Ganesha, to vanquish the

forces of fear and doubt. We determined to find the place the next

day.

 

Pandit Rajmani Tigunait, Ph.D., scholar, philosopher, and author, is

Spiritual Head of the Himalayan Institute.

http://www.yimag.org/features.asp?articleid=1