The Vision of the Sages.

[Guest guest]

Dear Friends,

This story of life in self-sufficiency, in love of God and of His

Nature, and as the remnants of perhaps Vedic social life is

incredible. Please enjoy this fascinating account of the village

life in Bharat – about 100 years ago, and see how spiritual life was

learnt by children from very birth without any visible effort.

 

 

The Vision of the Sages

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Yoga International Magazine, Asia Edition, Nov./Dec. 2004

Pandit Raimani Tigunait, Ph.D.

 

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.

....

....

 

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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.